By a Ugandan in the Diaspora — 25 Years Away, Forever Connected
“I left Uganda with a suitcase, but I carried the nation in my heart.”
My beloved fellow Ugandans at home,
my old boys and girls with whom we shared chalk-stained classrooms and barefoot dreams,
my church family who prayed with me and for me,
my relatives, family friends, and all who still remember my name—
I write to you with a trembling hand and a heavy heart, from a foreign land I have called “home” for over 25 years, though it has never truly been home. Time has passed, children have grown, parents have aged, and some friends have gone to rest without my final goodbye. Yet Uganda has never left me. Not for a single day.
I left not because I hated my country, but because I loved it and could no longer survive within it.
“Exile is not freedom; it is survival away from home.”
The Uganda many of you live in today is one of endurance. You endure silence when you want to speak. You endure poverty amidst abundance. You endure fear where courage should be rewarded. You endure leaders who have stayed too long and forgotten why they came. A nation once promised liberation has slowly been turned into a private estate guarded by guns, patronage, and fear.
You wake up to rising prices, broken hospitals, schools without teachers, roads that swallow lives, and a justice system that bends toward power instead of truth. Young people graduate into unemployment. Mothers give birth without medicine. Fathers age without pensions. Churches pray harder because institutions no longer work.
“When a government fears its own people, the nation bleeds quietly.”
From afar, we in the diaspora watch with pain and helplessness. We argue on social media, send money for burials, school fees, hospital bills, and weddings we cannot attend. We contribute more to Uganda’s survival than many who govern it, yet we remain voiceless in its destiny.
Life abroad is not the paradise many imagine. Yes, there is order, electricity, and functioning systems—but there is also loneliness, discrimination, and the daily reminder that you are a guest. You work twice as hard to prove half as much. You raise children who ask why they don’t sound like you. You bury loved ones over video calls. You celebrate Christmas in winter and mourn home in silence.
“We did not leave because it was easy; we left because staying was impossible.”
Deep inside us burns a single desire: to come home to a Uganda that works. A Uganda where leadership is earned, not inherited by force. Where soldiers protect borders, not ballots. Where churches preach hope without fear. Where schools prepare children for life, not survival. Where youth are the engine of the nation, not a threat to be crushed.
We dream of a New Uganda—one governed by the rule of law, not the rule of men. A Uganda where power changes hands peacefully. Where leaders listen before commanding. Where dignity replaces fear. Where no child is told to be patient while corruption feasts.
“We do not want revenge; we want renewal.”
This letter is not about hatred. It is about love—the stubborn, painful, unbreakable love of a child for their motherland. It is a plea to my old friends, my church mates, my relatives, and every Ugandan of conscience: the future is watching us.
History does not ask whether change was convenient. It asks whether we were brave.
The Uganda you live in today does not have to be the Uganda your children inherit. But that decision rests with you—ordinary citizens carrying an extraordinary responsibility. The world is watching quietly. The diaspora is praying loudly. And generations unborn are waiting.
“I want to come home—not to visit, but to belong.”
May courage guide you.
May wisdom protect you.
May Uganda rise again—not by force, but by the will of her people.
With love from exile,
A son of the soil, still waiting to come home 🇺🇬
