They say you should never return to places or people you once loved.
I go back to Kampala, with Craig and Roscoe, to where we all began. This exploration of rootedness is also a celebration; we are here, together, twenty years on. Still talking, still breathing, still loving each other. These small miracles acknowledged and noted. What seems simple, is not.
We fly Uganda Airlines, cramped together in an airless cabin, in seats so close together you could kiss your neighbour by a simple turn of your head. Unfurling ourselves in Entebbe, we walk through the sanitised airlink sealing us away from the welcoming smells of rich red murrum earth. However, the stench of progress is quickly wiped by the familiar chaos of immigration. One day a country will design an immigration service that reflects the warmth of the people within. This is not that day.
The vast emptiness of the Chinese built airport building, is in contrast to the melee of humanness which swarms outside. I’d forgotten the propensity for noise and nearness. These are a people who can create a noise level unmatched outside of a premier league football ground on a Saturday afternoon and an ability to stand so close that they can see the freckles on my nose.
We spend 30 minutes in the car going nowhere; embroiled in a queue of traffic inching towards the two barriers which offer a tantalizing escape from the airport confines. The argy-bargy of cars, trucks and Matatu’s bursts onto the Chinese owned highway where every toll shilling goes ‘Kerching‘ into the coffers of the Chinese government. This is a prime example of the Belt and Road initiative, binding Africa to the future of the Far East; an active choice of the current political elite who ignore the vision of their new colonial masters.
I still marvel at this highway; 20 years ago a drive to Entebbe could take 1 hour or several, if you made it at all. From 1998 to 2000 it was so dangerous and the kidnappings and shootings so frequent, you had to be escorted by armed guard. Given I travelled across Africa so frequently, I was incredibly blasé about a truck full of loaded AK 47’s ahead and behind my regular airport convoy. I look back at my old-self life and wonder what happened to that woman; the one full of ignorant bravado.
Now we are in Kampala in 50 minutes. The city has grown four-fold in the twenty years since our first departure. It’s a grown up city with high rises vying with traffic lights and the hive of boda-bodas swarming every inch of tarmac and murrum road. It’s interesting to see a rise of middle class affluent Ugandans unabashedly flaunting their wealth and good fortune, this alongside the obvious increase of international populations from the Middle and Far East, lends a curious distinction between the haves and the have-nots.
We stay with friends in Kololo, the same familiar suburb where we used to live. That word familiar is an oxymoron- what remains is the names of the streets, what exists today is an capricious mix of office blocks, and high rise apartments crammed together next to restaurants, clubs and bars. These compete with each other to be heard in a cacophony of thumping baseline beats lasting until 4am. Ear plugs are essential for a good nights sleep.
I drag the boys to Owino market. I want Roscoe to see and experience real life for ordinary Ugandans. It’s hugely entertaining to hear the calls of “Big Man, Hey, Big Man” and “Mzungo, Big Man” as I trail in his wake, letting him take the heat in the hope of a white-man sale. We eventually reappear into the light of the day not having spent a dime but rich in the assault of all senses.
After the clamour of noise and hustle of Owino, we jump in the car and crank it up the hill towards a new attraction; the mosque which was completed in 2006, two years after our departure. Funded and opened by Gadaffi, it is the fourth largest mosque in the world and the largest in sub-Saharan Africa. It is well organised and dressed appropriately we embark on our tour which culminates in a circular climb of 272 steps to the top of the minaret where we are rewarded by a 360 view of Kampala. It is comforting to see a few green spaces in about the morass and jumble of concrete and brick. From up here there is an obvious haze lying over town, created by over industrialization, belching black smoke from old cars and trucks, the burning of charcoal and anything else from the city slums and a general lack of regulation. The plethora of shisha pipes in every bar adds to the already poor air quality and my pretend tongue fizzes warning signals leading me to wonder about the longer term health of Kampala residents.
Back on the ground we head off to the place of our betrothal; the Baha’i temple. Even here, the pace of industrial development is ever present- the steam roller and digger are both noisily busy creating a new murrum road up to the temple itself. The building itself is reassuringly familiar and we hide on the other side of its sunshine yellow decagon walls, enjoying the setting while reminiscing and concurrently boring Roscoe who indulges us with feigned interest.
The next day we leave Kampala just after sunrise, the city is already bustling with busy people and tired revellers returning home from the jangle of 24/7 bar fun. We are heading towards Jinja and the promise of a Grade 5 white water rafting experience. This drive is not for the faint hearted and we pass several lorries and sugar cane trucks upended on both sides of the road. Years ago, as we drove through Mabira forest, we would see local folks walking with big stones in their hands, to throw at the marauding baboons who fight each other harder than rival supporters at an ‘auld firm’ game. This trip there are no baboons but the road sellers are still peddling their well-cooked ‘chicken on a stick’ proving the longevity of old favourites. Arriving at Nile Explorer River Lodge, it’s fascinating to see the wide age range of dwindling tourists still seeking Ugandan thrills. I’m not daft enough to go anywhere near the raft- I left my need for that kind of excitement somewhere on the birthing table- so I spend the day watching the backpacking youngsters chasing adrenaline kicks offered by bungee jumping, white water rafting, kayaking and the catapult slide into the Bilharzia infested waters of the Nile. I know we will need to attend the Doctors surgery the following day as the boys will need the necessary medication as payment for their day of fun.
