Illustrated by kaya joan
When I was a child, my dad bought me and my brothers matching T-shirts in different colors. Each one read Born to Win. Mine was red, and I tell you, I loved that T-shirt fiercely. It wasn’t just a piece of clothing—it felt like a statement, a promise. I wore it as though those words were written on my very soul, believing that they could shield me from whatever challenges the world would throw my way. But life is seldom kind to dreamers, and I would come to learn just how much winning would cost me.
I start my mornings with a daily ritual; I sit for a moment in silent remembrance. On my bedside table is a picture of my mother and auntie, smiling in a moment that now feels frozen in time. My mother has been gone for twenty years, but her absence remains sharp and fresh, as though she left only yesterday. It’s her sister—my beloved auntie—who keeps her memory alive. Auntie resembles her so completely that sometimes I catch myself staring at her, willing her to speak in my mother’s voice. That resemblance: comforting in one breath, a source of deep anxiety in the next.
Each day, I am haunted by the possibility that Auntie C will pass away while I remain in exile, unable to lay her to rest, unable to honor her life in the ways my culture demands. The thought torments me. It’s an exile within exile.
Auntie doesn’t know why I am here. In her mind, I came to America for a better life, to marry a kind, successful white man. It’s always a white man in their stories. No one imagines a Black man. No one imagines a woman.
Once, I tried to gently broach the subject, hinting at a truth that I had kept locked inside me for years. Her reaction was swift, cutting through my words like a knife: abomination. That one word hung between us, heavy with judgment, a condemnation of my very existence.
That word—abomination—would become the seed for my play, The Survival, where a young Ugandan grapples with the crushing weight of being labeled by that word, and struggles to reclaim their identity and humanity.
You see, abomination is a word I’ve carried with me for most of my life. It’s a label that has been placed on me, not just by individuals, but by an entire society. My mother, bless her, would have reacted differently. She wouldn’t have called me an abomination outright. Instead, she would have rallied an army of Pentecostal pastors to pray the “devil of homosexuality” out of me. My mother was a Pentecostal of the most fervent kind. She wouldn’t attend a wedding in a Catholic Church without whispering prayers of rebuke under her breath.
It’s that same strain of Pentecostalism—fueled by foreign missionaries—that poisoned the minds of so many in Uganda. It’s the kind of faith that has been weaponized, leading to the persecution of people like me.
The Anti-Homosexuality Bill of Uganda, officially signed into law in 2023, is more than just a legal instrument—it’s a weapon of fear, wielded against an already vulnerable community. Its passage marked a grim milestone, turning private lives into criminal acts and reinforcing the narrative that queer Ugandans are an existential threat to the nation’s moral fabric.
The roots of this bill trace back to Uganda’s colonial history, when British-imposed laws first criminalized same-sex relations. Those laws, embedded in the penal codes, went largely unchallenged for decades, existing as relics of imperial rule. But in the 2000s, a new wave of anti-LGBTQ sentiment emerged, fueled by the influence of American evangelical missionaries. These preachers of “family values” came to Uganda with an agenda. They held conferences, aired propaganda, and introduced the narrative that homosexuality was an imported Western vice, a form of cultural imperialism meant to undermine African values.
This rhetoric caught fire. It aligned perfectly with existing conservative attitudes and provided political leaders with a convenient scapegoat for societal problems. Politicians used anti-LGBTQ rhetoric as a rallying cry, a way to galvanize support and distract from issues like corruption and poverty. The result was the first draft of the Anti-Homosexuality Bill in 2009, later infamously dubbed the “Kill the Gays” bill because of its proposed death penalty for certain offenses. International outcry forced revisions to the bill, but the spirit of persecution remained intact.
In 2023, the bill was resurrected, passing with overwhelming support in parliament and gaining the signature of the president. The new law criminalized anyone found to be engaging in or promoting homosexuality, with punishments ranging from imprisonment to death. It also encouraged ordinary citizens to report suspected queer individuals, effectively institutionalizing a culture of surveillance and betrayal where friends and neighbors could become enemies.
For queer Ugandans like me, the law has sounded the death knell for our safety, freedom, and dignity. It has stripped an entire community of their humanity, forcing many to live in constant fear. Even seeking medical care or legal support could expose LGBTQ people to danger. Many hide in the shadows, moving from one safe house to another, relying on underground networks to survive. Activists risk their lives to protect them, smuggling them across borders when the danger becomes too great.The law also has had a chilling effect on queer advocacy and art. The voices that once dared to speak out have been silenced, and those who continue to fight do so at great personal risk.
This law is not just a reflection of Uganda’s political climate; it’s a mirror of global patterns. In many places across the world, we are witnessing a rise in anti-LGBTQ legislation, driven by populist leaders who exploit fear for political gain. In Uganda, this fear is magnified by deep-seated religious and cultural beliefs, creating a perfect storm of intolerance.
Severed from our families, our culture, and the land that shaped me, exile offers a measure of safety. But it comes with its own set of heartbreaks as I am gripped by the guilt of being able to leave while so many others remain trapped as fugitives in their own country. This exile is both a privilege and a burden, a refuge and a prison.
But as long as I can write, as long as I can imagine a different world, I will continue to fight. Because we were not born to live in fear. We were, like my T-shirt said, Born to Win.
