Chapter 1 - It didn't break me
A/n: I know(!), this is a departure from my normal style, but "The Visionaries" Inkitt competition has really peaked my interest.
Who is really making an impact in Silicon Valley, and who is poised to make their mark next?
As Beyonce sings: "Who run the world? Girls!"
So this story follows the history of a woman who is forging the way for thousands of women and girls to understand and create with code: Reshma Saujani.
Wish me luck, LM xx
Brave not Perfect: From Kampala to Silicon Valley.
Chapter 1
“It didn’t break me, and I was shocked that it didn’t break me.” Reshma Saujani
Voiceover (V.O.):
15th November 1875, The Daily Telegraph published a letter from British explorer Henry Morton Stanley, describing the kingdom of Buganda as a distant African land open to trade and wishing to learn more about the 'White man’s god.'
King Muteesa of Uganda, through Stanley, invited missionaries; and offered great wealth in return:
“You need not fear to spend money upon such a mission, as Mtesa is sole ruler, and will repay its cost tenfold with ivory, coffee, otter-skins of a very fine quality, or even in cattle, for the wealth of this country in all these products is immense.” (Excerpt from Stanley’s letter)
The “Race for Africa” made Buganda a vital territory for the British, supporting in-land trade routes and with control over the Nile; and both British missionary and commercial interests looked towards Buganda following the publication of the letter.
The ‘Ugandan protectorate’ came under formal British rule less than twenty years later, and they began building the infrastructure needed to maintain control and expand their reach.
In 1896, two generations of Reshma Saujani’s family were brought over from India by the British Government to build the railroads from Kampala to Mombasa.
The Ugandan Railway project was completed by thousands of Indians who came to Uganda as part of the wider British empire.
The railway dramatically reduced trade costs, and enabled quick transport of soldiers, goods, and people.
Many Indians settled in Uganda permanently - including Saujani’s family - changing the trajectory of their descendants lives forever.
***
August 1972: The expulsion of Asians from Uganda
They could both feel it, the change in the air. The tension.
Ever since Amin had taken power - ever since his military had forced President Obote out - their friends, their colleagues, shopkeepers, everyone had shifted slightly in the way they interacted with the Asian community.
There was talk about African rights. Reclaiming their lands. True Ugandans. Black Ugandans.
It had already been 18 months since the coup, and although Obote had made several attempts to return, he remained exiled in Tanzania.
Amin was here to stay, and so was his strict agenda of Africanisation.
Still, neither of them ever thought that it would come to this.
The radio crackled on the table between them, Amin’s voice clear and cold. “Asians have sabotaged the economy of this country and encouraged corruption. They must leave Uganda within 90 days.”
The phrase repeated and repeated in Mukund’s mind; 90 days.
Shaking his head he looked at his new bride “Our family has been here for three generations. Three generations. He can’t mean us. Can he?”
Meena took his hand, squeezing gently “You saw the letter my father received, Amin has taken his business already. They do mean us.”
“But...we were born here. We have legal citizenship.”
“I know.”
“Our parents were born here.”
“I know.”
He shook his head again, straining to hear the broadcast over the static, “He said Asian citizens can stay. We are citizens.”
“My father thought the same. But the letter...”
Mukund thought for a moment, considering the meaning behind the shocking words: "Uganda belongs to Ugandans.”
They were Ugandan.
“I’ll go to the embassy tomorrow. We are Engineers. Amin cannot truly mean all Asians. Who would run everything we left behind?”
***
“Asians who are not Ugandan citizens must leave Uganda within ninety days…”
Mukund raked his hand roughly through his hair again, pacing their apartment with a pounding heart.
The weeks spent frantically trying to get an answer from the embassy had been useless.
The government was still considering the validity of their citizenship, and pressure was mounting to just leave.
But...surely...they were going to be granted an exemption?
Amin had promised 90 days, but there were already whispers of Asian bodies in the hospital. Bullet wounds pointing to execution.
They needed options, and they didn’t have any.
The door opened, and he heard Meena shuffling in the hallway. “Mukund!” She called out sweetly, “Did you hear? Amin has announced that Britain is responsible for 80,000; anyone who came from the empire.”
She bounced in, excitedly pressing a kiss to his cheek. “My father got his acceptance today. We have family settled in Birmingham already; a community to join.”
He froze, not wanting to break her heart again. The rejection letter was on the table though. Passport holders only.
Mukund held her close for a moment, pressing a kiss into her hair before pulling back with a sigh “I applied for us. They say we were born here and....we were rejected. I’m sorry, Jaan. I tried.”
She frowned, “But....many in our family have been accepted...if they won’t take us, then who will?”
He had been asking himself the same thing.
“America?”
“They are taking so few, we’d need connections to have a chance.”
“India?”
Meena frowned, “Our family hasn’t been there for generations. Even if they took us...what would we do there?”
He shook his head slowly, not knowing the answer “We still have six weeks, let’s see if Amin allows us to stay. We are Ugandan born citizens; it is just taking time to process. I’m sure.”
Holding her tight again, he tried to keep his voice steady. “It will be alright. He can’t mean all Asians.”
