Sudhir son Rajiv lives on in laughter, acts of kindness

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If you passed through Mulago on the afternoon of May 3, 2026, you might have thought a rally was about to rip through the city. Engines growled, horns pierced the air, and a sea of white T-shirts flooded the forecourt at RR Towers. But this was no race. It was something far more personal.

RR Towers. (Courtesy)

It was remembrance - done the Rajiv way.

For a moment, the late Rajiv Ruparelia seemed present again. His smiling face stared out from banners and T-shirts, while the energy around him lived on in revving engines and restless motorbikes. Riders lined up like white ants in season, eager but restrained.

“Today is not a rally,” one organiser reminded the crowd. “We are cruising at 30 to 40 kilometres per hour. Police will lead and guide us.”

And with that, the procession rolled out - slow, steady, almost ceremonial.

At the front stood his father, Sudhir Ruparelia, dressed in his trademark boat shoes, white cap and shirt, flagging off the convoy with quiet composure. The line of cars snaked through the city towards Speke Resort Munyonyo, drawing attention at every turn. Pedestrians paused mid-step. Bodaboda riders slowed. Some waved. Others simply stared, pulled into the moment.

Traffic along Kitante Road briefly gave way to the spectacle - music thumping, flags fluttering, and an unmistakable sense of celebration hanging in the air.

And then there was the lighter side.

Dogs stole the show at intervals - walking on two feet, dancing Lambada on cue, and responding to commands with surprising precision. Their antics drew laughter from the crowd, young and old alike, adding a playful edge to an otherwise reflective day.

But beneath the noise and colour was something deeper.

Earlier, away from the engines and cheering, a quieter transformation had taken place at Mulago’s cancer ward. Forty patients who had lost limbs were fitted with prosthetics - taking tentative steps toward mobility, dignity, and independence.

(Courtesy)

For many, that was the real story of the day.

“He must be smiling,” said Jyotsna Ruparelia, Rajiv’s mother, as she moved from bed to bed in the children’s ward, handing out toys. “This is the kind of charity that made him happy.”

Later, at the hospital grounds, beneficiaries and guests gathered under tents for a shared meal. The spread was generous - steamed and mashed bananas, pilau, vegetables, salads, and grilled meat. The salad bar was fully stocked, and the atmosphere was relaxed.

Cutlery was neatly arranged, but many diners preferred a more familiar approach.

“I cannot get all the meat off a chicken wing using these foreign tools,” joked John Karugaba from Ntungamo, quickly switching to his hands as those around him burst into laughter.

It was a small moment, but it captured the tone of the day - simple, warm, and deeply human.

In the end, the convoy, the music, and the spectacle were only part of the tribute. The real legacy lay in the lives touched - the patients walking again, the children smiling, the families brought together.

Rajiv may be gone, but in moments like these, his presence lingers - in laughter, in generosity, and in the enduring power of bringing people together.