Eyewitness account of Rajiv's last moments

KAMPALA - In the quiet hours of a Saturday morning (April 3), when most of the city lay in peaceful slumber, Pastor Gerald Lutaaya was deep in solitary prayer inside the humble walls of Revival Embassy Worship Centre at Buggu, near Busabala Road roundabout. 

It was a moment of spiritual reflection — a sacred routine for a man devoted to his ministry. 

But in a split second, the serenity shattered. A thunderous bang ripped through the silence, drawing the pastor out of prayer and into a scene that would haunt him forever.
 
What unfolded before his eyes was not just a fatal car crash — it was the harrowing, fiery death of a young man, Rajiv Ruparelia, son of one of Uganda’s most prominent businessmen, Sudhir Ruparelia. 

Lutaaya narrated to Joseph Batte the harrowing moments.

My name is Gerald Lutaaya. I am a pastor. And no amount of scripture or prayer could have prepared me for what I witnessed that Saturday morning.
 
It was a few minutes past one in the morning. I was in church, alone, praying for my ministry and my congregation. The night was still. But then came the bang — loud, violent and unnatural. 

I paused, heart pounding. Something had struck something hard. I rushed outside, the cool night air meeting my face, and I looked in the direction of the noise. 

That is when I saw it. A car — flying. Yes, it was flying. Like something ripped from a nightmare. It was mid-air, moving fast, before it struck a tall metallic pole of the traffic lights. 

The traffic lights themselves had been removed some time back, but the metallic pillar remained — silent sentinel of a road that should have been safe. 

The car collided with such force that pieces began to detach. I remember so clearly — parts tearing off in flames: The fuel tank, already on fire; the exhaust pipe, ablaze and flung to the other side of the road; the gearbox, too, broken and burning. 

The vehicle was no longer a car. It was a storm of fire and twisted metal. When it finally landed, it didn’t stop. It dragged itself forward, sloping slowly, painfully, as if it too were in agony. 

One side had collapsed. The tyres didn’t burst from the impact — it was the fire that took them. And then it came to a stop, like a wounded beast finally giving in. 

I ran. By the time I reached the burning car, there were only a few of us — six men and one woman. Just seven souls facing a terrible sight. The fire roared angrily, devouring everything, but through the flames, we saw movement. 

Lutaaya points at the metallic pole of the traffic lights that Rajiv’s car struck while mid-air on Saturday (April 3).

A hand. Inside the burning car there was Rajiv — and he was still alive and conscious of what was happening. He knew he was in grave danger. 

He was crying out in English: “Somebody help me. Somebody help. Help.” His words pierced the night and lodged themselves deep into our hearts. 

That cry — it wasn’t just a call for aid. It was a plea for life, a final gasp of hope in the face of overwhelming terror. That is when we shouted back, “Bring your hand.” 

And he did. From the inferno, a single hand emerged, scorched and shaking. That hand — burnt, but still reaching for life — remains etched in my memory. 

It was the last part of him we saw. We grabbed it, pulled it, but something held him back — it was the seatbelt, cruel and unyielding in the moment he needed freedom the most. 

The more we pulled, the more the wreckage shifted, and with every shift, the fire grew. We could see it crawl from the engine and spread towards him. Then came the moment no one wanted. We had to stop. 

The flames were too much. We backed away — helpless. I, a pastor, a man whose whole life is dedicated to hope, to salvation, stood there with nothing but despair in my hands. 

The crowd grew. More eyes watched. More hearts broke. But there was no water. No extinguisher. No help. Just flames — and time, slowly dragging Rajiv into eternity. We watched him burn alive. 

Then something heartbreaking happened. Rajiv stopped struggling. But even as the fire crackled and death hovered close, Rajiv was not silent. 

He spoke. With that same trembling hand, he slowly touched his own cheek — like a man bidding his body goodbye. 

And in those final moments, his voice changed. He began to mumble — loud words in a language none of us could understand. But we listened. 

It sounded like Hindi, his mother tongue. A prayer, maybe. A plea to a higher power. A last conversation with God. The fire took him then.

Was Rajiv alone? 

People later asked if he was alone. Some rumours swirled that a woman had been in the car. But I tell you, with everything I saw— there was no one else. 

When the car hit the traffi c lights pole, the windows of the car had exploded and fallen like a downpour of glass. If there had been another person, we would have seen them, heard them, something. But there was only Rajiv. 

He died alone, in silence, surrounded not by loved ones, but by strangers trying their hardest to save him. As for why it happened — why such a promising young man met such a cruel end — I can only say this: The road had changed. 

A new concrete barrier had been installed just days before, without signs, without warnings. President Yoweri Museveni had passed through the area earlier that week, and after that, those obstacles were placed. 

But they were temporary — removed and replaced at will. I believe Rajiv hadn’t seen them earlier in the day. Maybe he came from a different side, believing the road was still clear. 

But he was moving fast. When the car struck that hidden obstruction, it turned into a missile. The crash wasn’t just impact — it was destruction, combustion, chaos. 

A life undone in seconds. I cannot forget it. I close my eyes, and I see the fire. I see the hand. I hear his faint responses — still trying, still believing he could be saved.
 
I hear our shouts. I feel our uselessness. That night, I didn’t just witness a fatal accident. I witnessed a soul departing, a young man’s final moments, a prayer spoken in fire. 

Rajiv didn’t die alone. But he died in a kind of horror no one deserves. And I, Pastor Gerald Lutaaya, will carry the weight of that night for the rest of my days.

Speed kills 

To all drivers — let Rajiv’s story remind us that speed, no matter how thrilling, can become fatal in a flash. Roads change. Obstacles appear. 

And no one is immune. Had Rajiv been driving at a safer speed, perhaps he could have had the time and space to react. But in that moment of high velocity, there was no mercy. 

Roadwork needs responsibility 

To our road engineers, contractors, and the authorities who oversee them, roads are not built in isolation. People live near them. People use them. And when changes are made — whether temporary or permanent — they must be communicated clearly and effectively. 

When the Chinese engineers were working on that road, they placed visible, clear signposts, plastic humps and proper diversions. No one died under their watch. But when they left, the care went with them. 

The temporary barriers installed since then, without warning signs or reflectors, have become death traps. Rajiv was not the first victim. Almost every week, we lose someone on this stretch.

Our voices matter, but they must be heard 

As a community, we wrote to the works minister, Gen. Katumba Wamala, raising concern about the dangers on this road. We waited. We hoped. But no change came—until death came.