From Kampala to Cardiff – Vimla's story 

My name is Vimla Patel. I was born in Kampala, Uganda, and when I look back on my early life, I remember a time of real comfort and ease. The weather was warm all year round, people were friendly, and life felt healthy and calm. I was born into a wealthy family. We had servants at home and drivers who took us to school. At the time, I did not question it. Now, I understand how fortunate I was. 

I studied in Kampala and spent much of my childhood in boarding school, which gave me discipline and independence. Outside school, I lived between my parents and my grandparents, who adored me. During the holidays, my grandmother cooked all my favourite foods. I was surrounded by love, stability, and a close extended family. 

Everything changed when I was eighteen. After finishing my O-levels, I married my husband, Hari, who was twenty-one. Looking at my granddaughter now, who is the same age I was then, I cannot believe how young I was. At the time, though, I felt ready for adult life. 

I came to the UK when I was twenty, but not by choice. In 1972, Uganda’s ruler, Idi Amin, ordered all Asians to leave the country within ninety days. At first, we thought it must be a joke. But it was real. Some people said he had a dream in which God told him to expel us. Whatever the reason, we had no choice. 

Those final days in Uganda were terrifying. There was a strict curfew. No one was allowed outside after seven in the evening, and anyone caught was shot. My husband travelled daily to Kampala to organise passports and visas. Every evening, if he was not home by six, I feared he might never return. 

On the sixteenth of October, we left Uganda with one suitcase and fifty pounds per family. At every checkpoint, soldiers searched our bags and took whatever they wanted. We left behind our parents, siblings, homes, and livelihoods. Families were scattered across the world, to Germany, Holland, America, and Canada. Weeks or months later, letters arrived telling us where loved ones had found safety. 

When we arrived in the UK, the Red Cross welcomed us with hot tea, warm clothes, and kindness. We were taken to a resettlement camp in Yeovil, Somerset. The journey had made me so sick that I was ill as soon as I stepped off the coach. The next day, after medical checks, I was told I was pregnant. We had no home, no belongings, and no idea what lay ahead. It was frightening, but also a blessing. 

We stayed in the camp for only three weeks. In our Hindu culture, relying on benefits feels shameful. We believe in working hard and standing on our own feet. My husband immediately looked for work but found nothing in Somerset. As we had family in Cardiff, we asked to be moved to Wales. 

Coming to Wales was a turning point. Within three days, my husband found work in a restaurant chopping onions, something he had never done before. He later worked at British Steel and then found a job at a petrol station, similar to work he had done back home. 

I could not work at first because I was pregnant. After my daughter was born, I started working at Littlewoods on Saturdays. I then studied typing and shorthand at Clarke’s College and secured a job with the Department of Trade and Industry. People were kind, supportive, and welcoming, and I was grateful for every opportunity. 

My husband always wanted to be his own boss. In 1981, he bought a petrol station. It became a successful family business and supported us for many years. 

The weather in Wales was a shock. It was cold, frosty, and windy, and we did not want to go outside. Another challenge was seeing our parents struggle with language and isolation. To support them, we began holding cultural and religious gatherings in people’s homes. Eventually, a man named Mr Muniram offered us a hall to use. That became the start of a Hindu community centre. 

In 1984, we bought our first building. Later, we purchased a larger centre in Splott for 1.2 million pounds. We paid off the entire loan within seven years, which was a moment of great pride. I became General Secretary of the centre and dedicated decades of my life to supporting the community. In 2010, I was honoured by the Welsh Government and received an award from the Queen. I was also invited to the Golden Jubilee celebrations. 

I have lived in Wales for fifty-three years. I still speak Gujarati most of the time. I sometimes worry about my English, especially as I suffer from sleep apnoea, which affects my memory. But I have always tried to help anyone who comes to me, and I never say I do not know without trying to find an answer. 

Some of my happiest memories are the birth of my children, watching them grow into educated adults, buying our community centre, and seeing my grandchildren thrive. I have five grandchildren, aged between fourteen and twenty-two. 

I miss Uganda deeply. I miss the warmth, the people, cassava and matoke, and the food of my childhood. I have returned four times, and each visit brings me joy. When I meet someone from Uganda in Cardiff, I feel an instant connection. 

My hopes for the future are simple. I want peace, no wars, and no hatred. I want to support the younger generation, who often face stress and pressure. They need resilience, values, and guidance. 

From my father, I learned the importance of hard work. After losing everything in Uganda, he rebuilt his life and worked until he was eighty. He taught us to work honestly, to obey the law, and to respect the country that gives you a home. 

That is what I want people to understand from my story. Never lose hope. Work hard. Give back. And whatever life takes from you, find the strength to rebuild.