A fireside mango-tree conversation on marriage, sologamy, and the many roads to a good life

The afternoon sun had softened into gold when Maria Mulungi’s black SUV rolled into Uncle Rwamiti’s compound.

The old man was seated under his mango tree on a wooden chair polished by years of wisdom and weather. A walking stick leaned beside him. A kettle of tea steamed on a charcoal stove nearby. Chickens moved about with the confidence of long-term residents.

Maria stepped out first—elegant, composed, and carrying the kind of tiredness that expensive handbags cannot hide.

Behind her came Viola Henderson.

Tall, stylish, warm smile, sharp American accent, sunglasses the size of satellite dishes.

Uncle Rwamiti looked up.

“Eh! Maria has brought a diplomat.”

Maria laughed.

“Uncle, this is Viola. We were together at Harvard.”

Viola extended her hand.

“A pleasure to meet you, sir.”

Rwamiti shook it slowly.

“The pleasure depends on what stories you have brought.”

They sat.

Tea was poured.

The mango tree listened.

The introductions

Maria spoke first.

“Uncle, Viola is a senior bank manager in New Orleans.”

Rwamiti nodded.

“Good. Money should occasionally meet wisdom.”

Maria continued.

“She is also… on the edge of another divorce.”

Rwamiti nearly spilled his tea.

“Another? How many husbands has America issued you?”

Viola laughed loudly.

“This would be number three.”

“And children?”

“Three. One from each marriage.”

Rwamiti looked at the sky.

“Efficient record-keeping.”

Even Maria burst into laughter.

The comparison begins

Viola turned to Maria.

“And Maria here has never married. No children. Still single at forty-six. Senior executive in Nairobi. Mansion in Kampala with a swimming pool no one uses.”

Rwamiti looked offended.

“A swimming pool unused is more tragic than divorce.”

Maria sighed.

“That is exactly why we came, Uncle.”

“Because of the pool?”

“Because of life.”

Maria’s burden

Maria leaned forward.

“Uncle, in Africa I am treated like a successful failure. They say: Harvard MBA, money, career—but no husband, no child. Therefore incomplete.”

Rwamiti nodded.

“Yes. Many societies keep an old calculator.”

He tapped his knee and recited:

Woman + no husband = suspicious.
Woman + no children = tragedy.
Woman + peace of mind = unacceptable.

Viola laughed so hard tea came through her nose.

Viola’s burden

Then Viola became serious.

“In America, Uncle, it is different but not so different. There they say: marry for love, leave if unhappy, start again. Yet many people are lonely, restless, serially attached. We have freedom, but not always wisdom.”

Rwamiti clapped once.

“There! We have found the disease.”

Maria asked, “Which disease?”

“Confusing options with insight.”

On marriage

Rwamiti sat upright.

“Marriage can be a beautiful path. Two people build, suffer, laugh, age, and become witnesses to each other’s lives. That is no small thing.”

He paused.

“But marriage entered blindly becomes a long committee meeting with no adjournment.”

Viola nearly fell off her chair.

“That is my second marriage exactly.”

On repeated marriage

He turned to Viola.

“My daughter, some people are not marrying three times. They are repeating one confusion in three costumes.”

Viola covered her face laughing.

“That may be the most accurate thing anyone has ever said to me.”

On sologamy

Maria asked quietly:

“And what of sologamy, Uncle? Marrying oneself first?”

Rwamiti smiled.

“A useful idea, if understood properly.”

He pointed his stick at both women.

“Sologamy is not narcissism. It means before demanding vows from another, make vows to yourself.”

Such as:
• I will respect myself.
• I will earn honestly.
• I will regulate my emotions.
• I will not marry from panic.
• I will not stay where dignity dies.
• I will become a whole person.

He leaned back.

“Many weddings would be cancelled if people first had to marry themselves.”

On solo living

Maria asked:

“And if one remains alone?”

Rwamiti shrugged.

“Then remain alone well.”

He counted on his fingers.
• Build friendships.
• Build health.
• Build meaning.
• Build income.
• Build rhythm.
• Build joy.

“Loneliness is not caused by living alone. Many married people are lonely in stereo.”

Viola slapped the table.

“Sir! That line must go on a T-shirt.”

On society’s noise

Maria sighed.

“But the gossip…”

Rwamiti waved it away.

“The village always talks. If you marry, they ask when children are coming. If children come, they ask why only two. If you prosper, they ask where money came from. If you suffer, they ask what you did wrong.”

He sipped tea.

“Never build your house on the land of public opinion.”

The final wisdom

The sun dipped lower.

Birds changed shift.

Rwamiti spoke slowly now.

“Listen carefully. There is no single road blessed for all people.”

He pointed at Viola.

“One may marry three times and still learn late.”

He pointed at Maria.

“One may never marry and still live richly.”

He tapped his chest.

“One may marry once and spend forty years learning patience.”

All three laughed.

Then he finished:

“The question is not: Are you married?”

“The question is: Are you awake?”

Departure

As the women rose to leave, Rwamiti called out:

“Maria!”

“Yes, Uncle?”

“Use that swimming pool.”

Then he turned to Viola.

“And you—before husband number four, date yourself for one year.”

The mango tree shook with laughter, or perhaps it was the wind.

Final Reflection

Marriage can be meaningful.
Solo living can be meaningful.
Sologamy can be meaningful.
Divorce can become wisdom.
Freedom without reflection can become chaos.
Tradition without thought can become prison.

There are many roads.

Walk one consciously.

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