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“Vanity of vanities, saith the Preacher, vanity of vanities; all is vanity: Ecclesiastes 1:2
This was the lament of Solomon, son of David, king of Israel, a man who had tasted every privilege power could offer. He built palaces, commanded armies, accumulated wealth, married alliances, and was hailed as the wisest ruler of his age. Yet in his old age, stripped of illusion, he looked back at the stagecraft of court, the flattery of courtiers, the theatrics of loyalty, and called it what it was: vanity.
Solomon spoke not as a cynic, but as a man who had mistaken the scaffolding for the house. He had seen how easily proximity to the throne breeds the delusion of permanence. How quickly titles become idols. How men begin to worship the system that once served the people, until the system discards them and moves on without a backward glance.
It is in that same spirit that Prof. Isaac Christopher Lubogo approaches this essay. He is a legal surgeon by training, accustomed to dissecting statutes, precedent, and constitutional fictions with precision.
But he is also armed with the tools of literature, history, and philosophy. Lubogo knows how to choose his diction the way a surgeon knows which scalpel and instrument fits the patient. Every word here is deliberate, every analogy calibrated, every satirical cut made to expose the tissue beneath the pomp.
Read this essay therefore not as mere polemic, but as a clinical examination of power and its illusions. The names may be Ugandan, the context contemporary, but the diagnosis is as old as Solomon’s lament.
Disclaimer.
This essay is a work of political commentary, literary satire, philosophical reflection, and socio-political analysis written in the public interest. It draws upon publicly available political statements, symbolic expressions, literary analogies, and historical patterns within governance and power relations in Africa.
The views, metaphors, parallels, and interpretations expressed herein are solely those of the author and are intended for academic discussion, intellectual engagement, political criticism, and freedom of expression purposes.
Any references to individuals, institutions, religious symbolism, or political actors are used within the broader context of satire, literary critique, and constitutional commentary, and should not be construed as statements of criminal liability, malicious intent, or factual allegations beyond matters already existing in the public domain.
The essay particularly employs comparative literary references—including Arrow of God and the tragic figure of Ezeulu—as interpretive frameworks through which questions of power, loyalty, political symbolism, and institutional dynamics may be examined.
Readers are encouraged to approach the text as a contribution to democratic discourse, political philosophy, and African intellectual tradition.
The Tragedy of Political Deification: Triple A, the Holy Trinity of Power, and the Ezeulu Syndrome
By Isaac Christopher Lubogo.
There is something profoundly tragic—almost Shakespearean—when a politician moves from merely seeking power to sanctifying power itself. In Uganda’s recent political theatre, few moments captured this transformation more dramatically than when Anita Among publicly invoked the language of the Holy Trinity and symbolically assigned political identities to it: President Yoweri Museveni as “God the Father,” Gen. Muhoozi Kainerugaba as “God the Son,” and the political faithful as the “Holy Spirit.”
At the time, many dismissed it as ordinary political exaggeration—the ritual excesses of patronage politics. Others condemned it as blasphemous political worship. But today, as political winds shift, alliances tremble, and silence grows around her, the statement returns like a haunting prophecy against its own author.
For history is merciless toward those who mistake proximity to power for permanence.
And perhaps nowhere is this tragedy better captured than in the lament of Ezeulu, the tormented chief priest in Chinua Achebe’s Arrow of God. At the height of his isolation and collapse, Ezeulu painfully wonders whether he had been serving the wrong god all along—or whether the gods themselves had abandoned him.
That question now hangs symbolically over Anita Among’s political journey.
When Politicians Become Theologians of Power.
African politics has always possessed religious undertones. Leaders are rarely presented merely as administrators; they are framed as saviours, liberators, fathers of nations, defenders of destiny, guardians of stability. Political systems survive not only through institutions, but through mythology.
Yet there is a dangerous threshold where loyalty ceases to be political and becomes theological.
When Anita Among invoked the Trinity metaphor, she was not merely campaigning. She was participating in what political philosophers call the sacralization of state power—the transformation of political authority into something holy, untouchable, and spiritually ordained.
In such systems, dissent becomes heresy. Criticism becomes betrayal. And loyalty becomes worship.
The irony, however, is devastating: political gods are unlike divine gods. They age. They recalculate. They abandon. They reorganize alliances according to survival—not affection.
And this is where the tragedy deepens.
Because the very “holy trinity” she publicly exalted now appears politically distant, fragmented, or strategically silent toward her amid growing controversies and shifting political calculations.
The Cruelty of Power: It Never Loves Anyone.
One of the greatest misunderstandings in politics is believing that power rewards loyalty indefinitely.
It does not. Power rewards usefulness.
The moment usefulness declines—or becomes politically expensive—the once celebrated loyalist suddenly discovers the terrifying emptiness of political loneliness.
This is the ancient tragedy of court politics. Yesterday’s indispensable defender becomes today’s expendable burden.
And Uganda’s political history is filled with such figures: men and women who once spoke with the confidence of immortality, only to later discover that the palace has no permanent tenants except uncertainty itself.
The silence surrounding Anita Among in recent political storms has therefore generated symbolic interpretations among observers. The same networks once loudly associated with her now appear cautious, strategic, or withdrawn. Whether temporary or permanent, the optics are politically devastating.
Because in politics, silence is never neutral.
Silence is often a message. The Ezeulu Syndrome
Ezeulu’s tragedy in Achebe’s masterpiece was not merely pride. It was miscalculation.
He believed he and the gods were inseparable. He imagined himself indispensable to divine order. But eventually he discovered a horrifying truth: the gods could continue without him.
That realization shattered him psychologically.
Similarly, modern political actors often confuse access with ownership. They mistake favor for covenant. They interpret temporary closeness as eternal security.
But power is transactional.
