An Uncle Rwamiti story about friendship, money and the price of belonging.

Eva’s mother had counted the money twice.

“Two hundred thousand. Pay for your revision lessons tomorrow. Bring me the receipt.”

Eva folded the notes into her purse.

She was home in Katete, just outside Mbarara City, for the holidays. Form Four at Maryhill was waiting. So were the exams.

At St Hellens Primary School, friendship had once meant sharing a pencil. These days, it sometimes seemed to require a phone, the right shoes and money you could spend without asking.

That afternoon, she met three friends in Mbarara.

They chose a place to eat. Eva checked the prices.

“I’ll just have a soda.”

One friend glanced at another.

“Eva, you always just have a soda.”

Someone laughed.

“Leave her. She’s our poor friend.”

Eva smiled before anyone could see that it hurt.

Then she heard herself say:

“Poor? Order what you want. I’m paying.”

For a moment, nobody spoke.

Then everyone liked Eva.

They moved closer for a photograph. Someone called her “our rich auntie.” Someone ordered another plate.

Eva laughed with them.

Under the table, she counted the notes in her purse.

The bill was one hundred and forty-eight thousand shillings.

She paid.

On the taxi ride home, she watched the photograph appear in their group chat.

Eva came through! 🔥

She enlarged it.

They looked happy.

She looked happy too.

At home, her mother was washing a saucepan.

“Everything ready for tomorrow?”

“Yes, Mum.”

The lie came out more easily than Eva expected.

That frightened her.

Later, she messaged the group.

Girls, I used money meant for revision. Could we split the bill?

A reply arrived.

But you said you were treating us.

Another:

You should have told us before.

The third friend read the message and said nothing.

Eva typed:

It’s okay 😂

Her thumb hovered over Send.

Then she deleted it.

She opened the photograph again.

Four smiling girls. One almost-empty purse.

From the sitting room, her mother called:

“Eva, come and help me work out tomorrow’s expenses.”

Eva stayed on the bed.

She could say the money had been stolen.

Her mother might believe her.

She could keep quiet and miss the lessons.

Her mother might not find out immediately.

Or she could walk into the sitting room and explain why, for one afternoon, being called generous had mattered more than being trusted.

She put down the phone.

“Mum?”

“What?”

“There’s something I need to tell you.”

Her mother switched off the television.

Eva wished she hadn’t.

“I haven’t lost the money,” she began. “I spent it.”

She told the whole story. Even the part about being called poor.

Her mother looked at her for a long time.

“Bring what is left.”

Eva placed fifty-two thousand shillings on the table.

“Will I still go for revision?”

“I don’t know yet, Eva. We will ask whether you can pay in instalments. But I cannot promise money I don’t have.”

Eva nodded.

Her mother pushed a chair towards her.

“Sit. We still have to work out tomorrow.”

The next morning, one friend sent Eva a private message.

I’m sorry I laughed. I can return my share on Friday.

Eva began typing:

Don’t worry about it.

She stopped.

Then wrote:

Thank you. Please do. And don’t call me poor again.

That afternoon, Uncle Rwamiti found her sitting outside.

“Your mother tells me you bought lunch.”

Eva looked down.

“For everyone.”

“Were you hungry?”

She shook her head.

He pulled up a chair.

“Tell me what you wanted them to see.”

⸻

Uncle Rwamiti asks: “Eva paid to belong. What would you have done?”

Step into another character’s shoes in Uncle Rwamiti: Your Move at unclerwamiti.com⁠. This time, you make the choices—and discover what follows.

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

Eva and the events in this story are fictional. The real schools named are used only as background settings.