“Uncle, Uncle, Uncle… Godfrey agenze.” “Sorry, Bernabas. The young man has left us.”
Those words from Godfrey’s fiancé and his doctor, the Liver Specialist doctor respectively still echo in my mind.
They have refused to fade. They replay each time I close my eyes; sharp, cold, unrelenting. I hear them when I walk into the office, when I glance at his desk, when I imagine his calm knock on my door, saying, “Bernabas, we need to review the new proposal.”
At 1:46 a.m. on Thursday, 16th October 2025, my world came to a standstill. My nephew; my son in every sense; Godfrey Ssenyonjo breathed his last moments just as he arrived at Mulago Hospital. Just 33 years old. A life so steady, so brilliant, so disciplined; cut short by what doctors clinically called acute hepatitis B leading to liver cirrhosis.
To me, it was life’s cruel betrayal of one of its best soldiers.
Born on 2nd October 1992, to the late Atugonza Immaculate (my sister, of Munteme, Hoima) and the late Geoffrey Ssenyonga of Kayunga, Godfrey’s life began with hardship. When his mother passed in 1994, he was barely two. His sister, Harriet, was only six months old.
Separated by circumstance, Godfrey went to live with his father in Kayunga, while Harriet remained with my mother (her grandmother) in Hoima. Then, in 2003, tragedy struck again. My mother received word that Godfrey’s father had died; and that the young boy had dropped out of school, living in difficult conditions.
I had just started my first job. We travelled to Kayunga, found him; thin, quiet, eyes too serious for his age; and brought him home to Kampala. From that day, I became his father. Not by blood, but by choice and conviction.
He called me Uncle, but to me, he was my son. Watching him grow from a reserved boy to a confident, thoughtful, purpose-driven man was one of the greatest privileges of my life.
The quiet fire within
Godfrey never sought attention. He didn’t need to. His presence spoke louder than noise.
He studied at Mandela Secondary School, where he was known for his composure and academic discipline. Later, he became a Certified Data Analyst and was completing his final CPA papers. He had mastered what few ever do; the art of thinking clearly, acting decisively, and remaining humble through success.
When he joined Summit Consulting Ltd in 2014 as a trainee, I saw a spark I had rarely seen. He was precise, analytical, reliable, and deeply loyal. Over the years, I trained him in every aspect of leadership and business, from governance and strategy to client management and board advisory. He was truly all-round: exceptional at client presentations, report writing, data analytics, investigations, and, indeed, project management.
We spent countless mornings and evenings in the office, and weekends on virtual calls or at client retreats, discussing strategy, risk, and leadership. Our conversations were rigorous, debating ideas, designing frameworks, refining client models, and crafting compelling PowerPoint presentations.
I introduced him to all key Summit Consulting clients and industry partners, not as an assistant, but as a future CEO. Following the principle I learned at EY, “let them swim,” I would take him to the client, define the expected outcomes, and leave him to figure out how to deliver.
Initially, he handled small, low-risk clients; later, I entrusted him with advanced engagements; like the recent assignment with MTN Uganda, which he managed from start to finish with precision and excellence.
He didn’t just learn; he absorbed. He mastered. By 2025, Godfrey was ready to take over as CEO of Summit Consulting Ltd. The team trusted him. Clients admired him. I had found in him the one person who truly understood my vision and could carry it forward.
The hidden battle
Behind the calm professionalism, Godfrey was fighting a silent war. For nearly a decade, he had lived with hepatitis B; unaware at first, then managing it privately. He never wanted to be treated differently, never missed work, and never complained. He just kept going.
But inside, his liver was deteriorating. The disease had slowly advanced into cirrhosis, a scarring of the liver that quietly destroys life.
After a series of tests, his condition worsened. The MRI scans revealed significant damage, prompting the specialist to recommend the DCP (Des-gamma-carboxy prothrombin or PIVKA-II) test to check for possible Hepatocellular Carcinoma (HCC) or liver cancer.
When the results came back, I read them myself. The DCP levels were 2,567, against a normal biological reference of 11.2–131. That was nearly 19 times above normal, confirming the presence of HCC. I remember sitting with the specialist as he explained, clinically but gently:
“Des-gamma-carboxy prothrombin (DCP), also known as PIVKA-II, is an abnormal form of prothrombin; produced when the liver can no longer function properly. When the levels rise this high, it signals that the liver is failing, and cancer cells have taken root.”
I felt the room grow heavy. My mind went numb. I had researched the results myself, hoping for another interpretation. But the numbers told the truth. I knew we were running out of time. Doctors gave me three to six months with him. It was painful news to take in.
One thing about Godfrey; he had a remarkable gift for keeping secrets. A strong heart, silent and guarded. He kept his illness from me. I remember noticing him wearing a jacket even on a warm day, his face pale, as if fighting an unseen cold. I would ask, “Godfrey, are you okay? Have you gone to the hospital?” And he would smile gently, nod, and say yes. But behind my back, he was living on painkillers.
One of the staff told me she once saw him taking morphine tablets. She recognized them; she would been given the same after her C-section because the pain was unbearable. That revelation broke me. Godfrey could look you straight in the eye, make you believe he was fine, and somehow make everyone keep his truth hidden.
