The Road Calls Me Back

The red earth remembers my name, whispers it in the dust that rises, welcoming me home, not as I was, but as I have become. The streets hum, alive with rhythm, voices colliding like rivers meeting, the scent of Indian chai thick in the air, folding memory into the morning breeze. I return to a place both known and strange, where past and present press against each other, a city growing taller, reaching forward, yet haunted by the echoes of what once stood. Footsteps trace the roads of my childhood, but the shade is gone, trees felled, laughter softened, the land shifting beneath me. Still, I belong to this soil, this pulse of Kampala, where change marches onward, but home still calls me by name.