A moment that changed me: 50 years after my grandparents were expelled from Uganda, I visited their old home

I grew up thousands of miles away, hearing stories of the family bungalow in Kampala and of Idi Amin, the dictator who had driven us out of it. What kind of welcome would I find there?

As my dusty Toyota Hilux bumped down the sloping street past concrete walls flanked by palm trees, my stomach flipped with anticipation. Everything was familiar, although I’d never been to this street in Kampala, Uganda’s capital, before. Google Street View had offered me a window into another life, continents away. I slowed as I passed a house, but wasn’t ready to stop yet.

My preoccupation with this particular street had begun in my childhood, when my parents told me tales from their years before me, in countries far from mine. My mother’s stories of road trips to the Nile and colourful pet chameleons captivated me. This side of my family is Indian, but she was born in Uganda. As a five-year-old, I used to mix the countries up. It would be much longer before I understood the global forces behind the family migration.