Then Uncle Rwamiti asked where Mum was going.

Sunday morning.

Mum was standing at the bedroom door.

“Joshua! Get up. You are going to church.”

There was silence from underneath the blanket.

“Joshua!”

A head appeared.

“Mum, are you coming?”

“No. I have things to do.”

“What things?”

“That is none of your business. Get dressed.”

Joshua disappeared under the blanket again.

“Why should I go if you aren’t going?”

Mum’s voice changed.

Every African child knows this change.

It is the moment when a conversation stops being a conversation and becomes government policy.

“Because I am your mother.”

That settled the constitutional question.

Twenty minutes later, Joshua left the house wearing his Sunday clothes and carrying a Bible.

Mum watched him disappear through the gate.

Then she made tea, settled into her favourite chair and opened her phone.

Peace.

At 12:45, Joshua returned.

“How was church?”

“Fine.”

“What did the pastor preach about?”

“Parents.”

Mum looked up.

“Parents?”

“Yes.”

“What about parents?”

Joshua removed his shoes.

“He said parents should set an example.”

Mum stared at him.

“What else?”

“I don’t remember.”

This was not entirely true.

Joshua remembered everything.

Especially the film.

Because Joshua had not gone to church.

He had walked three streets, met his friend Mark, removed his sweater, put the Bible in Mark’s backpack and spent the next two hours at the neighbourhood cinema.

On Monday afternoon, Uncle Rwamiti found him kicking a ball against a wall.

“How was church yesterday?”

Joshua froze.

There are adults who ask questions because they want information.

Uncle Rwamiti asks questions because somehow he already has it.

“Fine.”

“What was the film about?”

Joshua stopped kicking the ball.

“What film?”

“The one Pastor Joshua watched at the cinema.”

Joshua stared at him.

“Who told you?”

“Nobody.”

“Then how do you know?”

“I am old. We know things.”

Joshua sat down.

“Are you going to tell Mum?”

“Should I?”

“No!”

“Why not?”

“She will kill me.”

“That would make Tuesday inconvenient.”

Joshua laughed despite himself.

Rwamiti sat beside him.

“Why didn’t you go to church?”

Joshua shrugged.

“I didn’t want to.”

“That is not very interesting.”

Joshua looked at him.

“What do you mean?”

“Try again.”

He hesitated.

“Mum doesn’t go.”

“Ah.”

“She tells me church is important every Sunday. Then she stays home.”

“Perhaps she has important things to do.”

“She was watching Netflix when I came back.”

Rwamiti scratched his chin.

“That does complicate the theology.”

Joshua laughed.

“Exactly!”

“So you went to the cinema.”

“Yes.”

“To punish your mother?”

“No.”

“To protest?”

“No.”

“Then why?”

Joshua thought about it.

“Because if church isn’t important enough for her to go, why is it important enough for me?”

Rwamiti became quiet.

That was considerably more interesting than the cinema.

That evening, he found Joshua’s mother.

“Your son went to the cinema yesterday.”

She almost dropped her cup.

“WHAT?”

“Neighbourhood cinema.”

“He lied to me!”

“Yes.”

“He carried a Bible!”

“Excellent camouflage.”

“Rwamiti, this isn’t funny.”

“No. The lie isn’t funny.”

“I am going to deal with him.”

“Good.”

She stood up.

“But before you do, may I ask you something?”

She stopped.

“Where were you?”

“What?”

“While Joshua was supposed to be in church.”

“I was home.”

“Why?”

“I was tired.”

“Was church important?”

“Of course!”

“Important for whom?”

She frowned.

“For everybody.”

“Except tired people?”

“Rwamiti.”

“I am only trying to understand the rules.”

She sat down again.

“Are you defending him?”

“No.”

“He lied.”

“Yes.”

“He disobeyed me.”

“Yes.”

“So what are we arguing about?”

“We aren’t arguing.”

Rwamiti smiled.

“We are adding another defendant.”

She stared at him.

“Who?”

“You.”

Silence.

This is one reason some parents eventually regret introducing their children to Uncle Rwamiti.

He has an irritating habit of refusing to leave adults outside the story.

“You told Joshua that church was important,” he said.

“Yes.”

“Then demonstrated that it was optional.”

“That is different. I am an adult.”

“Ah.”

Rwamiti leaned back.

“So adulthood is when values become instructions for other people?”

She glared at him.

“Don’t be clever.”

“I am trying very hard not to be.”

She almost smiled.

Almost.

“What should I do?”

“About Joshua?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know.”

“You never know.”

“Very useful habit.”

She shook her head.

Rwamiti stood.

“But perhaps when you speak to him tonight, don’t begin with the cinema.”

“Why?”

“Because you already know what he did.”

He headed toward the door.

“The more interesting question is whether he knows what you did.”

She said nothing.

At the doorway, Rwamiti turned.

“Parents worry enormously about the examples their children follow.”

He smiled.

“They sometimes forget to ask who provided the example.”

And that is the trouble with Uncle Rwamiti.

You invite him to help straighten out the children.

Then the old man turns his chair around.

And looks at you.

Uncle Rwamiti
Making sense of change through ethical storytelling