Two years ago, I left, and I didn’t know where I was going. For whatever reason, I had made that decision. It sounds funny because I am probably the last person in my family to do that. At the time, I disliked change and unfamiliar places. I was comfortable where I had lived for the past eleven years.
I left the red soil – the material that bled into my first bath upon arriving in Kampala. I left the place where school was cancelled not because of a snow day, but because there were riots in town. I left our rented house. On one side, a lonely cow would graze in a field next to a lonely tree. On the other side, a forest of Papyrus plants rippled in the wind all the way to Lake Victoria. I left walking home from school, using a pipeline as a shortcut with my younger brother. I left thoughts of taking home bunnies from a crocodile farm as an eight year-old. I left friends, who will most likely not be there when or if I go back, because leaving happened for them, too.