The evening sun cast a thick, golden haze over Kampala, stretching long shadows across the city. Nanziri Precious navigated through the crowd of boda-boda drivers, each calling out to her, competing for her business. She waved them away, preferring to walk despite the heaviness in her limbs. The familiar weight of her engineering textbooks in her bag, once a source of pride, now felt like a mockery.
‘‘Sister! Sister! I give you good price!’’ A vendor thrust a ripe mango toward her face.
Nanziri shook her head and continued walking, her phone clutched tightly in her hand. The screen displayed the same message she’d been staring at all afternoon:
Dear Ms. Precious, Thank you for your application for the position of Junior Petroleum Engineer. Unfortunately…
This was the seventh rejection this month. She slipped the phone back into her pocket, unwilling to read the rest. Always the same hollow corporate phrases. Always the same result.
The honking of horns and babble of street vendors grew distant as she neared her parents’ home. Before she could reach for the gate, her mother appeared in the doorway, arms folded across her chest.
‘‘You’re late,’’ Mama said, her eyes immediately scanning Nanziri’s face for any sign of good news. Finding none, she sighed. ‘‘Come inside. Your father is waiting.’’
The living room was exactly as it had been throughout Nanziri’s childhood; the same faded floral sofa, the same wooden cabinet displaying her academic trophies. Her father sat in his usual chair, newspaper spread across his lap.
‘‘Papa,’’ Nanziri greeted, bending slightly in respect.
He folded his newspaper carefully. ‘‘Any news?’’
‘‘Soon…,’’ she said, the lie sticking in her throat.
Her mother bustled in with a tray of tea. ‘‘That’s what you said last week. And the week before.’’ She set the tray down with more force than necessary. ‘‘Nanziri, you need to be realistic. Your cousins are all married now. Even Jane and she was two years behind you at school.’’
‘‘Mama, please…’’
‘‘No, it’s time someone said it.’’ Her mother poured the tea, the steam hitting the cup with precision born from years of practice. ‘‘What will you do if there are no jobs? You’re twenty-eight already. Soon men won’t even look at you.’’
Her father cleared his throat. ‘‘Your mother is right, Nanziri. This obsession with your career… it’s not practical. Not here.’’
‘‘It’s not an obsession.’’ Nanziri’s voice came out sharper than intended. ‘‘It’s my future.’’
‘‘Your future,’’ her father said, his voice softening, ‘‘should include a family. A husband who can provide when these oil companies won’t give you a chance.’’
The room fell silent. Nanziri stared into her teacup, watching the leaves swirl at the bottom. Each day, this conversation grew harder to bear. Each day, her resolve weakened just a little more.
Three weeks later, Nanziri found herself seated across from Tenywa Armstrong at the Serena Hotel’s café. She smoothed her dress, conscious of how it clung to her frame. Tenywa was as handsome as he’d been at university, perhaps more so now, with success adding a confident gleam to his eyes.
‘‘I couldn’t believe it when you called,” he said, stirring his coffee. “How long has it been? Two years?’’
‘‘Three,’’ Nanziri corrected. Three years since they’d walked the Makerere campus together, since they’d shared dreams over cheap meals in student canteens.
Tenywa nodded. ‘‘And now look at us.’’ He gestured around the upscale café. ‘‘Well, look at you. Still beautiful as ever.’’
A blush crept up Nanziri’s neck, but she kept her voice steady. “You’ve done well for yourself. Your car dealership…’’
‘‘Dealerships,’’ he corrected, a smile playing at his lips. ‘‘Three now, with a fourth opening next month in Entebbe.’’
‘‘That’s impressive.’’
Tenywa leaned forward. “What about you? Last I heard, you were determined to revolutionize Uganda’s oil industry.”
The question stung. Nanziri lifted her chin. “I’m still looking for the right opportunity.”
Something flickered in Tenywa’s eyes, recognition, perhaps even sympathy. He reached across the table, his fingers brushing hers. “It’s not easy, is it? This country promises so much and delivers so little.”
For a moment, Nanziri glimpsed the old Tenywa, the one who had sat beside her in engineering ethics, who had argued passionately about building a better Uganda. But then he straightened, adjusting his expensive watch.
“Maybe it’s time to consider a different path,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
He smiled, a bit too confidently. “Dinner. Tomorrow night. Let me show you something better than rejection letters.”
