The world in late 2020 was a quiet, anxious place. Streets were emptier, handshakes had vanished, and everyone was figuring out how to connect from behind masks and screens. It was in this global pause, in the town of Masaka, that two paths crossed in the most ordinary way imaginable. Dr Henry Ssekyanzi was in his element. He had just finished his medical internship, that gruelling final test for new doctors, and had channelled all his restless energy into opening his own modest clinic in Kyabakuza.
He was determined to serve his community. To make his clinic even more useful, he had reached out to a nearby government health centre so they could use his space to immunise local children. On the day the nurses came to give the shots, they were accompanied by two supervisors. One of them was Angella Beatrice Nalwanga, a social worker whose job was to inspect health facilities. She walked into Henry’s new clinic, observed the work with a professional eye, and did what anyone does when entering an office; she signed the visitor’s book, noting her name and contact details.
For her, it was routine.
“I saw an organised young man,” she recalls. “I was impressed, but I had no intentions. I did not even get his number.” For Henry, standing there in the middle of his dream coming to life, the moment was far from routine. He watched her quiet, composed demeanor. “She was beautiful,” he says, “but beyond that, she was full of life; smart, respectful, and grounded in faith. Everything about her felt right.” He noticed she had left her number in the book. In a locked-down world where meeting new people was hard, here was a name, a number, and a feeling he could not ignore.
Building a connection
The pandemic meant things moved slowly. Three months passed after that first meeting before Henry gathered the courage to use the number from the visitor’s book. That first call was the start of a new rhythm. “He used to call me every night for long hours,” Angella remembers. “Interesting stories that made me want to listen more.” There were no fancy restaurants or crowded dates, just the growing intimacy of conversation that stretched late into the night. When they finally met in person again, the usual first-date nerves were gone. The foundation had already been laid, word by word, laugh by laugh, over the telephone.
“When he finally visited me at the hotel where I was staying, it felt like I had known him for 10 years,” Angella says. Their dates were simple and heartfelt. One memorable evening at a Masaka hotel lasted for hours because they were so lost in conversation. He learnt she was a swimmer and a runner, deeply committed to fitness. They discovered a shared love for movies. Their dreams for the future, they found, aligned naturally.
The first big test
Just as their relationship was feeling solid and deep, life presented a major challenge. Only six months after they officially became a couple, Henry had to leave Uganda. He had been accepted into a master’s degree programme in Istanbul, Turkey. Suddenly, they were faced with the brutal math of long-distance; expensive plane tickets, confusing time zones that made phone calls tricky, and the simple, aching emptiness of missing someone’s physical presence. It was a test they had not seen coming.
But their love, which had been built so carefully, proved to be resilient. They made a decision; they would not let the distance win. “We travelled whenever we could; Uganda to Turkey, Turkey to Uganda, sometimes at great financial cost,” Henry states. They prioritised seeing each other, turning airports into places of joyful reunion. The depth of his commitment was shown in one decisive act. On one particularly difficult night, when Angella missed him more than words could carry, Henry booked a flight immediately.
By the next day, he was landing at Entebbe. For Angella, that action meant everything. It was love made tangible, a proof that he would move mountains, or at least catch a last-minute flight, to be there for her. These visits transformed Istanbul from a foreign city into a shared treasure. “We are on top of the world whenever we are there,” Angella says with a smile, thinking of their walks and shared discoveries. The distance, as hard as it was, taught them to cherish their time together even more and showed them the strength of their bond.
Proclaiming love to the world
After weathering the storm of distance, Henry knew he wanted to spend his life with Angella. He proposed in two grand ways; the first proposal happened back in Uganda. After his brother’s graduation party, they went with friends and family to Club Ambiance for an after-party. In the middle of the celebration, surrounded by the most important people in their lives, Henry got down on one knee. Angella was completely shocked. He was not done.
The second proposal was even more daring. Angella was at her workplace’s end-of-year party, an elegant all-white affair. Henry dropped her off and said he would pick her up later. In the middle of the party, he walked back in, found her in front of all her colleagues and bosses, and proposed again. This time, she was more than shocked. “I did not know he was that brave,” she laughs, thinking back on his nerve. These public proclamations were his way of showing that the private, enduring love they had built was something he wanted to celebrate with the whole world.
Writing their own rules for a happy marriage
Now married, Henry and Angella have a very clear vision for their life together. They believe in writing their own story. “Our marriage is not borrowed from society’s expectations. It is our own,” Angella states firmly. She describes it as “an open book with plain pages. We are writing our story ourselves.” They are fiercely practical and deeply honest with each other. “We are not the mpankuwe type,” they both say, using a local term for people who are materialistic. They believe in radical honesty, especially about money. “When one is broke, we say it. When one has more, we share,” Henry explains. They see their incomes; from his medical practice and her work,not as “his” and “hers,” but as “ours,” a common fund for their shared dreams and responsibilities.