At thirty-four, Martha finally announced she was getting married. Her mother had one small question.

“Martha, who is the man?”

“There is no man, Mummy.”

A silence.

“Is he already married?”

Three months earlier, Martha had come to my office with a notebook.

On the cover: MY NEXT CHAPTER.

Inside: a list of qualities she wanted in a husband.

Emotionally available. Financially responsible. Kind. Adventurous. Comfortable with a successful woman.

“Successful?” I asked.

“Uncle, please concentrate.”

I examined the list.

“Does this person also need a driving permit, or will he fly down from heaven?”

She took back her notebook.

“I am tired of people telling me to lower my standards.”

“Keep them. I was wondering whether you enjoy your own company as much as you expect this gentleman to.”

“Of course.”

“What did you do on your birthday?”

She looked towards the window.

Martha had booked a table for two.

The man cancelled at four.

She cancelled the table at five.

At seven, she ate leftover chicken over the kitchen sink, wearing the dress she had bought for dinner.

The restaurant had remained open. Her appetite had survived. Even the dress had reported for duty.

But without him, apparently, the birthday could not proceed.

Her house contained several things reserved for a future life.

Good plates for when she had a family.

A travel fund for a honeymoon.

A folder of houses she might buy with a husband.

Meanwhile, she drank tea from a chipped mug because the good cups were “for visitors”.

“You are living in that house full-time,” I told her. “The visitors are the ones passing through.”

She laughed.

Then, annoyingly, she started crying.

I offered her a tissue.

“Those are not reserved for married people either.”

Two weeks later, Martha went to dinner alone.

The waiter removed the second place setting with the solemnity of someone collecting the belongings of the deceased.

“Someone joining you?”

“No.”

“You are waiting?”

“For the menu.”

She nearly left.

Instead, she ordered the fish.

Nothing remarkable happened. Nobody applauded her independence. A couple nearby argued quietly about a phone. The bill arrived with its usual confidence.

She went home pleased with the fish.

The following month, she booked a weekend away.

Then she enrolled for swimming lessons.

Then she stopped seeing a man who called only after ten and described every reasonable question as pressure.

Her aunt noticed the change.

“You look happy. Have you met someone?”

“Yes,” Martha said.

The aunt leaned forward.

Martha let her suffer a little.

The wedding idea began as a joke over lunch with friends.

By Thursday, she had bought a ring.

By Saturday, the family WhatsApp group had established a task force.

Her mother called me.

“Rwamiti, talk to this girl. She says she is marrying herself.”

“Has she asked you for wedding contributions?”

“That is not the point.”

“It would usually be quite a large point.”

Martha invited six people to her garden.

She wore a yellow dress. There were flowers, lunch and a cake small enough to suggest that nobody was trying to recover their childhood through catering.

Before we ate, she read from her notebook.

“I promise to stop postponing things I can do now.”

Her hands trembled slightly.

“I promise to take care of my health, my money and my friendships. And when I am lonely, I promise to admit it without allowing just anybody to move in.”

Her mother studied her plate.

There was no registrar. No claim that a ring could cure loneliness.

When Martha called it sologamy, her mother said it sounded like something requiring antibiotics.

But she stayed for cake.

A month later, Martha met a man she liked.

Her cousin was delighted.

“So what happens to your marriage now?”

“We are going for coffee, Brenda. There is no constitutional crisis.”

Before leaving, Martha caught herself reaching for the chipped mug.

She put it down and opened the cupboard with the good cups.

Suppose nobody arrives this year.

The holiday, the birthday dinner, the home you want to make—what happens to them?

Uncle Rwamiti: Your Move.

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

Play and find more games at:

UncleRwamiti.com⁠
PeterosPaths.org⁠