An Uncle Rwamiti story

Jessica arrived at Uncle Rwamiti’s house carrying her two-year-old son, Jason, a medical prescription and the expression of someone who had followed Google Maps into a swamp.

“Uncle, I did everything right.”

Rwamiti moved his tea away from Jason’s advancing fingers.

“Everything? Even reading the terms and conditions?”

“I’m serious.”

“So are those people. That is why the writing is small.”

Jessica did not laugh.

He put down his cup.

“What happened?”

Jason had been unwell. His father, David, had read her request for treatment money. The blue ticks were doing the parenting.

Eventually, she had called her own father.

Again.

“He sent it,” she said. “But Uncle, I’m twenty-eight. How long will Daddy keep paying?”

“Have you eaten?”

“I’m telling you my life is collapsing.”

“Yes. We should not supervise the collapse on an empty stomach.”

Jessica had a degree in botany and a master’s in environmental studies from Makerere University.

She had worked with NGOs and consultancy firms. Short contracts. Good reports. Glowing recommendations.

Excellent work, Jessica.

We shall certainly keep you in mind.

Her name was being kept in so many minds that she wondered whether she should start charging storage fees.

Meanwhile, her landlord preferred money.

“I studied hard,” she told Rwamiti. “I got the grades. I went to university. I even went back.”

“Perhaps they had forgotten to give you the job the first time.”

“And I married someone I knew. David wasn’t a stranger. We were university sweethearts.”

After marriage came heavy drinking, other women and children she discovered through information nobody wanted to be responsible for delivering.

Then he beat her.

The first time, apologies arrived in bulk.

The second time, she left.

Rwamiti was quiet.

“You were right to leave.”

She looked down at Jason, asleep against her.

“Then why does doing the right thing feel like losing?”

He let the question sit between them.

“Two instructions,” Jessica said eventually. “Study hard and you’ll be set. Find your soulmate and you’ll be happy. I followed both.”

“And now you want to speak to the manager.”

“Yes.”

“Unfortunately, the people who issued those instructions have switched off their phones.”

She laughed despite herself.

“Uncle, I have ended nowhere.”

Rwamiti glanced at the child on her lap.

“Lower your voice. Nowhere is sleeping.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I do. But you keep announcing a total loss while holding someone you love.”

“That doesn’t pay his medical bills.”

“No,” he said. “It doesn’t.”

“People say stop worrying,” Jessica continued. “As if worry is a radio I forgot to switch off.”

Rwamiti leaned back.

“If you can do something about a situation, why worry? If you cannot do anything about it, why worry?”

Jessica stared at him.

“Wonderful. Shall I tell the pharmacy you have settled the account?”

He burst out laughing.

“Good. You are recovering.”

“Uncle, that advice sounds much better when you own the chair you’re sitting in.”

He looked at his chair.

“A fair objection.”

“And you’ve eaten.”

“Another strong point.”

“And nobody is asking you for nursery fees.”

“Now you are becoming personal.”

“You started.”

Rwamiti nodded towards her phone.

“How many times have you checked whether David has replied?”

She turned it face down.

“That is not the point.”

“How many?”

“I don’t know.”

“Has checking produced money?”

“Has your tea produced employment?”

He lifted his cup.

“Not yet. But I remain hopeful.”

This time she laughed properly.

Then her face tightened.

“I keep thinking about how stupid I was.”

“For leaving?”

“For believing him. For believing all of it.”

“Jessica, David hurt you. The contracts ended. The bills arrived. Those things happened.”

He paused.

“But now, even when David is absent, you hold a meeting in your head and invite him to explain why you are worthless.”

She said nothing.

“Sometimes you even speak on his behalf.”

“So now I’m causing my own suffering?”

“No. He is responsible for what he did. I’m asking whether he must also chair every meeting inside your head.”

Jason stirred. She adjusted his shirt.

“Some people call that the second arrow,” Rwamiti said. “The wound is already there. Then comes, ‘I am a fool. I have ruined everything. Nothing will ever work.’”

“And I’m supposed to just stop?”

“I suspect if it were that easy, you would have done it before coming here.”

“What can you actually do this week?” he asked.

“Apply for jobs.”

“Continue. What else?”

She sighed.

“I once had an idea.”

“Ah. Bring it. We have been interviewing the problems long enough.”

Small consultancy firms sometimes had more environmental fieldwork than their permanent staff could handle. Jessica had helped with site visits, data collection and reports.

She had considered offering that support directly.

“Why didn’t you?”

“I wanted something stable.”

“Understandable.”

“And I didn’t want people thinking I was just doing small jobs.”

Rwamiti looked around the room.

“Which people? Have they contributed to Jason’s prescription?”

“Uncle.”

“I would like to thank them individually.”

She smiled.

“What if nobody hires me?”

“Then we discover that nobody hired you for that offer.”

“And?”

“We ask why.”

“That sounds humiliating.”

“More humiliating than waiting for people who keep your name in mind?”

Jessica opened her phone.

“I could message the consultant I worked with last year.”

“What would you say?”

“That I’m available for opportunities.”

Rwamiti groaned.

“What?”

“You are about to become another name in another mind.”

She deleted the sentence.

Then she wrote that she could take on field data collection and draft reporting for upcoming environmental assignments. She mentioned the work she had already completed for him and asked whether he had an assignment that needed support.

Her thumb hovered.

“What if he thinks I’m desperate?”

“Do you think he will read this and say, ‘Such a pity. She appears interested in being paid’?”

She pressed send.

Nothing happened.

No triumphant music. No contract dropped through the ceiling.

Jason woke and announced that he wanted a biscuit.

The only person in the room with a clear demand and no fear of rejection.

At the door, Jessica turned.

“I still want a proper job.”

“Keep looking.”

“And I might want to marry again.”

“Interview carefully. You are appointing someone to a position with considerable access.”

She shook her head.

“You are impossible.”

“Ask for references beyond the candidate’s drinking friends.”

“Uncle!”

“And remember, ‘He has potential’ is not a reference. So does an empty plot.”

She laughed, then went quiet.

“What if I do everything right again and it still doesn’t work?”

Rwamiti looked at her for a moment.

“Then come back. We’ll look at what happened.”

“No guarantee?”

“Jessica, you have already suffered enough from guarantees.”

That evening, David still had not replied.

Neither had the consultant.

She checked both conversations.

Then she found the details of a second firm she had worked with and began another message.

Halfway through, she caught herself writing:

Sorry to disturb you.

She deleted it.

Uncle Rwamiti: Your move.

Which old promise are you still waiting for life to honour, and what could you try while you wait?

Play and find more stories and games:
UncleRwamiti.com⁠
PeterosPaths.org⁠

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