Or: Why Some People Should Marry Themselves Before Marrying Anybody Else

The trouble began at a funeral.

As most important African conversations do.

The deceased was a respected businessman.

Three houses.

Four vehicles.

Six children.

Two grandchildren studying abroad.

A church pew with his name engraved on it.

By every visible measure, he had succeeded.

Yet during the speeches something strange happened.

Nobody spoke about the man himself.

They spoke about his assets.

His businesses.

His land.

His titles.

His positions.

His donations.

Even the pastor seemed to struggle.

After twenty minutes he finally said:

“Brother Moses loved people.”

Then quickly moved on to discuss the church building project.

Under a mango tree after the burial, Uncle Rwamiti sat quietly drinking tea.

Beside him sat Maria Mulungi.

Forty-three.

Harvard MBA.

Never married.

No children.

A successful executive.

And, according to her relatives, the greatest tragedy since the fall of Idi Amin.

Maria sighed.

“Uncle, did you hear them?”

“Hear what?”

“All those whispers.”

“What whispers?”

“The ones saying I am next.”

Uncle Rwamiti nearly spat out his tea.

“Next for what?”

“Marriage.”

The old man laughed so hard he frightened a nearby chicken.

“My daughter, Africans can turn marriage into a public utility project.”

Maria smiled.

“You joke. But everyone thinks something is wrong with me.”

Uncle Rwamiti leaned forward.

“My daughter, have you noticed something?”

“What?”

“People become very concerned about your relationship status long before they become concerned about your relationship quality.”

Maria blinked.

The old man continued.

“Nobody asks whether the married man likes himself.

Nobody asks whether the married woman enjoys her own company.

Nobody asks whether either one can sit alone in a room without reaching for distraction.

But everyone wants to know whether there is a ring.”

Maria laughed.

“That is true.”

“Of course it is true.”

The old man pointed at the funeral tent.

“Half the people inside are married.”

“So?”

“So if marriage automatically produced happiness, peace, emotional maturity and wisdom, that tent would look like heaven.”

Maria burst out laughing.

The old man was warming up.

“Instead, many people are asking another human being to perform a miracle.”

“What miracle?”

“To provide self-respect they never developed.

To provide purpose they never found.

To provide identity they never built.

To provide happiness they never cultivated.

It is like buying a cow because you cannot cook.”

Maria nearly dropped her tea.

The old man continued mercilessly.

“My daughter, some people are not looking for a spouse.

They are looking for a rescue operation.”

The nearby elders began pretending not to listen.

Which in Africa means listening intensely.

Uncle Rwamiti lowered his voice.

“Have you ever noticed that people spend years preparing for marriage but very little time preparing for themselves?”

Maria nodded.

“People learn wedding songs.

Wedding dances.

Wedding colours.

Wedding budgets.

Wedding hashtags.”

The old man paused.

“But they never learn how to be alone.”

The laughter around them faded.

Something deeper was emerging.

“Uncle, are you saying people should not marry?”

“Of course not.”

“I am saying something much more dangerous.”

“What?”

“I am saying that before marrying another person, you should first become someone worth living with.”

The old man looked toward the setting sun.

“For many people, the first unhappy marriage is not with their husband or wife.”

Maria looked puzzled.

“The first unhappy marriage is with themselves.”

Silence.

Even the chicken seemed reflective.

“You can always recognise it,” Uncle Rwamiti continued.

“They cannot sit quietly.

Cannot enjoy solitude.

Cannot make peace with their past.

Cannot forgive themselves.

Cannot enjoy their own company.

Yet they expect another human being to solve all of it.”

Maria smiled.

“So what do you propose?”

The old man grinned.

“A wedding.”

“A wedding?”

“Yes.”

“But not the usual one.”

“Who is getting married?”

“You.”

Maria nearly choked.

“To whom?”

The old man pointed directly at her.

“To yourself.”

The elders finally stopped pretending and openly listened.

Uncle Rwamiti stood.

“No guests.

No cake.

No committee.

No negotiations.

No matching outfits.”

The crowd laughed.

“Just a simple promise.”

“What promise?”

The old man smiled.

“To stop abandoning yourself.

To stop waiting for society to approve your existence.

To stop treating your own life as a waiting room.

To become your own companion.

Your own witness.

Your own home.”

The sun was setting now.

The funeral crowd was dispersing.

And for the first time all afternoon, nobody was discussing marriage.

They were discussing something much rarer.

A relationship with the one person they would spend every day with for the rest of their lives.

Themselves.

As Uncle Rwamiti walked away he left Maria with one final proverb:

“Many people die married to another person.

Very few die married to themselves.

And that, my daughter, is why so many weddings succeed while so many lives fail.”