The same system that elevates can isolate overnight.
Thus, Anita Among’s present political predicament—whether temporary or structural—resembles the Ezeulu syndrome: the painful realization that the altar one defended may not defend back.
And perhaps that is why political over-deification is dangerous. Because once you publicly elevate leaders into sacred beings, your own political survival becomes tied to their perpetual favor.
The moment they retreat, you do not merely lose allies—you lose your theology.
The Satire of the “Abandoned Trinity” The satire writes itself. (Ed: Satire in Literature in English is a literary technique where the writer uses humor, irony, exaggeration or ridicule to expose and criticize folly, vice, corruption or hypocrisy in individuals or society. It is not just making fun of things, the joke is the vehicle, the goal is correction or exposure).
The woman who once publicly proclaimed, “We believe in the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit,” now appears, in the eyes of critics and commentators, politically stranded between earthly institutions and fading divine metaphors.
The “Father” appears distant. The “Son” appears unpredictable.
The “Holy Spirit” of mass political enthusiasm appears restless.
And suddenly the political cathedral feels empty.
This is why political satire can be so cruel: because it exposes the temporary nature of manufactured sacredness.
Yesterday’s triumphant declarations become today’s haunting echoes.
Uganda’s Political Lesson.
But beyond Anita Among herself lies a broader national lesson.
A republic becomes fragile when politics turns into worship culture.
When leaders are treated as supernatural beings rather than constitutional office holders, institutions weaken and personal loyalty replaces principle.
The danger is not merely religious offense. The danger is political infantilization.
Citizens stop asking: “Is this policy constitutional?”
and begin asking: “Is this person loyal to the supreme figure?”
That is how republics quietly decay.
And perhaps this explains why history repeatedly humbles political absolutism. Not because history hates strong leaders, but because history despises the illusion of permanence.
Empires fall. Dynasties fracture. Favorites are replaced. Courts reorganize themselves.
And those who once sounded untouchable suddenly begin speaking the language of survival.
Conclusion: Between the Palace and the Wilderness.
Anita Among’s story—real or perceived—is increasingly unfolding like an African political tragedy written somewhere between Parliament and mythology.
It is the story of a politician who rose meteorically through loyalty, symbolism, and strategic proximity to power, but who now faces the eternal danger confronting all court politicians:
What happens when the throne no longer speaks your language?
And in the shadows of this question stands Ezeulu, whispering across African literature and political history:
“Was I serving the wrong god… or have the gods abandoned me?”
That is the terrifying question every political priest eventually confronts when the drums stop beating.
TEU Explainer. Who Ezeulu Was?
For readers unfamiliar with the novel, Ezeulu is the chief priest of Ulu, the god of six Igbo villages in colonial Nigeria. He is proud, intelligent, and convinced that his role makes him indispensable to both the people and the gods.
When he believes his authority is being undermined by the encroaching colonial administration and Christian missionaries, he makes a fateful decision. He refuses to eat the new yams at the New Yam Festival, hoping to force the community to acknowledge his power and the power of Ulu.
The gamble fails because while Ezeulu waits for the gods and the people to submit, the colonial system advances, his own influence erodes, and he is left isolated, betrayed by his own calculation.
In his final moments of collapse, he wonders aloud whether he had been serving the wrong god all along, or whether the gods had abandoned him.
The Syndrome Explained.
This is the “Ezeulu Syndrome.” It describes the condition of a political actor who becomes so identified with power that they confuse proximity to it with control over it.
Three elements define it: Mistaking role for Ownership. The priest believes he is the god, not the servant of the god. In politics, the loyalist begins to believe they are inseparable from the system they serve.
Miscalculation of Indispensability. Ezeulu thought the community and the gods could not function without him. He discovered too late that institutions reorganize themselves when the old priest becomes inconvenient.
Pride Leading to Isolation. His need to prove a point left him abandoned by both the traditional order and the new order.
That is why the syndrome fits. Anita Among’s present political predicament, whether temporary or structural, mirrors this arc. The woman who publicly proclaimed, “We believe in the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit,” now appears, in the eyes of observers, politically stranded between earthly institutions and fading metaphors. The “Father” appears distant. The “Son” appears unpredictable. The “Holy Spirit” of mass political enthusiasm appears restless.
The Broader Lesson.
Beyond any individual lies a national lesson. A republic becomes fragile when politics turns into worship culture. When leaders are treated as supernatural beings rather than constitutional office holders, institutions weaken and personal loyalty replaces principle.
Citizens stop asking, “Is this policy constitutional?” and begin asking, “Is this person loyal to the supreme figure?” That is how republics quietly decay.
And perhaps this explains why history repeatedly humbles political absolutism. Not because history hates strong leaders, but because history despises the illusion of permanence. Empires fall. Dynasties fracture. Favorites are replaced. Courts reorganize themselves.
Ezeulu’s final question still echoes across African political history:
“Was I serving the wrong god, or have the gods abandoned me?” It is the terrifying question every political priest eventually confronts when the drums stop beating.
The woman who publicly proclaimed, “We believe in the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit,” now appears, in the eyes of observers, politically stranded between earthly institutions and fading metaphors. The “Father” appears distant. The “Son” appears unpredictable. The “Holy Spirit” of mass political enthusiasm appears restless.
About the writer:
Prof. Isaac Christopher Lubogo is a Ugandan legal scholar, author of over 70 books, and CEO of Suigeneris Legal Legacy. He teaches law and jurisprudence at multiple Ugandan universities and was named Outstanding Legal Scholar of the Year at the 2025 SMEGAfrica Excellence Awards.
This piece is published in partnership with The Exposure Uganda (TEU), the digital platform committed to unfiltered truth and accountability under the celebrated slogan “We Expose, You Decide.”
