Uncle Rwamiti and the Woman They Said Had Failed
--
An Uncle Rwamiti fireside tale
The night wind moved softly through the banana leaves behind Uncle Rwamiti’s home. Sparks rose from the fireplace like restless spirits searching for old arguments.
Maria Mulungi sat on a low wooden stool, wrapped in a shawl despite the warmth. Her face, usually composed and polished from boardrooms and airport lounges, had cracked into something more human.
She stared into the fire.
Uncle Rwamiti stirred the logs with a stick.
“Fire is honest,” he said. “It burns what is false.”
Maria sighed.
“Uncle, I am tired.”
“That is clear. Even your expensive Nairobi perfume smells defeated tonight.”
She almost smiled.
“I am forty-six. Harvard MBA. Regional director. I manage teams across East Africa. I own a house in Buziga bigger than some hotels. It has a swimming pool I rarely use.”
“A waste,” said Rwamiti. “Fish could have enjoyed it.”
She ignored him.
“I am not married. I have no children. And in Kampala, that cancels everything.”
Rwamiti nodded slowly.
“Yes. In some minds, a woman may run a multinational company, but if she has no husband, they say she is unemployed.”
Maria laughed bitterly.
“They whisper loudly, Uncle. They say, ‘What is the use of all that education? Who will inherit the house? Who bewitched her? She chased men away. She is proud. She is barren. She has failed as a woman.’”
Rwamiti poked the fire.
“The village has many hobbies. Gossip is the cheapest.”
She leaned forward.
“Sometimes I wonder if they are right. Perhaps I built the wrong life.”
Rwamiti turned sharply.
“Wrong by whose syllabus?”
Silence.
Then he continued.
“Listen carefully, Maria. Many people marry because they found love. Good. Many marry because they feared being talked about. Dangerous. Many marry because rent was due. Tragic. Many marry because church aunties were breathing on their necks. Comedic.”
Maria laughed despite herself.
“Do not laugh too much,” he said. “Some of those aunties are now living alone with blood pressure.”
He continued.
“They have taught women a strange arithmetic:
No husband = zero.
No children = zero.
No ring = zero.
Yet they ignore other numbers:
Integrity. Wisdom. Income. Freedom. Character. Contribution. Peace.”
Maria’s eyes softened.
“But Uncle… is it wrong to want partnership?”
“Not at all,” said Rwamiti. “Companionship is beautiful. Love is beautiful. Marriage can be beautiful. But beauty forced becomes ugliness.”
He leaned closer.
“The mistake is not marriage. The mistake is making marriage the only altar where a woman may be declared human.”
The fire cracked loudly as if agreeing.
Maria whispered, “Sometimes I feel guilty for enjoying my independence.”
“Of course,” said Rwamiti. “A free woman causes discomfort in certain minds. Some men can tolerate a successful woman, but not one who does not need them.”
He raised a finger.
“Observe carefully: many men do not want to be loved. They want to be required.”
Maria burst into laughter.
“That line alone will start a war.”
“Good,” said Rwamiti. “Wars have begun over stupider things.”
He settled back.
“This thing they call sologamy — marrying oneself first — I understand it. It means before giving your life to another, become loyal to your own dignity. Know yourself. Feed yourself. Calm yourself. Build yourself. Become a home before inviting a guest.”
Maria looked into the flames.
“And if I never marry?”
“Then do not marry.”
She blinked.
“Just like that?”
“Yes. Better no marriage than a panic marriage. Better one peaceful bed than a king-sized battlefield.”
She laughed again, this time freely.
“But remember,” he added, “sologamy is a valid path, not the only one. Some thrive in marriage. Some thrive alone. Some thrive after divorce. Some thrive in community. Life is not one road. It is a trading centre.”
Maria smiled.
“You make everything sound ridiculous.”
“Because many serious things are ridiculous.”
He pointed toward the darkness beyond the compound.
“Some of the loudest critics of unmarried women are sleeping beside husbands who have not spoken kindly to them since the Obama administration.”
Maria nearly fell off the stool laughing.
Rwamiti lowered his voice.
“Do not despise marriage. But do not worship it either. Marriage is a tool, not a crown.”
The fire had grown gentler now.
“So what should I do tomorrow?” she asked.
“Swim in your pool first,” he said. “You paid for it.”
She laughed.
“Then?”
“Return to Nairobi. Lead your teams. Love whom you wish. Refuse whom you wish. If companionship comes with respect, welcome it. If it comes with ownership papers, reject it.”
He smiled with that dangerous calm only elders possess.
“And when they ask why you are not married, tell them:”
He paused dramatically.
“I was busy becoming someone worth marrying.”
The fire spat sparks into the night like applause.
We are on social media. Let’s Connect.
To keep yourself updated on global affairs related to different fields, subscribe and follow our official social handles on Substack | X.
⚖️ The Bias I Didn’t Know I Had
Monthly Writing Prompt — April
medium.com
