There is a Luganda proverb that says, "Emaala nga netoonya ne tumanya e milandira bwe gyenkaanya emyoyo." Roughly translated, it means: "It is only after a heavy storm that we can tell how deep and strong a tree's roots are." This proverb is not just words; it is life itself—etched in my soul through pain, loss, and rebirth.

I was born in opulence. Not just wealth, but heritage. I was royalty, a prince of Bulamogi, grandson of the great Zibondo, descendant of men whose names were etched in the annals of history. My father, an ex-Minister of Agriculture, stood as a colossus of his time. My grandfather, a legend in his own right—the first black mayor of East Africa, the first Musoga to tread the streets of London, a knight of the British Empire, his name immortalized in Jinja’s Lubogo Road. And my mother, a force of resilience, a woman who clawed her way to success through sheer willpower and brilliance.

By all accounts, I was a planned child, destined for greatness, cushioned by legacy. I should have walked through life like a king. But fate, in its unrelenting cruelty, does not bow to legacy.

The Storm: The Day Everything Changed

At my mother’s village, I was called Omulangira, the prince. Salutations followed me. Respect preceded me. Every meal, every luxury, was mine not just because of royalty, but because I was the son of privilege. Yet, strangely, at home, my parents never called me royal. Never once did they treat me as anything more than an ordinary child. Even my mother—who had every reason to dote on me as her only child—never made me feel special.

It was not until university that I realized what royalty even meant. When I mentioned to my mother that my roommate was the son of the Kyabazinga of Busoga, she simply smiled and said, "You share a room with your brother." The shock hit me like a hammer—me? Lousy me? I was royalty? Yet, outside my mother’s kindred, I received no such praise. The world did not care.

And then, the storm came.

First, my father died. Then, my mother followed. And just like that, the world turned on me. Doors that once swung open with ease were now bolted shut. Smiles faded, hands withdrew, favors ceased. Those who once laughed with me now walked past as though I had become invisible. Some even recoiled as though I carried a plague.

The privileges of birth had vanished like smoke in the wind.

The Fall from Grace

I faced failure—not the small, recoverable kind, but failure that leaves scars. My first attempt at a professional course ended in humiliation. With no helping hand, no guidance, I drifted, a prince without a kingdom, a legacy without a future.

Then came the day that changed everything.

I had been invited to an event by a close friend of my late mother—an auntie whose daughter had just graduated as an engineer. It was a joyous occasion, and I thought, at least here, among familiar faces, I belong.

The moment of introductions came. One by one, people were introduced with grand titles—their achievements displayed like medals of war. Then, it was my turn.

Silence.

And then, the words that cut deeper than any blade:

"This is Lubogo… he comes from Wairaka."

Nothing about my achievements. Nothing about my lineage. Just a location.

In that moment, it hit me—I had lost my identity.

The Awakening

Perhaps the deepest wound came from my paternal uncle. When I approached him for help, thinking, Surely, blood must count for something, he looked at me and said:

"Do you see all those people outside? They have Master’s degrees—some from the most prestigious universities in the world. They are all waiting for a job. So tell me, why should I give one to you, with no qualifications?"

I was stunned. But his next words seared into my soul like fire:

"In two years, if you do not find a way to change your situation, you will be forgotten. You will become a nobody."

That was the moment I saw the world for what it was—not a place of birthright and privilege, but a battleground. Identity is not inherited; it is forged in fire.

I resolved then and there—I would not be forgotten. I would not fade. I would build myself from the ashes, brick by brick, fight by fight.

I went back to school, clawed my way up from nothing. And with every struggle, with every night spent burning the midnight oil, I rebuilt my name.

The Rise: Reclaiming My Name

Years later, I stood victorious—not because of heritage, not because of birth, but because I had fought.

When I was named Africa’s Best Legal Tech Researcher in 2022, it was not a gift—it was a trophy earned with blood, sweat, and resilience. Even Google cannot get me wrong now.

The final test of my newfound identity came in Germany. At immigration, a European officer looked at me with that subtle skepticism they often reserve for Black men. But then, he searched my name.

His face changed. His posture shifted.

"Oh goodness me, I hope you are as humble as what I see here about you. Otherwise… I take my hat off for you, sir."

And then he saluted.

That was the first white man to salute me. Not for my lineage. Not for my grandfather. Not for my father. But for me.

Lessons for Posterity: The Strength of the Roots

1. A storm will come for everyone. Do not be deceived by calm waters. It is only when the winds rage that you will know if your roots are deep enough to withstand the storm.

2. Privilege is a shadow—only substance endures. If all you have is what others built, when the wind blows, you will have nothing left. Build your own legacy.

3. Identity is not given; it is fought for. The world does not care where you come from—it only respects what you have made of yourself.

4. Betrayal is a gift in disguise. Those who close their doors on you are teaching you self-reliance.

5. One day, your name must stand alone. Work until even Google recognizes you.

Final Thought: The Tree That Stood the Storm

That is why the proverb rings true:

"It is only after a heavy storm that we can tell how deep and strong a tree’s roots are."

When the winds of life blew, when the storms raged, I did not fall.

Because my roots ran deep.

And that is why I stand today—not just as Lubogo, the grandson of a legend, not just as a prince of Bulamogi, but as Isaac Christopher Lubogo—the man who built his name from the ground up.

By Isaac Christopher Lubogo

President of Optimistic International Uganda Chapter, CEO of Suigeneris Legal Legacy Incorporated with LLB, LLM, and LLD fellow.

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