Let me just say it: I am never going back to Uganda—unless I hear a loud, unmistakable voice from heaven saying, “My daughter, there’s $1 million there with your name on it.” That’s how serious I am.
I traveled to Uganda by road from Kigali, Rwanda. I took an overnight bus—about nine hours long—but surprisingly smooth. The border crossing was uneventful, and everything seemed promising. But my first mistake? Not doing my research.
Everyone kept saying, “Uganda is not Rwanda. Be careful—there are petty thieves.” I heard them but didn’t fully absorb it. If I had, I would’ve known that Uber operates just fine in Kampala, and I wouldn’t have jumped into a random taxi.
I had booked an Airbnb in one of the city’s most upscale neighborhoods, just a few minutes’ walk from Acacia Mall, the largest in Kampala. On the way there, my taxi driver tried to pull a fast one. Mid-trip, he asked me for more money for fuel. Excuse me? That’s like your waiter charging extra because he had to walk to the kitchen. Ridiculous, right?
Feeling uneasy, I quickly put my phone on roaming so I could track where we were headed. Call it paranoia if you want—but that instinct has saved me from more drama than I care to admit.
I had planned to surprise an acquaintance I met in Israel who happens to be a lawyer in Kampala. She was out of town, unfortunately, but kindly connected me with a friend who offered to show me around.
I got some rest, went for lunch, then met the friend. We toured a bit, had ice cream, and I picked up some essentials from Acacia Mall. I even spotted a movie theatre and thought, “Perfect! I’ll drop these things off and come back for a film.”
But that plan? Never happened.
Because I got robbed—just five minutes from my Airbnb.
Here’s what went down:
I was walking back when I noticed a white 4×4 vehicle parked to my left. A man stood about five feet behind it, on a call. On my right, another man appeared to be ringing a doorbell. In front of me were three people walking toward me. It looked like a safe, normal street. I scanned everything. I felt okay.
I was wrong.
The man near the gate suddenly walked up to me and spoke in a language I didn’t understand. I said, “Sorry, I only speak English.”
Before I could blink, he snatched my phone, told me not to scream, and said if I did, he’d shoot me.
Shaking, I dumped the contents of my backpack on the ground as ordered. He took my purse, hopped on a motorbike that—somehow—I hadn’t seen, and sped off. It was like a scene out of a movie.
If I hadn’t jumped off the road just in time, the white vehicle might’ve run me over. Were they all in on it? I still don’t know.
Looking back, I believe God was talking to me that evening. For some reason, I had removed my Visa card and hidden it on my body. That’s the only reason I wasn’t completely stranded.
Disoriented, I couldn’t even find my way back. The man who had been on a call earlier helped me retrace my steps. Ten minutes later, I was home, still shaking. I posted about the robbery on Facebook to alert my loved ones in case the thieves tried to contact anyone pretending to be me.
I stayed three more days in Kampala before returning to Rwanda to fly out. Yes, I still visited Lake Victoria and a few tourist sites—thanks to my Visa card—but I took zero photos. I wasn’t in the mood. I didn’t even want to be seen holding my phone.
What This Trip Taught Me:
- Never flash your phone in public.
- Don’t carry all your valuables on you.
- Keep your passport in a secure place—always.
- And always do your research before traveling.
Did I enjoy Uganda? Honestly, no. Not because the country isn’t beautiful—but because that experience completely changed the tone of my trip. Sometimes it only takes one moment to rewrite the story.
Would I ever go back?
Only if heaven itself sends me. With a check waiting.