***
Six months later, Nanziri stood in her bedroom, examining her reflection in the mirror. The traditional gomesi draped elegantly around her figure, its vibrant colors a stark contrast to the uncertainty in her eyes. Outside, the sounds of celebration; drumming, ululation, and laughter filled the compound.
Her mother appeared in the doorway, eyes shining with tears. “You look beautiful,” she whispered. “Like a proper bride.”
Nanziri tried to smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Is it all happening as planned?”
“Even better.” Her mother moved behind her, adjusting the sash of the gomesi. “Tenywa’s family brought twelve cows, not the ten we agreed on. And the cash gift!” She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “Your father nearly fell over when he saw it.”
Twelve cows. Nanziri stared at her reflection, wondering when her worth had become measured in livestock. She had spent years studying, building her knowledge, sharpening her mind only to have her value calculated in cattle and cash.
“Mama,” she began hesitantly, “did you love Baba when you married him?”
Her mother’s hands stilled on the fabric. “Love?” She clicked her tongue. “Love is a luxury, Nanziri. Respect, stability, family—these are what matter.” She met Nanziri’s eyes in the mirror. “But yes, love grew. It will for you too.”
A knock at the door interrupted them. Her father entered, looking unusually formal in his suit.
“It’s time,” he said softly.
As Nanziri followed him out, a text message buzzed on her phone. From a number she didn’t recognize:
Ms. Precious, I’m following up on your interview last month. If you’re still interested, the junior engineering position is yours. Please call to discuss starting next week.
She stared at the message, her heart pounding. Then, with a deep breath, she turned off her phone and slipped it into her purse. Outside, Tenywa waited with his family. Her future, the one chosen for her awaited.
The first months of marriage passed in a blur of adjustment. Tenywa’s home in Kololo was spacious and modern, staffed with a housekeeper and a gardener. Nanziri found herself with little to do except oversee meals and wait for her husband to return from work.
One afternoon, as rain drummed against the windows, she sat in Tenywa’s home office, scrolling through job listings on her laptop. The engineering position had gone to someone else after her silence, but perhaps there would be others.
The door opened abruptly. Tenywa stood there, his expression darkening as he took in the scene.
“What are you doing in here?” he asked, his voice carefully controlled.
Nanziri closed the laptop. “Just browsing. I thought maybe I could look for work now that we’re settled.”
Tenywa crossed the room, picking up a framed wedding photo from his desk. “Work? Why would you need to work?” He set the photo down carefully. “I provide everything you need.”
“It’s not about need, Tenywa. It’s about what I want. Who I am.”
His laugh held no humor. “And who is that? The same girl who couldn’t get a job for a year after graduation?” He shook his head. “I gave you a better life than that.”
“You make it sound like a transaction,” Nanziri said quietly.
Something cold flickered in Tenywa’s eyes. “Isn’t everything? I paid your bride price. I gave your parents security. Now my wife wants to play engineer?” His voice softened, becoming almost gentle. “Be realistic, Precious. This is a better life than chasing dreams that don’t want you back.”
He left the room before she could respond, the door clicking shut behind him. Nanziri stared at the closed laptop, at her distorted reflection in its shiny surface. When had Tenywa become this person? Or had he always been this way, and she’d been too desperate to notice?
“You’re very quiet tonight,” Mrs. Kigozi observed, sipping her wine.
Nanziri forced a smile. They were at another business dinner, seated at a table with Tenywa’s associates and their wives. After a year of marriage, these evenings had become a familiar routine withTenywa discussing business while she was expected to engage in pleasant small talk with the other women.
“Just tired,” she replied.
Mrs. Kigozi nodded sympathetically. “The first years are always the hardest. Adjusting to a man’s ways.” She leaned closer, her expensive perfume enveloping Nanziri. “How are things otherwise? Any little ones on the way?”
Nanziri shook her head, discomfort creeping up her spine.
“Well, don’t wait too long,” Mrs. Kigozi advised. “Men need heirs. Especially successful men like your Tenywa.” She gestured subtly toward the other end of the table, where Tenywa was laughing loudly at something Mr. Kigozi had said.
As if sensing her gaze, Tenywa looked over. He winked at Nanziri before turning back to his conversation. Once, that wink would have thrilled her. Now it felt performative, as if she were a prop in the scene of his success.
Later that night, as they drove home in silence, Nanziri stared out the window at Kampala’s lights. The city seemed alive with possibilities that were no longer hers.
