In 1959, The Queen Mother, Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon, toured East Africa as part of Britain's final attempts to reinforce ties in the twilight of its empire. This was no ordinary visit: Uganda, Kenya, and Tanganyika (now Tanzania) were moving rapidly toward independence, and colonial powers were putting on their best public face.
A photo sits in my archive like a haunting artifact—a captured moment of empire. A girl in a crisp white dress, polished shoes, and a floral headpiece steps forward to present a bouquet to a smiling Queen Mother. That young girl? My mother.
My mother, raised in colonial Uganda, was chosen for this role not by chance, but because of her lineage. She is the oldest granddaughter of Serwano Wofunira Kulubya, the first Black mayor of Kampala. Kulubya was a central figure who negotiated Uganda's road to modernity while navigating a colonial system that was never built for him. This moment, then, was no accident. The monarchy carefully curated it to project its illusion of inclusivity while glossing over the tremors of rebellion running through its "protectorate."
By 1959, Uganda's push for independence was unmistakable. Nationalist movements were gaining momentum, calling for the dismantling of colonial rule. Against this backdrop, the Queen Mother's tour was as much a political strategy as it was ceremonial. Her itinerary through Kenya, Tanganyika, and Uganda served to showcase the monarchy's symbolic presence and the supposed goodwill between Britain and its territories. This "goodwill," however, was often a mask, obscuring growing tensions and Britain's reluctant grip on its crumbling empire.
In Uganda, Kampala—the heart of the protectorate—would have been the stage for one of these "engagements." The ceremonies might have included grand arrival events, visits to colonial landmarks, or displays of the kind of unity and tradition the Crown loved to co-opt. A critical part of these events was what we see in the photo: the offering. A young Ugandan girl presenting flowers to Her Majesty. This wasn't just a quaint gesture; it was visual theatre. A child embodying grace and humility, bridging empire and colony. A symbol. But symbols can suffocate, even as they shine.
Photographs like this one, often circulated in British and colonial publications, reinforced the Crown's narrative. The smiling Queen Mother and the young Ugandan girl created a visual representation of cultural exchange, masking the fundamental power imbalances at play. These images were propaganda in lace gloves, disguising the fact that colonialism was inherently exploitative and oppressive and designed to maintain subjugation under the guise of harmony.
Fast forward decades to 2022. The UK collectively mourned the passing of Elizabeth II, the Queen's death shifting the rhythms of life across this island I now call home. It was strange terrain to walk. For me, born in America and raised by Ugandan parents who crossed oceans, Britain has never felt like something I owed loyalty to, let alone grief.
And yet, when my mother left me a WhatsApp voicemail that day, it was to send condolences for the Queen. "May her soul rest in peace," she said, a quiet, sincere note of sadness I couldn't relate to. I paused. I couldn't wrap my head around it. This was my mother—the same woman who carried colonial Uganda on her back into every room she entered. What did the Queen mean to her? What did the empire represent to her versus what it has always meant to me, the child of a world that burns through its kingdoms and crosses borders?
Watching Black and Brown folks line up for hours to mourn, I couldn't understand it. My body recoiled at the thought of revering a crown tied to the histories of extraction, slavery, and imperial rule. How can one mourn the symbol of so much harm?
But my mother's grief? I've learned to sit with it. It comes not from ignorance but from her story. She was shaped in a world where survival sometimes meant bending, where her place within a hierarchy wasn't to be resisted outright but to be walked and talked with deftness. She wasn't mourning an empire; she was mourning familiarity—what she had lived and grown through, both the trauma and the traditions she came to embody.
This photo, preserved in my family archive, embodies both these truths. It is an artifact of empire's long shadow and a testament to the lives and stories forged in its wake. My mother, a child in the frame but a symbol of resistance in her own right, stands as a reminder of the complex legacies colonialism leaves behind.
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