When I first arrived in the United States, in exile, I began writing my novel, The End of Swahili Lines. For years, I had stayed silent but silence has a way of breaking you from within. Suddenly, I found myself pouring everything I couldn’t say aloud into my art.
I set the story in 1950s Uganda, during the final years of colonial rule. It was a time of transition, a time when we were on the cusp of reclaiming our independence. I wanted to imagine a Uganda where homosexuality wasn’t a crime, where love wasn’t bound by fear. I traced my dream back to a time before British colonialism imposed its rigid moral codes—a time when our communities had their own ways of understanding identity and relationships. In this imagined world, I painted a life where I wouldn’t be cast out, where I could belong. Writing that story felt like building a sanctuary, one brick at a time, for a version of myself that wasn’t considered an abomination.
Sometimes, I think I was destined for this life. After all, I was born in exile in Kenya during the late 1970s, amidst the chaos of Idi Amin’s brutal regime. My parents fled Uganda because my father was hunted, and my name reflects that legacy: Acirocan—”the resilient one.” It’s a name that carries both pride and pain.
Every day, I carry those words from my childhood—Born to Win. They feel heavier now, burdened by the struggles I never could have imagined as a child: of learning to live with the ache of loneliness, the sting of rejection, and the weight of being called, abomination. But they also remind me of my strength, my ability to endure, to create, and to hope.
The shadow of Idi Amin’s regime looms large over Uganda’s history, particularly for Acholi and Langi people like my father, who bore the brunt of his persecution. When Amin seized power in 1971 through a military coup, he wasted no time consolidating his rule with violence and fear. As a soldier himself, Amin mistrusted the Acholi and Langi officers who had dominated the military under the previous government of Milton Obote. These ethnic groups, known for their strong presence in the Ugandan army, were seen by Amin as a threat to his authority—a threat he sought to eliminate entirely.
What followed was a campaign of terror, marked by mass killings, disappearances, and systematic purges of Acholi and Langi officers, intellectuals, and civilians. Thousands were dragged from their homes, taken to torture chambers, or executed in broad daylight. The regime’s violence didn’t stop at the soldiers; it extended to their families, spreading fear across entire communities.
My Acholi father, a man of principle who believed in justice, became one of the persecuted. With death looming over him, he had no choice but to flee, leaving behind everything he had ever known and seeking refuge beyond Uganda’s borders.
For my family, exile became a way of life. My earliest understanding of the world was shaped by their stories of survival—of how my parents navigated foreign lands, carrying the weight of displacement and the constant fear of discovery. I grew up with the stories of that era. I never knew Uganda as a place of safety, belonging, or peace. My earliest memories were of my parents’ fear, of hearing hushed conversations about family members who had disappeared or been killed. My father, though grateful for his safety in exile, carried with him an unspoken grief. He mourned not only the loss of his homeland but the constant ache of knowing that he could not return. Uganda no longer welcomed people like him.
My father’s story is part of a larger narrative of resilience and loss—a story shared by hundreds of thousands, shaping the trajectory of entire generations. It is a story of what it means to carry a fractured identity, to live with the ache of knowing that the land of your birth can no longer be your home.
In the wake of Amin’s ouster in 1979, many hoped for a return to normalcy. But the damage had been done. Even now, decades later, the echoes of Amin’s regime continue to reverberate in Uganda and the country still has not fully healed from the wounds he inflicted. The ethnic divides he deepened, the sense of distrust he sowed, and the culture of fear he created left an indelible mark on the nation’s psyche.
For me, this history shaped the contours of my life and the choices my family had to make. It reminds me that exile is never just a political reality; it is a deeply human one, marked by loss and the unrelenting hope of return.
For me, the ache of exile has become my inheritance, a daily, invisible wound.
In my work as a writer, I explore themes of displacement, survival, and resilience. The persecution of Acholi and Langi people under Amin seems to find a parallel in the ongoing oppression of queer Ugandans today. Just as Amin used ethnicity to scapegoat and silence a people, the anti-homosexuality laws in Uganda weaponize sexual identity to further divide the nation. There is a bitter familiarity in how the state uses fear to control, to erase, and to punish.
Under Trump’s America, I feel echoes of that despotic insecurity—the kind that breeds exclusion and violence, targeting those who do not fit its narrow ideals. Yet, as my father carried his truth across borders, I carry mine through stories, ensuring that even in exile, our survival and our truth will not be forgotten. As much as Amin’s shadow and the laws from the colonial times loom over our history, I hope that it will not continue to define our future. Our resilience endures in the voices of writers, artists, and activists who refuse to be silenced.
As I sit here, pen in hand, I realize those words on the red T-shirt I had as a child—Born to Win—are not just about triumph, but about refusing to let the world dictate the terms of my existence. The women who have shaped me, my mother and my auntie, stand beside me in memory and spirit, their voices lingering: My mother, with her unyielding faith. My auntie, with her fierce loyalty. They are my witnesses and my echoes, pushing me forward even when their understanding falls short. They remind me of who I am and where I come from, even as I wrestle with what I have become.
And perhaps that is the essence of survival for someone in exile—not erasing the wounds of the past but weaving them into the fabric of the future, creating something whole from the fragments.