“The Kigozis are impressed with you,” Tenywa said, breaking the silence.
“With me? I barely spoke.”
Tenywa’s hand found her knee. “Exactly. You were perfect, elegant, reserved. A proper wife.” His fingers squeezed lightly. “Unlike Kigozi’s wife, always interrupting with her opinions.”
Nanziri moved her leg away. “Maybe her opinions are worth hearing.”
Tenywa’s expression didn’t change, but his knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. “I’ve been patient, Nanziri. I’ve given you time to adjust. But this attitude…” He shook his head. “It needs to stop.”
“What attitude? Having thoughts of my own?”
The car jerked to a halt at a red light. Tenywa turned to her, his face illuminated by the harsh glow of street lamps. “Do you know how many women would be grateful to be in your position? To have what I’ve given you?”
“And what exactly have you given me, Tenywa?” The words escaped before she could stop them. “A beautiful cage? A role to play in your success story?”
For a moment, something vulnerable flashed in his eyes. Hurt, perhaps even fear. But it vanished as quickly as it had appeared.
“I gave you everything,” he said quietly. “Everything you couldn’t give yourself.”
The light turned green, and the car moved forward again. They didn’t speak for the remainder of the drive.
The message appeared on Tenywa’s phone while he was in the shower. Nanziri hadn’t meant to see it—she’d only picked up his phone to silence an incoming call that was disturbing the rare moment of peace between them. But there it was, illuminated on the screen:
Miss you already. Last night was perfect. Same time next week? -K
The bathroom door opened, releasing a cloud of steam. Tenywa emerged, a towel wrapped around his waist. He froze when he saw his phone in her hand.
“What are you doing?” His voice was dangerously quiet.
Nanziri held up the phone, her hand trembling slightly. “Who is K?”
‘‘Give me my phone.’’ He stepped forward, water dripping from his hair onto the carpet.
“Who is K, Tenywa?” Her voice rose despite her effort to control it. ‘‘And what was so perfect about last night? The night you told me you were working late?”
He snatched the phone from her hand. “You’re going through my private messages now? This is what you’ve become?”
‘‘What I’ve become?’’ A laugh escaped her, bitter and sharp. ‘‘Look at yourself, Tenywa. Look at what you’ve become. Lying. Cheating.’’ She shook her head. ‘‘What happened to the man I met at university? The one with dreams beyond money and status?’’
Something shifted in Tenywa’s expression. A flicker of the person he used to be, perhaps. But it hardened again almost immediately.
“That man was a boy,” he said coldly. “He didn’t understand how the world works.”
‘‘And how does it work, Tenywa? You pay a bride price, so you own me? You buy me things, so my feelings don’t matter?’’
He turned away, beginning to dress. ‘‘You’re being hysterical.’’
‘‘Am I?” Nanziri moved to stand in front of him. ‘‘Tell me this isn’t what you think. Tell me you don’t believe you purchased me.’’
Tenywa’s face twisted with a mixture of anger and something that looked almost like pain. ‘‘I paid the dowry, Nanziri,’’ he said, his voice low. ‘‘I gave your parents what they asked for. What did you think this was? Some fairy tale? This is how it works. Men provide. Women obey.’’
The words hung in the air between them, ugly and final. Nanziri felt a strange calm settle over her, as if she were watching the scene from somewhere far away.
‘‘Then I’m breaking the contract,’’ she said quietly.
Tenywa’s laugh was harsh. “It doesn’t work that way.’’
‘‘It does for me.’’ She turned and began gathering her things. Not the jewelry or dresses he had bought her, but her old textbooks, her laptop, the photograph of her graduation day. ‘‘This marriage is over, Tenywa.’’
He watched her, disbelief gradually giving way to anger. ‘‘You have nowhere to go. No job. No money of your own. You really think you can survive out there?’’
Nanziri paused, her hands full of the remnants of her former self. ‘‘I’d rather try than spend another day pretending to be someone I’m not.’’
For a moment, something like fear flashed across Tenywa’s face. Not fear of losing her, she realized, but fear of what her leaving would represent. A crack in the perfect life he’d constructed.
‘‘If you walk out that door,’’ he said, his voice suddenly quiet, ‘‘don’t expect to be welcomed back.’’
Nanziri looked at him, looked hard at him…for the first time in months. The handsome face, the confident stance, the trappings of success. And behind it all, a man terrified of his own emptiness.
