At Kirabo Forest Park, Uncle Rwamiti watches monkeys climb his car and considers an offer to cut the land into plots.

The first monkey inspected Uncle Rwamiti’s windscreen wipers. The second climbed onto the roof. The third settled on the bonnet and looked at him as though the car had been parked without permission.

Uncle Rwamiti remained in his chair beneath the trees at Kirabo Forest Park, Nsangi.

“You have the whole forest,” he said. “Why my car?”

The monkey continued its inspection.

His phone rang. A friend wanted to know whether he had reconsidered the land.

“You could get several good plots out of that place.”

“I already have a good plot.”

“You know what I mean. Residential plots.”

Beyond the trees, a hammer struck metal. A motorcycle accelerated somewhere along the road.

Nsangi was growing. People needed homes, roads, schools, shops and somewhere to earn a living. Uncle Rwamiti had no quarrel with that. He had spent much of his own life building businesses.

“Think about the value,” his friend said.

Uncle Rwamiti looked towards the pond.

“I am.”

After the call, he walked over to his car. The monkeys retreated into the branches, leaving footprints across the bonnet. One had found something interesting enough to smear on the glass.

“Excellent. You contribute nothing towards maintenance.”

He fetched a cloth.

His friend’s argument was reasonable. That was what made it troublesome.

Divide the land. Sell the plots. Let families build. The money would be visible. So would the houses.

Keep the trees, and he would still have wages to pay and grounds to maintain. A quiet afternoon beneath a tree did not arrive with an invoice he could send to somebody.

The people who might one day need this place were not sending deposits.

They were busy building elsewhere.

One family would buy a plot and put up a house. Another would add rental rooms. Someone would open a shop. Someone else would widen an access road.

Each decision would make sense on its own.

Uncle Rwamiti returned to his chair and pictured the neighbourhood after all those sensible decisions had been made.

A father would want somewhere to take his children on Sunday. A woman would want a quiet place to walk. Someone living behind a high wall would discover that a balcony was a small place in which to spend an entire afternoon.

Where would they go?

Perhaps someone would propose a park. There would be meetings, drawings and a budget. Then somebody would have to find the land.

Uncle Rwamiti looked around him.

His phone sounded again. This time, a message.

Do you allow people to bring their own food? We want somewhere quiet.

He read it twice.

Then he looked up. The largest monkey was back on the car.

For years, he had thought of Kirabo as a place outside town. Somewhere to escape to. Now town was coming towards it.

He would still have to make the place welcoming, answer enquiries, keep it clean and attract enough paying visitors to cover its care. Trees did not settle bills merely by becoming scarce.

But perhaps he had been waiting for the wrong sign.

He had expected the case for Kirabo to arrive as a crowd at the gate.

It was arriving one building at a time.

He replied to the message.

Yes. Bring your food and drinks.

Then he added:

Please keep the food away from the monkeys.

One of them was now pulling at a windscreen wiper.

There were matters on which the future could wait.

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