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The sweat trickles down my back onto the Jeep’s leather seats. “I can’t take this anymore. It’s been ten minutes”. My sister, using her hand as a fan mumbles in agreement from the front seat. I roll down the back window and I’m hit instantly in the face by the Ugandan summer heat. It has been a few days since we landed in Entebbe and every day has been more humid than the last. “TUGENDE!” I shout out to my mother. She’s standing at the hotel’s entrance talking to two male porters. “I’m coming” she shouts back, I watch as they walk her to car. Tu-gen-de. ‘Let’s go’. The words stumble out my mouth like a toddler learning her first words but it’s one word (on a very short list) in Luganda I feel comfortable saying. Growing up in England I’ve always felt like an outsider to Ugandan culture. I envy my mother as she gossips with the hotel staff, how effortlessly the words flow together. Once we’re ready to set off, we say our goodbyes. My mum turns to my sister and I, “these are your cousins” she says. “Next time, if you come to Uganda without me, make sure you see them”. Like many other African cultures, we refer to almost everyone as family as a sign of respect. I apologise for the weight of our suitcases they’d had to load into the boot, pinning the blame on my mums need to overpack. “We’ll charge you for the doctors bill” one says jokingly. “Maybe you’re moving back home” says the other. We head off on our four-hour drive, traffic begins to gather as we approach the city. As a Londoner, I’m used to fast paced cities, but London is a village town centre compared to Kampala. Cars fill the streets in every direction. Pedestrians cross roads cautiously, street vendors shout prices competing against the music blaring from coffee shops. Taxi’s pull over unexpectedly to pick up and drop off passengers. There are two main modes of transport in Uganda. The first are white minibuses often decorated by the owners with flashy colours and scripture which runs along the back window. The other is a motorcycle taxi or ‘boda boda’ which weave in and out of tiny spaces. We come to a stop while the traffic guard ahead tries to maintain the chaos. Street vendors begin to approach cars selling various items. My mum doesn’t pay much attention until a small girl knocks on the driver’s side window selling water and sticks of gum. My mum takes her time looking through the different flavours. The girl is patient and polite, ending every sentence with ‘mama’. “The chewing gum is just one shilling mama”. My mum buys my sister and I two bottles of cold water and asks the girl if she has any bottles which are room temperature. “I have more water mama” the girl responds and begins to run between the temporarily parked cars towards a group of older boys sitting on the pavement. They hold pieces of cardboard above their heads as protection from the sun. I watch as they listen to what she says, one opens a box by his feet and hands her a bottle of water. I’m on edge while I watch her run back, in fear of the boda bodas still flying past. She reaches back safely. My mother pays her, giving her a tip and a warning in a stern tone I’ve grown used to. “Do not let those boys take this tip. Hide it if you have to”, “Yes mama, thank you mama” she replies before skipping to the cars behind us. I doze in and out of sleep during the rest of the journey, catching glimpses of thick trees and scattered swamps. We have long left the city. I’m woken up by my sister once we arrive at my grandmother’s house. Her house sits amongst thick banana plants, you wouldn’t know it was there if you weren’t looking hard enough. My mum switches off the engine letting out a sigh of relief and thanks God for allowing us to reach safely. Turning to my sister and I, “Tugende” she says.