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I didn’t plan to run away. But that’s what it felt like.
It was two days after Christmas in 2023. Detroit was bone-cold, the kind of cold that bites your ears and doesn’t let go. My wife was in Uganda visiting her sick mother.
The little ones were staying with their aunt for a few days, wrapped in warmth and routines I couldn’t offer just then. The house was quiet—too quiet. And me? I was stuck between tired and invisible.
The city felt gray. Life felt gray.
And then, one sleepless night, I booked a ticket. New Orleans. I didn’t tell anyone. Just packed a small black duffel, locked the door of my quiet home, and left.
Day 1: Landing with Baggage You Can’t See
The plane landed around noon. The air in New Orleans was thick, sweet and heavy like sugarcane juice in the dry season. Palms lined the roads. People moved slower, talked louder.
At the airport, I handed my passport and license to a security guard who looked no older than my nephew.
“You here on a visa?” he asked, frowning.
“I’ve lived in Michigan for thirteen years,” I said, keeping my voice even.
“Hmm.” He looked at my face too long. Like he was trying to find something suspicious.
When he finally waved me through, I felt a lump in my throat I hadn’t expected.
Even now. Still a stranger.
Microcation Day 1, Evening: A Stranger’s City
My guesthouse was a creaky old thing on Esplanade Avenue, tall ceilings, faded yellow walls, and windows that groaned when the wind passed. A woman named Miss Lila owned it.
“You got that tired-in-the-bones look,” she said when I checked in. “Let New Orleans fix that for you.”
I only smiled.
That night, I wandered into the French Quarter. The streets were music—horns and drums and laughter echoing through alleys. I bought shrimp po’boys from a street vendor and ate on a bench while a man played sax under a streetlamp.
“Where you from?” he asked between notes.
“Detroit,” I said.
He smiled. “Nah. Where you really from?”
“Uganda,” I whispered.
“Thought so. You got the walk of someone who’s come far.”
Microcation Day 2: The Parade and the Mask
Saturday morning, I followed the sound of drums, something pulled me. I turned a corner and there it was: a second line parade. Trumpets cried. Umbrellas spun. Strangers danced in the street, mourning and celebrating someone I never knew.
I stood on the curb until a short woman in a pink feathered hat grabbed my hand.
“You can’t just watch,” she said. “You gotta join.”
So I did.
I danced with her. I spun with strangers. I let the rhythm lead. It felt… sacred. Like church without pews.
Later, sweating and breathless, I bought iced tea at a small café. Two college boys sat near me.
“All these African guys show up with Rolexes and accents,” one muttered. “Flexin’ on everyone. But you know they’re probably broke at home.”
I froze.
They didn’t know I was there. Didn’t know how many hours I worked. How many dreams I’d buried. How many relatives I supported back in Kabale.
I didn’t say a word. Just walked out and let the door slam behind me.
Microcation Day 3: What the River Said
Sunday morning, I walked to the Mississippi River. I needed to breathe. The sky was wide, blue as a new bedsheet, and the river rolled like a story with no end.
I sat on a wooden bench and whispered things I hadn’t said out loud in years.
“I miss home,” I said. “I miss not having to explain myself. I miss my language. My people.”
The river didn’t reply, but the wind picked up. Warm. Soft. Like a mother’s hand brushing dust off your shoulder.
An old man with white dreadlocks walked by. He looked at me and said, “Whatever’s weighing you down—leave it here.”
I didn’t answer him either. But I sat there a while longer, letting go.
What I Learned: You Can Travel Far and Still Find Yourself
Before this trip, I thought I needed a break from the cold.
But what I really needed was to remember who I was before the immigration forms, before the bills, before becoming “Dad,” “Sir,” “Mr. Robert from HR.”
I needed to remember the boy who used to chase grasshoppers in Kampala, who danced barefoot at weddings, who believed he could build something big from nothing.
New Orleans didn’t heal me.
It reminded me that I already had the tools.
Conclusion: Coming Home With Different Eyes
On Monday night, I flew back to Detroit. The snow still blanketed the city like ash. But it no longer felt as heavy.
At baggage claim, a young man bumped into me.
“Sorry, bro,” he said, looking at my small duffel. “Traveling for work?”
I smiled.
“No,” I said. “I was just chasing a piece of myself I left behind somewhere south.”
He looked confused, but nodded anyway.
I walked out of that airport taller than I had arrived.
Because sometimes, all a man needs is three days, a drumbeat, and a stranger who grabs your hand and says, “You gotta join.”
