Isaac Mwesigwa: The child the world forgot about

The hospital walls stood silent that day — cold, indifferent, and unshaken — as a mother who had just given birth turned her back and walked away. Behind her, a newborn wailed, too young to know he had just been left with nothing. 

No name. No family. Just a fragile life, abandoned before it had even begun. However, fate had other plans. Raised in an orphanage, molded by hunger and forged in resilience, the child no one wanted rose above the odds. 

Today, Isaac Mwesigwa is a millionaire. He is also the director of Rise and Shine High School in Ntinda. His story is one of a man who turned his pain into purpose. But the journey to triumph was paved with heartbreak and scars.

Survival  

Life at Reverend Keffa Sempangi’s orphanage was brutal. It did not pamper; it did not spare. 

Mwesigwa told New Vision that he grew up among 150 boys, where meals arrived in a single bucket and the fastest hands ate first. 

“You had to learn the skill of where to sleep, how to eat and most importantly — how to save,” he recalled, his voice carrying the weight of those hungry nights. 

“Food came only once a day. If you didn’t save a portion, the night would strangle you with hunger. Donations arrived without names — no one handed you clothes or shoes. You fought, you strategised and you bowed to your superiors and the older boys just to survive. The world taught me early: No one would call you by your name unless you made yourself seen,” he added. 

Born in Mukono around 1988, Mwesigwa’s earliest memories were not of love, but of absence.

“A child born without a medical certificate is a story in itself,” he said. For years, Mwesigwa moved like a shadow, unnoticed and unclaimed. Then, around the age of eight or nine, the realisation hit. 

“You’d hear other children talk about their fathers, mothers… and then it would hit you — you had none,” he said. 

At the orphanage, there was only one mantra: “Trust in God alone.” But in 2000, when the orphanage school closed, it left 12-year-old Mwesigwa staring into an uncertain future. 

“I was the youngest and the weakest in everyone’s eyes. But I made a choice: I might not have food, I might not have clothes, I might not afford the medical care, but I would have an education,” he said with no one to pay his fees, he became his provider, scraping together whatever he could to attend Mukono Boarding School. 

“People saw my age as a disadvantage. But I saw it as God’s way of teaching me early — nothing in this life would be handed to me. If I wanted it, I would have to take it,” he said.

What lit a fire? 

Long before he stepped into a classroom as a leader, a single moment ignited Mwesigwa’s hunger for education. It was 1996 and Uganda’s presidential elections were in full swing. 

An eight-year-old Mwesigwa, barely tall enough to see over the shoulders of the crowd, squeezed his way through the sea of bodies to witness political giants —Yoweri Museveni, Paul Kawanga Ssemogerere and Kibirige Mayanja debate. 

Today, as director of Rise and Shine High School, Mwesigwa ensures no child endures that humiliation. 

But it wasn’t their words that captured him. It was the sharp, educated minds in the audience — Eria Mambule Kiggundu, Isaac Katono and Fagil Mandy, who responded with eloquence, switching effortlessly between English and Luganda. 

“Their words weren’t just answers; they were power. They made people listen. That’s when I realised this is what education does,” he said. Then came the moment that sealed his fate. 

A voter, with raw emotion, challenged Kiggundu: “You ignored us when your wife died!” The politician didn’t flinch. He didn’t apologise. Instead, he explained that leadership wasn’t about pleasing everyone. 

“That was it for me,” Mwesigwa said. “I didn’t just want to speak well. I wanted to think well,” he added.

Buveera hustle 

At just 11 years old, while other children played, Mwesigwa was learning his first business lesson: “Discipline pays faster than pity.” 

It was the year 2000 and in Mukono, the booming trade in buveera (polythene bags) was changing lives — including his. 

“A pack costs sh800. If you sold well, you made sh1,200. That is a sh400 profit? That was my lifeline,” he said. 

Every morning, Mwesigwa marched to an Indian businessman’s shop, signed a ledger and collected his stock. Then, like a soldier on a mission, he stationed himself in Mukono’s bustling market — today’s Satellite Beach — ready to pounce the moment a customer bought fish, clothes, or groceries. 

You had to be there, buveera in hand, before they even asked,” he said. But the streets weren’t kind. The competition was fierce. Dozens of boys, labelled bayaye (street urchins) or enfuuzi (orphans), fought for every sale. 

Some resorted to theft. Mwesigwa, however, chose discipline. “If a shop owner trusted you, they made you their sole supplier. That loyalty was everything,” he said. 

His discipline paid off. Soon, he wasn’t just a lone hustler — he was a chief executive officer in the making. He recruited six friends and turned his grind into a team business. 

“The Indian businessman noticed my consistency. He gave me bigger stock because I accounted for every coin,” he said. By sunset, Mwesigwa would count his earnings: sh20,000 or more — enough to keep a determined boy in school.

Breaking barriers 

At 13, Mwesigwa faced a choice: Carry bricks or carry shame. He had already hustled buveera bags to pay his way into Mukono Boarding School. 

But now, the headteacher of its sister school, Mukono High, offered him another deal: “Make 10,000 bricks for us, and we will let you study.” Mwesigwa did not blink. He did not negotiate. He simply nodded and said: “Anything you want us to do, we shall do.” 

At school, Mwesigwa wore the same uniform from Senior One to Senior Four. “By the end, it was short, stretched and barely holding together,” he said. 

One day, a teacher humiliated him in front of the class. “He ordered me to strip because my shirt was dirty. I never forgot that shame,” Mwesigwa said. 

Today, as director of Rise and Shine High School, Mwesigwa ensures no child endures that humiliation. 

