From a Ugandan in the Diaspora — 25 Years Away, Never Gone
“I left the land, but the land never left me.”
My fellow Ugandans at home,
my old boys and girls who once dreamed freely,
my church family who taught me faith and endurance,
my relatives, family friends, and all who still call me brother—
I write to you not as an outsider, but as one of you. I write as a son of the soil who has lived away from home for over 25 years, not by choice, but by circumstance. Distance has separated my body from Uganda, but nothing has ever separated my heart from her pain, her hope, and her unfinished journey.
I left Uganda when staying became unbearable. Like many before and after me, I left because opportunity was strangled, voices were silenced, and survival became a daily struggle. Leaving was not an escape—it was a wound that never healed.
“Exile is not freedom; it is a daily reminder of what was taken from you.”
The Uganda many of you live in today is not the Uganda we were promised. It is a country where fear has quietly replaced confidence, where power has overstayed its welcome, and where leadership has confused longevity with legitimacy. You live under a system where questioning authority is treated as rebellion, where security forces intimidate citizens instead of protecting them, and where elections feel more like rituals than expressions of the people’s will.
You endure poor health services where medicine is a luxury. You endure schools that struggle to teach hope. You endure corruption that eats from the top while hunger grows at the bottom. You endure leaders who speak of stability while families struggle to survive day to day.
“When leadership stops listening, suffering becomes normal.”
From the diaspora, we watch with broken hearts. We send remittances that keep households afloat. We pay hospital bills, burial costs, and school fees. We support families emotionally and financially while being excluded from shaping the future of the nation we sustain. Many of us would return tomorrow if Uganda offered dignity, safety, and opportunity.
Life abroad is not easy. It is filled with long hours, cultural isolation, and the constant knowledge that you are never fully at home. You raise children who ask where they belong. You live between two worlds—one that raised you and one that barely accepts you.
“We survive abroad, but we belong at home.”
What we long for is not chaos, revenge, or division. We long for renewal. We long for a Uganda governed by conscience, not coercion. A Uganda where leaders are servants, not masters. Where power is borrowed from the people and returned peacefully. Where young people are seen as the future, not as a threat. Where churches speak truth without fear, and citizens walk without intimidation.
This is a call to courage. A call to wisdom. A call to responsibility.
Change does not begin with violence—it begins with conscience. It begins when citizens refuse to normalize injustice. It begins when fear no longer dictates choices. It begins when Ugandans remember that the nation belongs to them, not to any individual or family.
“No ruler is greater than the people they govern.”
You who live at home carry a sacred duty. History has placed this moment in your hands. Your choices today will determine whether Uganda remains trapped in the past or steps boldly into a future of dignity, justice, and opportunity.
The Uganda we want is possible. A Uganda where institutions work, not personalities. Where leadership rotates, not calcifies. Where citizens are respected, not managed. Where coming home is a right, not a risk.
“We want a Uganda our children will not have to flee.”
I write this letter in love, not anger. In hope, not despair. I believe in the wisdom of Ugandans. I believe in the courage that once brought change. And I believe that one day soon, I will come home—not as a visitor, not as an exile, but as a citizen who belongs.
May your conscience be clear.
May your courage be firm.
May Uganda rise again—by the will of her people.
With love and longing from the diaspora,
A Ugandan who never stopped believing 🇺🇬
