By Sunday afternoon, the cold had settled over St Joseph’s Secondary School in Nyamitanga. Herbert came across the compound with his hands deep in his pockets and the expression of a boy expecting questions.

Uncle Rwamiti was waiting with a flask.

“Hot chocolate,” he said.

Herbert took it. “You came all the way to Mbarara for this?”

“No. I came to inspect my investment. The chocolate is for the investment.”

Herbert laughed, but only once. He poured a cup and wrapped both hands around it.

“How are your marks?” Uncle Rwamiti asked.

Herbert looked into the cup. “Maths has improved. Chemistry is still—”

“I see.” His uncle nodded gravely. “How is the chocolate?”

“Good.”

“How is Herbert?”

The boy looked up.

His father asked about school fees. His mother asked whether he was reading hard enough. Teachers asked when he would fulfil his potential. Friends asked for his notes. They all cared about him. Herbert knew that. But he could not remember the last time anyone had asked that question and waited for an answer.

“I’m fine.”

Uncle Rwamiti took out his phone and made a show of recording something.

“What are you doing?”

“Writing your report. Herbert: fine. Very short report. Your parents will be delighted. I can catch the next bus.”

Herbert smiled in spite of himself. Then he said, “I’m tired.”

Rwamiti put the phone away.

At school, Herbert was the dependable one. If a classmate missed a lesson, Herbert had the notes. If a teacher needed volunteers, Herbert’s hand was expected to go up. His family had sacrificed to keep him there, and he did not want anyone to think he had forgotten it.

“So I study after lights out,” he said. “Then I wake up early to study what I didn’t understand at night. When Mum calls, I tell her I’m working hard. She sounds happy.”

“Do you tell her you’re exhausted?”

“She’ll think I’m making excuses.”

“And your father?”

“He’ll tell me how tired he is paying the fees.”

Uncle Rwamiti watched a group of boys cross the compound, pushing one another and laughing. Herbert watched them too.

“I don’t want them to stop expecting things from me,” he said. “I just wish they would sometimes ask what it feels like to be me.”

Rwamiti held out his hand for the flask. He poured himself a little chocolate, tasted it, and frowned.

“Too sweet. Your mother packed this, didn’t she?”

Herbert nodded.

“She asked me three times whether I had the flask. Your mother worries about you, my boy.”

“I know.”

“Perhaps she hears ‘I’m fine’ and believes you. You have become very convincing.”

Herbert stared at him. “So this is my fault?”

“No. I’m saying we adults are poor detectives. We ask about results because they are easy to count. You shouldn’t have to become ill before we notice there is more to you.”

For a while, they sat without speaking. The chocolate steamed between them.

Then Rwamiti said, “I can talk to your parents with you. But I won’t give them another report about you while you sit there like a school desk.”

“What would I say?”

“Start with what you told me.”

Herbert took out his phone. He typed, deleted, and typed again.

Hi Mum. The chocolate is good. I’m not doing as well as I pretend to be. Can we talk this evening? Please ask me how I am before we talk about marks.

He showed it to his uncle.

Rwamiti read it twice. “Good. Now send it before I improve it and make it sound like a speech at assembly.”

Herbert pressed send. His stomach tightened. Nothing in his timetable had prepared him for that small move.

His mother replied a minute later.

Of course. Are you all right?

Herbert looked at the screen, then at the last of the hot chocolate.

“I don’t know what to tell her yet.”

“You have until this evening,” said Uncle Rwamiti. “For once, that is a question you are allowed to take your time answering.”

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