Some nights, I dreamt in Luganda.
Even though I hadn't spoken it out loud in weeks, the words came back to me in sleep like old friends. Gyebale ko, Maama... I'd say, and she'd hold my hand through the market as we searched for fresh mangoes. Then I'd wake to the cold creak of our apartment radiator, and Claire snoring through her dreams of men and parties I never had time for.
I missed home in the ways that hurt quietly. The smell of chapati frying in the street. The chaos of bodas zigzagging past traffic. The sound of the mosque echoing just before dawn, tugging memory into the air. But I also missed myself — the one who belonged somewhere. The one who didn't have to be grateful for basic decency. The one who could take up space.
I pulled the blanket tighter around my shoulders and reached for my phone.
One message.
Eva 🇺🇬:
Webale ko love. How's life in snowland? Still working two jobs like a prisoner? 😂
I smiled despite myself. Eva was still in Kampala, studying journalism. Loud. Sharp-tongued. Always wearing too many bangles. She kept saying I should drop nursing and study something "less colonial," but I needed the money. I needed safety.
I texted back:
Me:
Still a prisoner, but now with tips 😏
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Later, in the bookstore, I noticed a girl around my age browsing near the romance section. She had a puffed-out afro and a Kitenge tote bag slung over one shoulder. She looked like someone who knew the right verses of every Wizkid song and wouldn't apologize for it. When she smiled at me, I almost forgot how lonely I'd become.
"You Ugandan?" she asked, voice like home.
I blinked. "How'd you know?"
She laughed. "I heard you humming Eddy Kenzo under your breath. No one else here knows those lyrics."
We talked for almost fifteen minutes. Her name was Sanyu, she was from Jinja, and she was studying art. She didn't blink when I said I worked two jobs. She didn't pity me when I mentioned the cramped apartment. She just nodded and said, "You're strong, mama. You're doing good."
That night, I slept a little deeper. I dreamt of rain and wet soil under bare feet. I dreamt of voices calling my name with joy, not worry. For once, I didn't wake up choking on air.
---
In the morning, as I opened the café, I found a package tucked under the counter. No label. No name.
Inside was a scarf.
Not expensive. Not flashy. But the pattern — black with a faded gold trim — matched one I lost two months ago. A scarf from home. One I hadn't even remembered misplacing.
I stared at it, breath caught in my throat.
Claire passed by, sipping her latte. "Someone got you a gift?"
I nodded slowly, unsure of who someone was.
"No," I whispered, voice shaking slightly.
Someone returned one.
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