Maria Mulungi had barely put down her handbag when an auntie asked the question.

“Now, Maria, when are you bringing us someone?”

“At lunch,” Maria said. “I brought Uncle Rwamiti.”

Nobody laughed harder than Uncle Rwamiti.

“That one does not count,” the auntie said.

“He eats enough to count as two.”

Later, Maria found her uncle on the veranda, inspecting a plate of roasted groundnuts.

“Uncle, do you think something is wrong with me?”

He put down the plate.

“What happened?”

“Apparently, everyone is worried about my future.”

“Have you borrowed their money?”

“No.”

“Then this is a very generous interest in your affairs.”

She smiled, but only briefly.

“I like my life. I have work I care about. Friends. My own place. Sometimes I get home on Friday, close the door and feel so relieved that nobody needs anything from me.”

“Sounds like you should keep that door.”

“But what if I am just getting too comfortable?”

“With what?”

“Being alone.”

Rwamiti moved his chair to let her sit beside him.

“Tell me about last weekend.”

“I took Mum to see her sister. Had lunch with Joan. Sunday, I stayed home and read.”

“Who were you lonely with?”

“I wasn’t lonely.”

“And when you are?”

“I call someone. Sometimes I invite people over.”

He nodded.

Maria picked at a loose thread on her sleeve.

“There is a man. Daniel. Kind. Reliable. Everyone says I should give him a proper chance.”

“Do you want to?”

“I enjoy seeing him. But he talks about our future as if I have already signed something.”

“Have you told him?”

“I keep changing the subject.”

“Maria.”

“What?”

“You may enjoy your solitude. Daniel still deserves an answer.”

She looked out towards the gate.

“What if he stops calling?”

“He might.”

“And what if I regret it?”

“You might.”

“You are supposed to make me feel better.”

“I was invited for lunch. Counselling costs extra.”

That evening, Maria called Daniel.

She nearly began with the familiar excuse: work was busy.

Instead, she said, “I need to be honest about something.”

She told him she enjoyed his company, but she could not promise the marriage he wanted. She was unsure whether she wanted marriage at all.

He was quiet.

“I thought we were building towards something,” he said.

“I know. I should have spoken sooner.”

The call ended politely. That somehow made it harder.

For a moment, her flat felt unusually silent.

She reached for her phone to tell him perhaps they could keep trying.

Then she stopped. She would be offering him hope to soothe her own discomfort.

The next morning, she called Uncle Rwamiti.

“I told him.”

“How did it go?”

“He was hurt.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I don’t feel particularly brave.”

“What are you doing today?”

“Joan is coming for lunch.”

“What are you cooking?”

“Why?”

“I am checking whether your commitment to single life has affected your hospitality.”

Maria laughed.

“You can come, Uncle.”

“Good. Three people around a table. Your auntie will be relieved.”

Later, Maria set out three plates.

Daniel might never sit at that table again. She would miss him.

She opened the windows, put the rice on and went downstairs to let Joan in.

Uncle Rwamiti — the uncle your parents should probably not have introduced you to.