Just as he never told anyone that he had a son; his firstborn; with a classmate from school. We only met that boy on the day of Godfrey’s burial. That moment pierced my heart. Everyone carries secrets, and Godfrey had his. I believe he had his reasons; noble or protective; for keeping them locked away. But this one, his illness… this one cost him everything.
Keeping his deteriorating health from me until August 2025, when he could no longer come to the office, was a silence too heavy to bear. By the time I found out, it was too late. His greatest secret had stolen his most precious gift, his life. I remember visiting him with a birthday cake to celebrate his 33rd birthday on 2nd October 2025 at his home. He was weak, but the gifts brought a faint smile to his face. He was even happier to receive the sacraments from a priest.
I visited again on 7th October 2025, this time with his liver specialist, whom he fondly called Dr. Dee. Godfrey was no longer his usual self. He was worried, deeply aware of what was happening to his body. “This disease is furious,” he said softly.
He complained of sharp pain in his back, and what scared him most was the loss of control over his bowels. I could see him slowly losing the will to live. As we drove from his home, Dr. Dee advised me to arrange for palliative care, and together we made the plans for the coming week.
In the final weeks, Godfrey’s body began to show the toll, fatigue, yellowing eyes, cold spells, sharp pain. I urged him to rest. But in his stubborn strength, Godfrey decided to visit his in-laws, a journey of over 120 kilometres. He parked the office car and travelled by taxi. I believe the journey was too much for his already weak body to endure.
He had started showing signs of despair as the disease advanced. In the last week of his life, he switched off his phones. We went to his home and found it locked. Two days later, on Wednesday, 15th October, at around 11 p.m., I received several distress calls from Godfrey’s phone, this time being made by his wife. She said Godfrey had been admitted to Nkozi Hospital.
That night, as his blood chemistry spiked beyond recovery, his body could no longer fight. He left not in fear, not in pain, but in quiet dignity; the same way he lived his life.
The man he was
He was the first to arrive at work and the last to leave. He remembered every client’s name, every deadline, every commitment. He was calm in crisis, patient in chaos, and steady under pressure.
To the Summit Consulting team, Godfrey was not a colleague; he was the foundation; the heartbeat of our team. To me, he was not just a mentee; he was my mirror. To his sons, Aaron (6) and Eugene (7), he was a loving father whose footsteps will forever light their path.
He embodied everything I ever hoped to see in the next generation, discipline, faith, humility, and ambition. He had mastered several advanced skills through self-study. I often told him that paper qualifications without practical skills are a form of self-deception.
“Focus on self-study,” I would say, “and build expertise in data analytics, cybersecurity, and strategy formulation.” And he did. With quiet determination, he taught himself, practiced daily, and became remarkably competent; a true example of what deliberate learning and discipline can achieve.
A lesson for the living
If you are reading this and have never tested for hepatitis B, do it today. Do not wait.
Go for a hepatitis B screening test. If you test negative, begin immunization immediately; three injections: the second one a month after the first, and the final one six months later.
Protect yourself. Protect your family. Protect your future.
If you test positive, seek treatment early. Godfrey’s life is a painful reminder that silence kills. He never wanted to worry anyone. He fought privately, but this disease demands openness and action.
The legacy of a good man
Godfrey’s story will outlive him. He proved that goodness is strength, and humility is power. He worked with excellence, led with integrity, and lived with grace.
He was my closest confidant. My sounding board. My chosen successor. Summit Consulting Ltd will never be the same without him. But his fingerprints are everywhere, on our systems, our strategies, and our culture.
He built quietly, but what he built will endure loudly.
Farewell, my son
Sleep well, Godfrey Ssenyonjo. You fought quietly, you lived honourably, you left too soon; but you left us better than you found us.
You carried pain with dignity, led with grace, and loved without condition. Your light may have gone out on earth, but it burns brightly in heaven; and in the hearts of all of us who had the privilege to know you.
You were the future of Summit Consulting. You were the son I was proud to raise.
Rest now, my son. The battle is over. Heaven has received a good man.
Until we meet again.
Appreciation
Mr. Godfrey Ssenyonjo (1992–2025)
The family of Purukeria Nsekanabo Adyeeri of Munteme, Kikuube District, together with Mr. Mustapha Bernabas Mugisa (Mr. Strategy) and the entire Summit Consulting Ltd fraternity, wish to express our sincere appreciation to all relatives, friends, and colleagues for the love, prayers, and overwhelming support extended to us during this difficult time following the passing of our beloved Mr. Godfrey Ssenyonjo.
We find solace in the comforting words of John 14:2–3:
“In my Father’s house are many rooms; if it were not so, I would have told you.
I am going there to prepare a place for you. And if I go and prepare a place for you,
I will come back and take you to be with me, that you also may be where I am.”
Your viits, kind words, and thoughtful gestures have brought comfort and strength in our grief. Godfrey lived a life of purpose, discipline, and quiet excellence; qualities that touched everyone who knew him.
As a family and as his colleagues at Summit Consulting Ltd, we are deeply grateful for your compassion, your prayers, and your presence. You stood with us when words were not enough.
Father, into your hands we commend the soul of Mr. Godfrey Ssenyonjo.
May his gentle soul rest in eternal peace. Amen.
Mustapha Bernabas Mugisa (Mr Strategy) CEO, Summit Consulting Ltd