***
*Three weeks later*
Another rejection, and from Canada this time. Canada! They were his back-up option, the only country who had immediately offered sanctuary to thousands of people.
They were taking 8,000 and somehow two engineers didn’t make the cut?
Mukund sighed, passing the rejection letter to his wife and rubbing a hand over his face in frustration. “Another no.”
She frowned as she scanned the document, a slight shake in her hand that betrayed her true distress “We need to go back to the embassy.”
He nodded, standing and taking her hand “Come on. I need some air to breath.”
They walked slowly through the streets, making their way to their favourite spot overlooking the river.
“Mukund?”
He kissed her hand absentmindedly, pulling her tighter to his side as he hummed an acknowledgement. He loved this view, the Nile running strong through the land. Sunshine glinting off the water.
Kampala was beautiful in the summer.
“I wanted to tell you something.”
He smiled, pressing a kiss into her precious head. “Tell me.”
Meena took a breath, aware that the news would put even more pressure on them both. “I am with child.”
The words hung between them for a moment, and then his face split into a wide, unstoppable, smile. “A baby?”
She nodded, laughing out when he grabbed her and spun her around, rubbing over her small belly and looking at her in awe. “What a gift, my Meena. What a beautiful gift.”
They sat on a bench, watching the river go by as they excitedly discussed having a family.
Mukund fawned over his wife, kissing her softly and telling her what a great mother she would be. How he would help her. How much he loved her. How blessed they were to have been matched.
It was a blissful moment, a reprieve from the stress of expulsion.
Suddenly he stood.
Joy wiped from his face in a second.
The spell broken as he scanned the horizon, unbelieving.
“Banaaange…” he murmured it, eyes fixed on something in the river “Eh weh...”
The shock and disbelief in his voice had her heart clenching.
She went to follow his gaze and couldn’t help but cry out in surprise, standing and rubbing her eyes. As if the action would rub away the horror “Ayi Katonda!... are those bodies?”
She counted six people in that frozen moment, floating lifeless down the river Nile.
He nodded, grim as she was pulled into his side tightly. “Asian bodies. We can’t wait anymore. Amin is not going to change his mind. We have to leave. We have to pack. Now."
Heads down, they rushed back to their home, finally - and irrevocably - feeling part of the pressure cooker moment that had swallowed Uganda whole.
Asians were out, and they were Asians.
It didn’t matter that they had been born there, that their parents had been born there, or that multiple generations of their families had lived and worked in Uganda.
It didn’t even matter that their families had built the railroads or the modern homes which the Ugandan people were settled in.
They were foreigners in their own home.
All hope that they were exceptions had evaporated the moment that those bodies had drifted into view.
They had to leave.
They had to leave.
***
Champaign, Illinois, United States: November 18, 1975.
They had arrived with $12 in their pockets, everything of value that they’d ever owned had been stripped from them when they left Uganda.
Their home. Their possessions. Taken in the name of Africa.
Soldiers had ripped their clothes apart looking for money and hidden jewellery. Everything was taken - their wedding gold, most of their cash, even their modest wedding bands were taken from their fingers.
They had been allowed to keep none of their past life. None of it.
In those final, desperate weeks, the Catholic Church had confirmed sponsorship of their American papers; two of only 1,000 places.
The relief.
The gratitude.
It had been too strong to measure.
It was an unexpected lifeline, and so desperately needed.
The church sheltered and fed them; it gave them support as they started their new life. Kept them safe when their first daughter was born.
As difficult as it had been to accept the charity, they had fully depended upon it. They were grateful, as they now felt all immigrants should be.
Three years on, and the shock of being forced out of their birth country was finally fading.
The English classes, paid for by the church, had helped them both to secure work.
Their qualifications were foreign and 'untrustworthy', so they had to take work where they could. She was selling make-up door-to-door, and he was a machinist in a local manufacturing plant.
They were not engineers here, not yet, but they were living in a country with the potential to raise them up to the middle classes again.
A country of opportunities.
They had jobs and a home. Even though they were still at the bottom rung of this new society; they still had hope for more.
Now, as they held each other in the hospital, with a new baby girl nestled between them, they knew that it was all worth it.
They would sacrifice anything for their girls.
They would do it all again in a heartbeat - even knowing the cost - because it all led them here.
Stroking the mass of black hair his eyes crinkled, “She’s a beautiful one, just like her Amma. She has your eyes.”
Meena nodded, tears of relief and love falling steadily down her face. “She has your strength, too. Your bravery. I feel it in her.”
He looked at his wife; love and pride swelling in his chest. “She’ll learn to be brave. Both of our girls will.”
Meena smiled at his earnest expression, but he was right: “Our Reshma.”
“She’s going to change the world.”
***
A/N - Let me know your thoughts! I loved that she was born almost exactly 100 years after the first letter about Uganda was published, it just sort of amazed me that so much can happen in one century.
I am drafting chapters around Reshma's childhood, her run for congress, founding Girls Who Code, Her Ted Talk, The Obama years; a covid chapter.
It's about living in the world as a woman and mother; and the ripple effect that she is having on the coding movement.
No idea how the next bits are going to come together but I'm Excited - she's a fascinating lady!
Let me know if I'm missing any key points in her life.
LM, xx
