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I still remember the date: October 14, 2010. My first winter coat was too thin. The air at Detroit airport slapped me straight in the face. It was nothing like Kampala. I had one suitcase, a used laptop, $300 in cash, and a heart full of hope, and fear.
I had come to America for “a better life,” but nothing prepared me for how cold, quiet, and fast it was. People barely looked you in the eye. The first time I entered a grocery store, I just stood there. So many cereals, so many types of milk… and not a single matoke in sight.
Back home, I was someone’s son, someone’s uncle, someone’s hope. Here, I was just another Black man with an accent. I’d lie awake some nights wondering if I had made a mistake.
Chasing Stability, Finding Loneliness
I enrolled in business school, juggled two part-time jobs, gas station and warehouse. I worked till my back ached and my hands cracked. Detroit was still recovering from the recession. Everyone was hustling. I was too.
I smiled through calls with my mother, pretending everything was fine. But deep inside, I felt hollow. I’d come home to an empty apartment. I missed the loud neighbors back in Kampala, the smell of roasted maize in the streets, the sound of kids playing football at sunset.
I told myself: “Work hard, then everything will make sense.”
But after two years, I had the degree, the job, the car… and still, something was missing.
The Day My Life Changed (By Accident)
In 2012, a friend dragged me to a Ugandan Independence event in Ohio. I didn’t want to go. I was tired, broke, and emotionally done. But I went.
That’s where I saw her.
She was dancing barefoot near the stage, holding her shoes in one hand and laughing like the world couldn’t touch her. Olivia. Skin like fresh coffee, laughter that made you want to join in even if you didn’t hear the joke.
I don’t know what came over me. I walked up to her and said:
“Are you always this happy or is it just Uganda’s birthday?”
She looked at me and said,
“You’ve got jokes. I like that.”
That night, we talked for five hours straight. Same roots, same faith, same homesickness. She was a nursing student, smart and stubborn. She’d also just lost her dad. I had just lost hope.
Somehow, we found each other in the dark.
Marriage Wasn’t in My Plans… But She Was
We dated long-distance for a year. Between classes and shifts, between bus rides and borrowed time. I proposed with a $400 ring, bought on credit, during a snowstorm. She cried. I cried. The Uber driver cried.
We got married in 2013. Small ceremony. Paper plates. Gospel music. Chicken and jollof from two aunties who argued through the whole cooking process. My mom couldn’t make it, but she sent me her blessing on WhatsApp voice note.
I thought: Now, life will be easier.
I was wrong.
Love Isn’t Always Soft
The first year was war.
We argued about everything.
Money. Time. Whose turn it was to cook. Whether to send money home this month or save for rent. We were two tired immigrants trying to build a marriage on broken sleep and tight schedules.
She worked nights at the hospital. I worked days at the office. Some weeks, we only met in passing—like roommates with rings.
At one point, I slept on the couch for three nights straight. I was too proud to say sorry. She was too hurt to ask me to come back to bed.
One night, during a fight about something silly, probably laundry—she just broke down crying.
“I feel like I married a ghost,” she said.
That cut deep. Because she was right.
Faith Saved Us When Feelings Couldn’t
We started praying again. Together. Out loud. Even when we were mad.
On Sundays, we’d sit in church and hold hands. Some days, it felt forced. But slowly, our hearts softened. We remembered why we chose each other.
We made a rule: No going to bed angry. No silent treatment longer than one day. And always kiss before leaving the house, even during a fight.
Little by little, love returned. Not as fireworks—but as small, steady light.
The Moment That Shook Us
In 2018, we were expecting our first child. We were over the moon.
But at 7 months, she started bleeding. I rushed her to the ER, praying so loud in the car I nearly crashed. That night, we lost the baby.
I held her hand in the hospital. Her face was pale. Her eyes were empty.
We went silent again—but not in anger. In grief.
For weeks, we barely spoke. Just held each other and cried when the tears came. I was supposed to be the strong one, but I was broken.
It was the darkest chapter of our marriage.
But it was also where we became one. We leaned into each other like never before. We cried into the same pillow. We healed together.
Thirteen Years Later: Still Choosing Each Other
It’s 2025 now.
We have two kids—cheeky, loud, and always hungry. We laugh a lot more these days. We fight less. Or maybe we just fight smarter.
We still miss home. But we’ve built a new one here—brick by brick, tear by tear, prayer by prayer.
We cook matoke on weekends. Play Ugandan gospel while doing chores. We tell our kids stories of Nakasero Market, of bodas and mangoes, of the loud beauty we came from.
Advice to Young African Couples Abroad
Dear brothers and sisters trying to make marriage work in a foreign land, here’s what I’ve learned:
- Love is not magic. It’s not Instagram. It’s choosing each other again and again—especially when it’s hard.
- You’ll feel alone sometimes. That’s okay. Talk about it. Don’t hide your pain in silence.
- Keep your culture alive. Cook together. Dance. Speak your language at home.
- Don’t expect America to understand your love. It’s not built for our kind of romance. But that doesn’t mean you can’t thrive here.
Above all, pray. Even when you don’t feel like it. Especially then.
Fear, Faith, and the Forever I Choose
I came to Detroit scared of the cold. I stayed and faced fears much bigger—marriage, loss, failure.
But I also found love. Real love. Messy, flawed, beautiful love.
And every morning, when Olivia hands me my coffee with a sleepy smile and mismatched socks, I know:
I didn’t just survive. I found my forever.