‘‘It is over, Tenywa,’’ she said simply, and walked out.
The small apartment in Nsambya wasn’t much. Just a single room with a kitchenette and a bathroom with temperamental plumbing. But it was hers. Nanziri sat cross-legged on the bed, her laptop open before her. The email from the engineering firm glowed on the screen:
We would like to invite you for a second interview…
A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts. She opened it to find her mother standing there, looking smaller somehow, her eyes red-rimmed.
‘‘May I come in?’’ Mama asked.
Nanziri stepped aside wordlessly. Her mother entered, taking in the modest surroundings with a careful expression.
‘‘Your father doesn’t know I’m here,’’ she said after a moment. ‘‘He’s still… processing what you’ve done.’’
‘‘What I’ve done?’’ Nanziri closed the door. ‘‘You mean leaving a man who betrayed me? Who treated me like property?’’
Her mother sank onto the edge of the bed. ‘‘Marriage isn’t easy, Nanziri. There are always difficulties.’’
“This isn’t about difficulties, Mama. This is about dignity. About choice.”
They sat in silence for a moment, the sounds of the apartment building, children playing, a radio somewhere playing Ugandan pop music, filling the space between them.
‘‘I brought you something,’’ her mother said finally, reaching into her bag. She pulled out a small wooden box that Nanziri recognized immediately. It was her grandmother’s jewelry box.
‘‘I don’t understand.’’
Her mother opened the box, revealing a simple gold necklace. ‘‘This was my mother’s. She gave it to me when I married your father.” She lifted the necklace, the gold catching the late afternoon light. ‘‘She told me something I never told you. She said, ‘A woman must know her own worth before others can see it.’’
Tears pricked at Nanziri’s eyes. ‘‘Then why did you push me toward Tenywa? Why did you make me feel like marriage was the only path to value?’’
Her mother’s hands trembled slightly as she placed the necklace around Nanziri’s neck. ‘‘Because I was afraid for you. Because I thought… I thought security was worth the sacrifice.’’ She touched the pendant gently. ‘‘I was wrong. Your grandmother would have been proud of you today.’’
Nanziri covered her mother’s hand with her own. “And you, Mama? Are you proud?”
For a long moment, her mother didn’t answer. Then she nodded, tears spilling onto her cheeks. ‘‘I am learning to be.’’
Three months later, Nanziri stood at the entrance to the engineering firm, her ID badge clipped to her blouse. Around her neck hung her grandmother’s necklace, a reminder of where she came from and how far she had traveled.
Her phone buzzed with a message from her father:
Dinner on Sunday? Your mother is making your favorite.
She smiled, typing a quick response before entering the building. The reconciliation with her parents had been slow, fragile…but it was happening. Understanding was growing in the spaces where judgment had lived.
As she walked through the office toward her desk, she passed a wall of windows overlooking Kampala. The city sprawled below, golden in the morning light, humming with its familiar chaos. Somewhere out there, Tenywa was continuing his life, perhaps unchanged by their separation. She had heard, through mutual friends, that he was already seeing someone new, a quiet, compliant woman who fit more comfortably into the role Nanziri had abandoned.
Once, that knowledge would have stung. Now, it only strengthened her resolve. She had chosen a harder path. One without the financial security Tenywa had offered, one that required her to rebuild from the ground up. But it was her path, shaped by her own hands.
At her desk, she opened her computer and began reviewing the plans for a new oil processing facility. The work was challenging, exactly as she had hoped it would be. Each day brought new problems to solve, new skills to master.
When lunchtime came, she joined her colleagues in the break room. They were a mixed group, men and women of different tribes and backgrounds, united by their work. As they chatted about projects and office politics, Nanziri felt a sense of belonging she had never experienced in Tenywa’s world of business dinners and performative wealth.
‘‘Nanziri,’’ called one of the senior engineers, ‘‘we need your input on the Hoima project. That area near the lake. You had concerns about the environmental impact?’’
She nodded, aware of the eyes turning toward her. Six months ago, she would have shrunk from such attention. Now, she straightened her shoulders and prepared to speak.
The weight she had carried for so long, the weight of others’ expectations, of compromised dreams, of broken vows was not gone entirely. Perhaps it never would be. But it had transformed into something she could carry with dignity, something that reminded her of how far she had come and how much farther she could go.
As she began to explain her analysis, her voice clear and confident, Nanziri knew with certainty that she was exactly where she was meant to be.
