By the time Maama Jessica called her brother, she had stopped opening her daughter’s handbag.

She already knew what she would find.

Jessica Namukasa was a second-year student at Makerere, resident in Mary Stuart Hall. A year earlier, mother and daughter had done nearly everything together. They cooked, cleaned, shopped at the market and sat side by side at the salon. Maama Jessica could tell what her daughter was thinking from the way she put down a saucepan.

Now Jessica came home smelling of cigarettes and went straight to her room.

There were other changes. Boots with pointed toes. Jeans her father called “farm trousers.” A wide leather belt. A walk that seemed to announce her arrival before she entered a room.

Her parents were devoted Seventh-day Adventists. They reasoned with her. They prayed with her. They brought in a church elder.

Jessica listened politely. On Monday she returned to Mary Stuart Hall with a packet of cigarettes in her bag.

Uncle Rwamiti arrived the following Saturday.

Maama Jessica spoke first. Jessica’s father added the details she had left out. When they finished, Uncle Rwamiti asked for two plastic chairs, a small table and an ashtray.

“What for?” Jessica’s father asked.

“A smoking corner. Out in the compound.”

For a moment, nobody moved.

Then Maama Jessica said, “I called you to help us.”

“I know.”

“You want to give her a place to smoke?”

“Yes.”

Jessica’s father rose from his chair. “Absolutely not.”

Uncle Rwamiti rose too. “Then I’ll take her somewhere else.”

“You will take her nowhere.”

The brothers-in-law stood facing each other until Maama Jessica stepped between them.

“You have three days,” she told her brother. “After that, take your chairs and leave.”

That evening, Jessica found the two chairs beneath the mango tree. Uncle Rwamiti sat in one, a new packet of cigarettes on the table.

She stopped dead.

“Is this a trap?”

“No. Sit down.”

“Dad will come out.”

“He helped me carry the table.”

Her father was, in fact, standing behind the sitting-room curtain, furious that Uncle Rwamiti had mentioned his contribution.

Jessica sat. She took a cigarette from her handbag.

“Use these,” Uncle Rwamiti said, pushing the new packet towards her. “No need to hide yours.”

She narrowed her eyes, but took one. He took one too.

At the first inhale, Uncle Rwamiti coughed so hard his chair scraped backwards. Jessica seized his arm.

“Uncle! What are you doing?”

“Joining you.”

“You don’t smoke.”

“I noticed.”

She tried not to laugh. He tried not to cough. From inside the house, Maama Jessica watched them through the window, one hand pressed against her mouth.

The next evening, Uncle Rwamiti was waiting again.

Jessica lit a cigarette. He lit one too, held it as far from his face as he could and watched her over the smoke.

“Another?” he asked when she finished.

“No.”

“You’re sure? I bought enough.”

“I can see that.”

On the third evening, Jessica came out with two mugs of tea. Uncle Rwamiti offered her the packet.

She took a mug instead.

“You’ve forgotten your cigarette,” he said.

“No, I haven’t.”

He slid the packet closer. “Go ahead. Nobody is going to search your bag.”

“That was never the only reason.”

“What else?”

Jessica looked towards the house. Her mother had left the curtain open.

“Do we have to talk about it now?”

“No,” Uncle Rwamiti said.

He put the packet down. They drank their tea beneath the mango tree.

When Jessica went back to Mary Stuart Hall, the smoking corner remained. Her parents said nothing about it. Uncle Rwamiti said nothing about it either, although he privately thanked heaven each time he passed the unused ashtray.

Two weeks later, he arrived at the entrance to Mary Stuart Hall wearing pointed boots, enormous jeans, a checked shirt, a leather waistcoat and a cowboy hat almost as wide as the gate.

The custodian stepped into his path.

“Where are you going, sir?”

“To see Jessica Namukasa.”

“Students must come down to receive visitors.”

“Then kindly call her.”

The custodian looked him up and down. “Wait outside the gate.”

“I am her uncle.”

“That is what you say.”

“I have her mother’s eyes.”

“You have a very large hat,” the custodian replied.

A student passing through the gate slowed to listen. Another stopped beside her. Uncle Rwamiti took out his phone, called Jessica and spoke loudly enough for both to hear.

“Cowgirl! Come and identify your uncle. They think I’m a stranger.”

Upstairs, Jessica froze.

“Where are you?”

“At the gate. I wore my new outfit so we could go shopping together.”

Jessica ran down two flights of stairs. By the time she reached the entrance, half a dozen students had gathered. The custodian still stood between Uncle Rwamiti and the gate.

“There she is!” Uncle Rwamiti called, lifting his hat. “Jessica! Tell this gentleman who I am.”

The students turned towards her.

Jessica stopped. Her uncle’s boots gleamed. His belt buckle was almost as large as hers. He had drawn a moustache above his lip.

“Jessica?” the custodian asked. “Do you know this man?”

For one terrible second, she considered saying no.

Uncle Rwamiti saw it on her face. He raised both arms.

“After all I’ve done for you?”

Laughter broke out behind her.

“Yes,” Jessica said through clenched teeth. “He’s my uncle.”

The custodian stepped aside, now smiling. “Your uncle has been waiting for you.”

“I know.”

Uncle Rwamiti came through the gate and offered his arm.

“Shall we go, partner?”

Jessica marched past him towards the car.

Inside, she called her mother.

“Your brother has come to my hall dressed like a cowboy. The custodian refused to let him in. I had to identify him in front of everyone.”

Maama Jessica was silent for a moment.

“Are you both in the car?”

“Yes.”

“Put me on speaker.”

Jessica did.

“Rwamiti,” her mother said, “take off that hat.”

He removed it at once.

“And Jessica?”

“Yes, Mum?”

“I’m sorry he embarrassed you.”

“Thank you.”

“But I’m glad you came downstairs.”

Jessica looked across at her uncle. Without the hat, he looked tired and ridiculous. He also looked very pleased with himself.

The next weekend, Jessica came home wearing ordinary jeans and trainers. She carried the boots in a bag and left them in her room.

Her father noticed. Maama Jessica noticed. Neither said a word.

Uncle Rwamiti looked up from his chair.

“Where’s your hat, partner?”

Jessica leaned close enough that only he could hear.

“Come to Mary Stuart dressed like that again,” she said, “and next time I’ll tell the custodian I’ve never seen you before.”

Uncle Rwamiti smiled.

She sounded like herself.

Uncle Rwamiti
The uncle your parents should probably never have introduced you to.