The legend, the mystery, the force known worldwide as Kamala "The Ugandan Giant" is taking his rightful place in this year's WWE Hall of Fame, Class of 2025. If you're not clapping, it's time to stand and pay homage. This Legend’s induction is a resurrection of legacy—a salute to a man who made noise without uttering a word; a presence that lit up arenas and struck fear with every step; a pioneer to every big man in the pro wrestling industry. When Kamala stormed into the ring barefoot, face painted, chest out—fans didn't just watch; they felt marveled. He was a walking spectacle in an era hungry for sports entertainment. 

But behind the mask, behind that character wrapped in tribal lore, was a Black man grinding through a world that wasn't always built for him.

Mississippi Roots, Grit, and Grind

Before becoming the fearsome face-painted "Ugandan Giant," James Harris was a Mississippi kid hit hard by life long before he ever stepped into a ring. He was a sharecropper, picking and chopping cotton, growing up in Coldwater and Senatobia—towns in Mississippi just five miles apart but worlds away from his future fame.

His early path took a detour when legal issues forced him to relocate at 17. The reality of being Black in Mississippi put Harris on a bus to Florida, where he spent the next few years picking fruit instead of fights.

From Fruit Fields to the Wrestling Ring

By 1975, broke and jobless, Harris found himself in Benton Harbor, Michigan—just another brother chasing a dollar. While chatting with a friend about his love for rasslin', the friend did him a favor and introduced him to legendary pioneer Bobo Brazil. He eventually also crossed paths with another legend, Tiny Tim Hampton, and soon enough, he was training and introduced to the business of professional wrestling. Before the jungle masks and tribal drums, Harris was hustling under names like "Sugar Bear Harris" and "The Mississippi Mauler." 

Kamala: A Story Born From Survival

When Kamala rose, the wrestling business was shackled to stereotypes. Black wrestlers were often boxed into narrow roles and unimaginative storytelling. His size meant being cast as the "savage from the jungle," inspired more by white colonial-era fears than any authentic African culture. The story was that he couldn't speak English and had a handler named Kim Chee—like a zookeeper to an animal. They made him slap his belly and howl like a beast.

It was performative; they deemed it profitable, but to the Black audience, it

was insulting. However, Harris played the game and embraced the character with dedication, heart, and pride in his craft, even if his mask wasn't his own. Despite the trappings of the gimmick, Kamala, the character, was money. He went on to headline shows and sell out arenas, going toe-to-toe with the biggest names in the industry—Andre the Giant, The Undertaker, and in his later years, a young Randy Orton.

Respect Was Never Equal

But even as he captivated the crowd, Kamala wasn't eating at the same table as the stars he faced in the ring. Behind the curtain, Harris was underappreciated and overlooked when it came to the long-term rewards his white counterparts received.

He was a sharp observer of the racial inequalities embedded not just in professional wrestling but in the American workforce at large. Raised on welfare in the deeply segregated South, Harris carried those scars into his wrestling career, where the color of his skin often dictated the weight of his paycheck. Black wrestlers barely made any real money for the prominent attractions they became.

While Kamala's menacing in-ring persona drew crowds and sold tickets, Harris often returned home to pick up side gigs like trucking, grass cutting, and songwriting to make ends meet. Kamala's experience wasn't isolated. It reflected a systemic disparity that stretched from the cotton fields of the 1950s to the squared circle of the 1980s and beyond.

Even as professional wrestling evolved into a billion-dollar empire, the men who helped build it—especially Black performers like Harris—were often left on the outside looking in when it came to financial respect.

Kamala gave the people a show. But James Harris was never given his due. That was the cold cut of the business in the '80s and '90s if you were Black in pro wrestling.

When the lights faded, and Kamala walked away from the ring, life didn't cut him any slack. Harris faced serious health issues, with diabetes hitting his body hard and leading to him having both legs amputated. Medical bills piled, but still, he stayed real and resilient. He remained connected with fans—not as Kamala, but as James Harris, a Southern soul who gave everything to the game until he died in 2020 at age 70.

Legacy Reclaimed

Today, that legacy just got a fresh breath.

WWE has officially inked a “Legends” contract with James Harris's estate, bringing Kamala back into the fold where he always belonged. Justice for a man who gave his body and spirit to the spectacle we all love.

"We couldn't be prouder that James's legacy is back home where it belongs," said his wife, Emmer Jean Harris, in a post on Kamala's Facebook page.

As fans, this Legends contract and WWE Hall of Fame induction hits a little different. This is more than a deal and ceremony; it's the industry finally recognizing not just the face paint and the war drums spectacle but the man behind the face who contributed to the foundation of the pro wrestling industry and Black wrestlers to come. It's restoration. It's acknowledgment that his impact roared through generations even though he didn't speak on the mic. Kamala "The Ugandan Giant," née James Harris, is part of wrestling’s fabric, an era-defining figure who deserves to be honored, respected, and never forgotten.

Rest easy, big man. Your legacy lives on.