Brighton: Celebrating Our Freedom, Our Pride
By James Kabengwa.
Brighton, August 2, 2025. The air in Brighton hummed with a vibrant energy that day, Saturday, August 2. The city, a beacon of inclusivity, was once again hosting its annual Pride celebration.
From the seafront to the winding Lanes, rainbow flags fluttered and music pulsed. For many, this was a day of unbridled joy and a chance to celebrate who they were.
To Ugandans, it was a call to their home government to instead of focussing on the fight against LGBTQ, guns should be turned to improving service delivery and the fight against corruption.
Brighton Pride was something more profound. It was a jubilant declaration of freedom. Back home, our lives were in danger. Our very existence was criminalized. We lived in fear, in the shadows, constantly looking over our shoulders.
I remembered my first Pride here. The sheer scale of it, the unapologetic joy, was overwhelming. I saw people holding hands openly, kissing without fear of violence, and dressing in a way that screamed defiance and self-love. It was a stark contrast to the whispered conversations and coded messages of the past.
Brighton Pride had a long history, dating back to the early 1970s. It was born from a protest, a defiant stand against a society that sought to silence and oppress.
Over the decades, it has grown into a massive festival, but its roots as a protest remain- dancing in protest, marching in celebration.
Saturday’s protest was personal. It was a protest against laws that could lead to life imprisonment or even death. It was a protest against societal stigma and violence. It was a protest for the people we had left behind, who could not experience this simple, glorious freedom. We were their voices, and our joy was our armour.
That morning, as the LGBTQ+ Community Parade began, I saw a group of men and women from across the globe. They were singing and dancing, their traditional fabrics a riot of colour against the parade’s bright backdrop. Their faces were a mix of tears and laughter, a testament to the complex emotions of the day.
One of them, a young man from Uganda, told me he had never felt so safe. “Here, I am not a criminal,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “I am just a person. I am free.”
This feeling of being “just a person” was a luxury many in our home countries could not afford. The UK, with its protections and acceptance, was a sanctuary.
Pride was a moment to fully inhabit that sanctuary, to be seen and celebrated for who we were. It was a taste of the life we hoped one day everyone, everywhere, could have.
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As the music continued and the street parties raged on, we were not just celebrating. Participants were bearing witness. We were remembering. We were standing tall and proud, showing the world that love and identity could not be legislated out of existence.
Our freedom in Brighton was a loud, joyful promise for a better future, a future where no one had to hide.