“Every student receives five uniforms. Confidence is the first thing that poverty steals. I won’t let it steal theirs,” he said.

Mwesigwa recalled that the brick moulds weighed almost half as much as the boys themselves. Under the scorching sun, they hauled water from Kitete village, two kilometres away, because the school had no piped water.

They tilled the land, mixed the clay and pressed it into molds, their small hands shaking under the weight. 

Mwesigwa as a young boy.

“The first day, I failed. But failure wasn’t an option. If I quit, I would lose my education,” he said.

“Some boys gave up. They said it was too hard. They left school altogether. Many ended up making house ventilators — another gruelling, muscle-for-money trade. But Mwesigwa refused to surrender. I knew if I walked away, I would just exchange one backbreaking job for another,” he added. 

As Mwesigwa’s blistered hands ached, the words of missionaries Helena and Grover kept him going. The missionaries had warned his orphanage years earlier that: “There are two ways to survive — study, until your mind tires, or labour, until your body breaks. Both burn energy, but only one builds a future.” 

Every brick he moulded hammered that lesson deeper. “I wasn’t just making bricks — I was burying the idea that my hands were my only tools,” he said. 

Mwesigwa’s team never hit the 10,000-brick target. But they built enough for Mukono High’s main hall, which still stands today. 

“I have never been the kind to sit and wait for a job. From the moment I left university in 2012, I knew two things about my life: One, I was meant to create employment. And two, my purpose was to empower others. And what better empowerment is there than education?” Mwesigwa said. 

His journey, however, did not begin in a classroom. “During my A’level, I worked on pig farms in Kyetume and Nabuti,” he recalled. “That experience would later prove valuable in ways I didn’t expect”.

Ultimate purpose  

Through the different ventures, one thing became clear: Every step, every failure, was leading him toward one ultimate purpose. “It all came back to the same thing: I had to build a school,” he said. 

His voice softened as he spoke about the deeper reason behind his dream. “I don’t just want a school. I want to create many Mwesigwas. 

The Bible says: The latter shall be greater than the former. If I can pass on everything I have learned to a million young minds in the next 10 years, that will be my greatest success,” he said.

Mwesigwa leaned forward, his eyes filled with conviction and added: “The real battle isn’t just about business. It’s about mindset. And that is a discussion I am eager to have. The school, as you see it today, had its roots way back in 2000.” 

But by 2017–2018, his life was calling for something more — a partner, a purpose and a mission. 

“By the grace of God, I found my wife,” he said. With that came an unexpected opportunity. His father-in-law owned a school, but it had become a burden. 

“They kept telling me, ‘We don’t want this school anymore.’ It was struggling — poor discipline, failing academics and mismanagement at the top. The institution was on the verge of collapse, handed over to people who had little interest in its success,” Mwesigwa said. 

Then came the moment of revelation. His wife told him about the school and when he finally set foot on its grounds, he saw more than just empty classrooms — he saw gold. 

“It was like a vision unfolding before my eyes. It was exactly what I had been writing about in my journal for years — the model of the school I wanted to build,” he said. 

At the time, there were only 32 students left. “The school was failing for the same reasons many others fail — discipline, education quality, staff commitment. But as they say, the fish rots from the head. The real problem was leadership,” Mwesigwa admitted. 

At just 28 or 30 years old, he took a bold step — he restructured everything. And the backlash was immediate. “Parents left. They said I am someone who thinks I know it all,” he said with a chuckle. 

“They had been used to paying money under the table. I said, No more! Now we have a bursar. Now we have a bank account. Now, students must dress properly and report to school in order. That didn’t sit well with some,” he said. 

Then came 2020. COVID-19. A crisis that brought the entire education system to a standstill. But for him, it was a blessing in disguise. 

“Everybody had to restart. And I knew that for a school to succeed, it needed a strong financial plan and top-quality teachers. But good teachers? They don’t come cheap,” he said. 

He took a drastic step. “I fired everyone — from the headteacher to the entire teaching staff,” he said bluntly. 

“Of course, the headteacher left voluntarily, but the rest? I had to make the decision myself,” he added. 

Today, his dream stretches far beyond the walls of one school. He is a man who beat the odds to rise and shine.

Crooked path 

Like many young entrepreneurs, his path was not straightforward. His first venture was an electronics shop in Kireka, Kampala suburb. But having gained hands-on experience in pig farming, he decided to set up his piggery in Mukono district. 

“That was one of my luckiest breaks. It was around the time Uganda experienced a pork boom, thanks to the Uganda Martyrs’ celebrations and the Pope’s visit. That was the fastest money I had ever made,” he said. 

Flush with success, he dived into trading. But even then, his true vision was clear: “Everything I did was pushing me toward one thing — building a school. That dream was my sweat, my tears, my entire being.” Not all ventures, however, were destined to succeed. 

“I tried events management,” he said, shaking his head. “And I promise you, I will never, ever do that again!” He let out a chuckle before explaining why. 

“One day, my amplifiers and speakers blew just as the bride was making her entrance! That was it. I sold the speakers immediately,” he said. 

He moved on to transportation, setting up a business in Kyaliwajjala, Wakiso district. “I had cars, Saharas — those small things,” Mwesigwa said. 

“At first, it seemed promising. But then, I learned a hard truth: People only do what you supervise. They don’t do what you tell them,” he said. 

Mwesigwa’s voice carried a note of frustration as he recalled what went wrong: “I gave Sundays to the drivers for car servicing. But instead of proper maintenance, they either bought old oil or didn’t service the cars at all. I’d find vehicles stranded on the roadside. That was another business I swore never to touch again,” he added.