Uganda, my home
I’ve been anticipating this day since I was 17.
I’m not waiting for a concert or for anything of that nature.
This countdown is even more important than that.
In 26 days, I’m going back to Uganda.
I can already smell the air.
I see myself staring at all the stars in the clear night sky.
I already picture myself watching the sunrise every morning.
Listening to the world around me wake up after a sleepless night makes me feel like jetlag can be a blessing.
Although Uganda has seen lots of adversity in it’s 51 years as a nation, I know there is so much potential.
Uganda is important to me, it’s a place that’ll always be a part of me.
No matter how Americanized I may be, Uganda is home.
My father, my grandmother, and numerous cousins are all still there.
I call Uganda “home” because although my Lusoga and Luganda may not be all that great, I belong. I’ve never gotten that home feeling while here in the United States, where I’ve spent the majority of my life. I’ve never really felt like I was able to call myself a “proud American.” See, being a child of immigrants puts you in this weird spot. You’re a foreigner to where you live, but also western while in your home country.
But Ugandans accept me.
They accept me and my American accent and my foreign ways. I feel like I belong. I will forever be a proud Ugandan. Sometimes I even think that maybe one day, instead of spending just two weeks every two years at my dad’s house in Bugolobi, I’ll wake up in Uganda every day for the rest of my life.
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