Rajiv Ruparelia burst onto Kampala’s scene not through the corridors of his family empire, but with strobe lights, theme nights, and the unapologetic vibe of Club Sway.
At just 17, he opened a nightclub opposite Posta Uganda—at a time when Club Silk and Ange Noir (later Guvnor) reigned supreme—and turned it into the city’s heartbeat.
From Campus Night to Doctors and Nurses, his brand of fun was loud, cheeky, and unforgettable.
Sudhir Ruparelia had set his only son of three children out to flap his wings and see feel firsthand the unflattering world of business.
Club Sway must have been shortlived but in its vision, Rajiv has auditioned so much to convince his father he was ready from the big leap up the tiled stairs of the Group's hotels and real estate businesses.
That boldness saw Rajiv rise through the Ruparelia Group, redefining Kampala’s skyline with steel and glass.
But early Saturday morning, on the Entebbe Expressway, that flame was abruptly extinguished in a tragic motor accident.
He was 34, survived by wife Naiya and 3-year-old daughter Inara.
In an industry where most wait to inherit, Rajiv grabbed the wheel—sometimes literally. Whether steering property deals or rally cars, he carried an unmistakable energy that couldn’t be mistaken for just privilege.
He was a product of opportunity, yes, but also of audacity.
Club Sway, his first real venture, was more than a party spot—it was a cultural jolt. Under the marketing genius of Linda Mukasa, the club introduced themed nights that redefined urban nightlife.
When Mukasa was eventually swayed and poached by Club Silk, the themes followed her—and the curtains fell on Sway. But in that brief run, Rajiv had done something most billionaires' sons never try: he created a pulse, not just a portfolio.
Today, where Club Sway once stood, towers Kampala Boulevard—a shiny, multi-storey development that bears the Ruparelia stamp. It’s a fitting metaphor for Rajiv himself: playful in his youth, polished in his rise.
After studying abroad, he returned sharper, calmer, and with a far bigger toolkit. Real estate. Hospitality. Education.
Rajiv poured himself into each, breathing new life into Speke Resort Munyonyo, launching Speke Apartments, and delivering Kingdom Kampala—each project bigger than the last, but still coloured with his personal touch.
He was just as likely to be found walking around construction sites in rolled-up sleeves and dusty shoes as he was to be seen at black-tie launches.
Rajiv didn’t simply supervise projects—he embedded himself in them. From blueprints to concrete pourings, he paid attention. The glitz didn’t distract him; it only ever followed.
But those who worked closely with him say that beneath the cheeky charm and bursts of youthful warmth was the unmistakable steel of a disciplined Indian businessman.
In that ethos, Rajiv paid for service rendered—and not a cent more. There was no room for fluff, no tolerance for subpar execution. If you didn’t deliver, you didn’t earn. It was a trait that earned him quiet respect, especially in circles that too often mix friendship with favours.
Some years ago, when I started The Crime website shortly after returning from Kigali, Rwanda, I found myself accused of working with Rajiv and being one of his string of paid journalists. I had been looking for business for the site, but I hadn’t gone that far. Hurting and defensive, I hunted down many things, until journalist Richard Wanambwa shared Rajiv’s contact.
Despite his clout, I hit the furnace in his WhatsApp.
“I’m told you pay journalists and my name is splashed here,” I wrote, attaching a screengrab of a Daily Monitor article that cited me among the paid-for journalists in Sudhir lair.
“Either someone is earning fraudulently using my name or there’s something else I don’t understand.”
Shortly after the double blue tick, he responded—with a laughing emoji. For a moment, I feared it was a setup, like one of those schemes meant to hook someone into crime by getting them on the run.
Rajiv said he wasn’t responsible for the story and asked if I had ever signed for money. I told him I didn’t even know what that meant, though I had once emailed Crane Chambers seeking business.
He asked me to forward that mail and links to any stories I’d ever published about Ruparelia Group. A few days later, he directed me to visit someone at Crane Chambers—whose name I no longer recall.
It wasn’t a business deal I walked into but a cash handout. A journalist I met there explained how the system worked. I didn’t go back.
But for years afterward, I kept in touch with Rajiv—for news, for quotes, for the occasional nudge on what was unfolding in his corner of Kampala.
He didn’t mind the press. He knew how to use it, how to dance with it, and when to ghost it. At times, he offered scoops before we even asked. He understood branding not just as billboard placements but as influence.
Born to Sudhir and Jyotsna Ruparelia, Rajiv was the only son among three children, with sisters Sheena and Meera. The close-knit family has long been Uganda’s best-known Asian business dynasty.
His father, Dr Sudhir, built the group from scratch, literally that is, for those who recall Premier Lottery of 1995 the sold scratch lottos.
That scratching gamble raised Sudhir's stakes to forex shops and hotels, and Rajiv was meant to be the modern arm—driving it into the next digital and generational wave.
He was also married to Naiya, and their wedding in 2017 was one of Kampala’s most colourful, attended by powerbrokers, celebrities, and businessmen from across the region.
In recent years, he had also taken up motorsport, adding rally driver to his multi-hyphenate identity. Whether it was asphalt, accounting or adventure, Rajiv didn’t just show up—he owned the lane.
He was ambitious. He was cheeky. He was demanding. He was vibrant. And now, he is gone.
But across Kampala—from partygoers who remember Club Sway, to tenants at his properties, to journalists who knew he would always respond even if it was just with a wink or a brush-off—there’s a silence that now echoes where Rajiv’s voice used to be.
Too soon. Too fast. Too final.