There follows a lovely day catching up with old friends in new haunts and a final meal in Aurous, the fine dining bar and restaurant which has been created in our old house and garden at plot 11 Roscoe Road. It’s surreal to be drinking cocktails in that garden, with our boy. A plot beyond imagining when we locked up the house for the final time all those years ago.
Being here with Roscoe has been all I had hoped for. He understands our passion for Africa much better by stepping onto Ugandan soil. But there are other African nations waiting to be explored.
So as we say our farewells, I think this truly will be my farewell. I love the Ugandan people who are, without doubt, one of the warmest, most hard working and diligent African people on earth. But I cannot support the values of the political elite and some of their recent draconian laws, challenge my personal values to their core.
Uganda won’t miss me or my tourist dollar. It’s thriving, attracting alternative continents of nationalities to its borders. But understandably its lack of tolerance to difference has negatively impacted its attraction to Western tourists and the knock on effect on local businesses and the economy, alongside reducing the exposure of Ugandans to the rich myriad of cultures, attitudes and beliefs, will be sadly felt for years to come.
So we head northwards to Scotland, to my own kind, and I spend 4 months eating all the chocolates and sweeties, baked goods, pies, bread, black puddings, haggis and meats of my childhood. Despite all the walking, I gain yet more weight but the tasty morsels are doing more than satisfying my appetite, they are feeding my soul. And this isn’t talked about in the academic books – the coping mechanisms of dealing with reverse culture shock. Familiar food, re-purchasing familiar knick-knacks, drinking childhood drinks ( hello ‘Cremola Foam’), listening to traditional music, going to places you would avoid if you lived in country. Chasing nostalgia and connection as if it’s a drug. It’s all normal.
Prompted by conversations with my sis-in-law, I sign up for Simon Sinek’s foundation course on finding my why. I’m only part way through and loving it but have found today’s exercise to be mentally challenging. The task is to write at least 6 stories on my life’s peaks and valley’s, stories which elicit emotional highs and lows which I can tell with passion and authenticity. In the beginning this seems similar to the work done on the True North leadership journey but as my depth of self awareness and emotion has increased since my cancer, I’m much more prepared to be open, honest, vulnerable and raw.
I’ve come to realise that my why, my purpose, needs to be based on sunshine experiences so I’m not reacting to negative forces. It’s a real Star Wars insight. I choose to be Luke and reject thoughts of Anakin.
In the evening, we drive over for a mutual cook-a-thon at the residence where there is generator power, a working gas cooker, blessed air-con and WiFi for the teenager. On the way there, the devastation aftermath becomes more gut-renching. Lots of the little wooden chattel houses are blown apart by the wind and 100+ year old trees shamefully show their naked roots as they lie majestically supine, rendering roads impassable.
Later driving home, we are hopeful that power and water are restored but it’s not to be; as we turn by St Thomas church which has already lost a mighty oak tree, darkness greets us. We drive down the hill knowing it’s moonlight only at our home.
Yet more trees have brought down electrical cables, Barbados Light and Power have been overwhelmed by Elsa. We may get power tomorrow or maybe not. It will be as it will be.
Craig drives through Storm Francis in grim determination with the wind and rain battering our hired Volvo. It eats up the miles as we drive further away from the boy, out of the homeland and into the mood matching weather front. Stopping only for petrol and a brief comfort break we make the testing site at 15.40 to find it deserted. We are the only clients here. No queues; no need to show the desperately saved QR code’s from the gov.uk site; no need to match the car registration in some undefined system. Just gather some paperwork which is attached to our windscreen wipers and drive through to two medical staff, bundled up again the biting gales and nippy rain squalls who are barely sheltered in the large open ended marquee. The swab down the throat makes us gag and the nose swab is not at all uncomfortable: 5 swipes round each nostril with all 3 swabs bagged and labeled using the codes they’ve given us to register to receive our results. We drive out of the test Centre at 15.53 with a deflated air: is this really it?
After a summer of gaffes and U turns, falsehoods and blame-shifting, my Westminster trust quota is at its lowest level. The levels of grey uncertainty in my mind are far exceeding any minuscule slivers of black and white. Public health and well-being are paramount to getting our economy back on its feet and test, track and trace are fundamental foundations to this goal. 
Craig has to take him back to our hotel as he cannot get heat into his bones. His first lesson in dealing with our home climate; Layered dressing.
Now, I watch the rain battering against our window; it’s dreich grayness apt. How do other Mother’s do this? I have no blueprint, no plan. The packed cases mock me, silent tears run as I type. No words come. It’s just screaming emptiness inside, impossible to describe.