kapoloni timothy

A professional ophthalmic clinical officer who is devoted to serve with competency and dedication ( eye specialist by profession 👀)

[NTV UGANDA @ntvuganda]

Uthman walked in as one of four. He’s walking out with cash in his hand, a thumbs up and a smirk that says “I’m fine, I’m totally fine.”

Congratulations, Uthman, our #WhoWantsToMakeMoney winner.

[kapoloni timothy @kapolonitimoth1]

@GabrielBuule But in the first place why is manutd even playing?

[kapoloni timothy @kapolonitimoth1]

@YkeeBenda @HustleKing01 Well said

[kapoloni timothy @kapolonitimoth1]

@AllanSseky Definitely

[kapoloni timothy @kapolonitimoth1]

Omukama Atulize enkuba etutire.

[UgHistory @UGHistory256]

Let's be honest, none of us knew what to expect that 12th of September.

Tooro was still finding its feet after the restoration.

The old kingdom was back, but what did that even mean in 1995?

Some whispered that the rituals were too ancient, too heavy for a child.

Others said the ancestors would understand.

But when the drums started, every argument fell away.

The sound did something to the spine.

It pulled us backward, into a time when kings were not symbols but forces of nature.

And at the centre of it all was a little boy in blue and gold, swimming in his own coronation robes, clutching a toy car like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.

His father had died a week earlier.

A heart attack.

Sudden.

Cruel.

The kingdom had barely finished mourning before the rituals began, because the rituals had their own timeline, their own demands.

The boy had been given the toy car in those days between burial and enthronement, from a relative who understood that even future kings need something to hold onto.

When the toy went missing, a white calculator took its place.

Trust a child to find comfort in the strangest things.

Trust a king to carry that child with him forever.

The ceremony was not gentle.

The Omusuuga called upon the gods to strike the child dead if he was not of royal blood.

The mock battle raged at the palace entrance, spears and shields clashing in the darkness.

Blood from a slaughtered bull was pressed onto his small body.

A white hen was offered.

And through all of it, the boy fidgeted. Just a 3 year old being bored.

His mother, Queen Best, had promised the heavy clothes would only last a few hours.

At one point, he simply bolted.

The king-designate, the hope of a kingdom, the heir of centuries, he slid off his throne and climbed into his mother's lap, burying his face in her chest like any child does when the world becomes too much.

And that's when we fell in love with him.

Not when they crowned him at 4 a.m., not when he lay on the ground to swear his oath, not when they fed him millet as his first royal meal.

We fell in love when he ran to his mother.

Because in that moment, he wasn't Rukirabasaija Omukama Oyo Nyimba Kabamba Iguru Rukidi IV.

He was just a little boy who wanted his mother, and the day was too long, and the robes were too heavy, and the drums were too loud.

We saw ourselves in him.

We saw our own children.

We saw the vulnerability that power usually hides.

And we thought: this one is different.

The crown was placed on his head.

He pulled it off because it was too heavy.

They put it back.

He fell asleep.

The kingdom had its king.

The world had its youngest monarch.

And Uganda, Uganda had Oyo.

He grew up in front of us.

We watched him go to school.

He was never the distant king in a faraway palace.

He was the boy next door who happened to have a throne.

Older Ugandans saw him and thought: that could be my son.

Younger Ugandans saw him and thought: that could be my brother.

That was his gift.

He made royalty feel like family.

Thirty-one years later, the kingdom announced his passing at approximately 10:00 p.m. on 27 August 2026.

The drums have fallen silent again.

The throne sits empty.

But Oyo, the boy who ran to his mother, the child who clutched a toy car, the man who carried us with him for three decades, Oyo remains.

In every memory of a king who never let the crown make him forget what it felt like to be small.

We did not just lose a king.

We lost a son.

We lost a brother.

We lost the boy we watched grow up.

And that is why this hurts differently.

That is why the grief feels personal.

Because Oyo was personal.

He was ours.

#ughistory @ObukamaBwaTooro
@toorokingdompm

[UgHistory @UGHistory256]

Let's be honest, none of us knew what to expect that 12th of September.

Tooro was still finding its feet after the restoration.

The old kingdom was back, but what did that even mean in 1995?

Some whispered that the rituals were too ancient, too heavy for a child.

Others said the ancestors would understand.

But when the drums started, every argument fell away.

The sound did something to the spine.

It pulled us backward, into a time when kings were not symbols but forces of nature.

And at the centre of it all was a little boy in blue and gold, swimming in his own coronation robes, clutching a toy car like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.

His father had died a week earlier.

A heart attack.

Sudden.

Cruel.

The kingdom had barely finished mourning before the rituals began, because the rituals had their own timeline, their own demands.

The boy had been given the toy car in those days between burial and enthronement, from a relative who understood that even future kings need something to hold onto.

When the toy went missing, a white calculator took its place.

Trust a child to find comfort in the strangest things.

Trust a king to carry that child with him forever.

The ceremony was not gentle.

The Omusuuga called upon the gods to strike the child dead if he was not of royal blood.

The mock battle raged at the palace entrance, spears and shields clashing in the darkness.

Blood from a slaughtered bull was pressed onto his small body.

A white hen was offered.

And through all of it, the boy fidgeted. Just a 3 year old being bored.

His mother, Queen Best, had promised the heavy clothes would only last a few hours.

At one point, he simply bolted.

The king-designate, the hope of a kingdom, the heir of centuries, he slid off his throne and climbed into his mother's lap, burying his face in her chest like any child does when the world becomes too much.

And that's when we fell in love with him.

Not when they crowned him at 4 a.m., not when he lay on the ground to swear his oath, not when they fed him millet as his first royal meal.

We fell in love when he ran to his mother.

Because in that moment, he wasn't Rukirabasaija Omukama Oyo Nyimba Kabamba Iguru Rukidi IV.

He was just a little boy who wanted his mother, and the day was too long, and the robes were too heavy, and the drums were too loud.

We saw ourselves in him.

We saw our own children.

We saw the vulnerability that power usually hides.

And we thought: this one is different.

The crown was placed on his head.

He pulled it off because it was too heavy.

They put it back.

He fell asleep.

The kingdom had its king.

The world had its youngest monarch.

And Uganda, Uganda had Oyo.

He grew up in front of us.

We watched him go to school.

He was never the distant king in a faraway palace.

He was the boy next door who happened to have a throne.

Older Ugandans saw him and thought: that could be my son.

Younger Ugandans saw him and thought: that could be my brother.

That was his gift.

He made royalty feel like family.

Thirty-one years later, the kingdom announced his passing at approximately 10:00 p.m. on 27 August 2026.

The drums have fallen silent again.

The throne sits empty.

But Oyo, the boy who ran to his mother, the child who clutched a toy car, the man who carried us with him for three decades, Oyo remains.

In every memory of a king who never let the crown make him forget what it felt like to be small.

We did not just lose a king.

We lost a son.

We lost a brother.

We lost the boy we watched grow up.

And that is why this hurts differently.

That is why the grief feels personal.

Because Oyo was personal.

He was ours.

#ughistory @ObukamaBwaTooro
@toorokingdompm

[kapoloni timothy @kapolonitimoth1]

@ManUtd Timothy 17

[kapoloni timothy @kapolonitimoth1]

@CanaryMugume @itmsug @turyarugayostev How do those trackers charge, just asking to learn.

[kapoloni timothy @kapolonitimoth1]

@sokiria71 @gad_rogers So you see more than the referee who was near the VAR screen more than you?

[kapoloni timothy @kapolonitimoth1]

@MacBalina @ankolecoffeeug He is a total disgrace to the people of his age

[kapoloni timothy @kapolonitimoth1]

@Mr_humu @hillarytaylorvi I dont find any sense in whatever youve written

[kapoloni timothy @kapolonitimoth1]

@KalumbaJohnPaul @UCU_EngEnvt @MoWT_Uganda @RaymondKwesiga1 @ajutu_philip @UIPE_Uganda @grok @grok welagile Muli totukooya

[kapoloni timothy @kapolonitimoth1]

@RUHWEZAFRANCIS @UGLawyer @grok Gwe @grok tujeeko akajanja

[kapoloni timothy @kapolonitimoth1]

@Ruthie_tipstar @eastndy @MuwangaMKivumbi @AshilyUg @AaronKaviiri @NUP_Ug @kamukamafredie @KampurireA @annah_blair @Mkainerugaba_ @BavuleOfficial @BucuraPatie @CarolPrim3 @CrystoPanda He will never answer this

[kapoloni timothy @kapolonitimoth1]

@AllanSseky I agree with you on this matter😂😂

[kapoloni timothy @kapolonitimoth1]

@KultureWillix12 @Esau_Matsiko But we need 4-0

[kapoloni timothy @kapolonitimoth1]

@kirya_ug Participate

[kapoloni timothy @kapolonitimoth1]

@HisAcholiness @PatrioticRasta @JoelSsenyonyi @NationMediaGrp @KagutaMuseveni @SueNsibirwa You are very right here

[kapoloni timothy @kapolonitimoth1]

@JoelSsenyonyi If the NRM candidate confirms attendance too, the electricity should not be switched off 🤣🤣🤣 because that may happen next or internet may slowdown

[kapoloni timothy @kapolonitimoth1]

@aloysiusnsubug1 @Pliam_ @NUP_Ug But m7 too uses masks in public