I made the regrettable decision to have lunch with my Aunt Liz last weekend.
I say regrettable because it seems I failed to learn my lesson after the last one.
There’s line in a Luther Vandross song that goes ‘The first time- a mistake. The second time- a bad decision. The third time- there won’t be one…’
Totally applies to me.
After months of avoiding her calls and her Whatsapp messages, I finally caved in and agreed to meet her for Sunday lunch. My man was out of town, my sisters were busy, my brother was all set for the Arsenal game, and I couldn’t convince any of my girls to accompany me.
So off I went, like a lamb to the slaughter. I love my aunt but sometimes she is just. Too. MUCH.
I’ll spare you the details of the lunch, for now.
What transpired is that Aunt Liz is very happy that I have a dude, she really likes him and so on and so forth. When she reiterated all this I was pleased, but only because I didn’t know what was coming next.
It seems we have now jumped the ‘when-are-you-giving-us-a-wedding’ and proceeded straight to ‘we-want-a-grandchild.’
Before I could tuck into my dessert, Aunt Liz was asking about the workings of my womb and when I was going to give her a grandchild. I bit back my initial response, and smiled mysteriously into my ice cream. In hindsight that attempt at an enigmatic smile might have been a mistake. She might think I actually am with child.
It always amazes me how often Ugandans encourage women of my age to have a child. I’m sure they mean well, for the most part. But this business of ‘mi ova, su ova’ is really starting to piss me off.
There’s a lady in my office who is always wishing pregnancy on me. Seriously, if that woman’s wishes had come to fruition, I would be a mother of at least 6 by now.
Whenever people ask when I’m going to have a baby I ask them, why? Do you want to come over and babysit? Perhaps you’re going to carry it to term for me? Oh no, let me guess, you want to time the contractions so you can come and feel my pain as I bring that life into the world? No, no, I get it. You want to know so that you can help me care for this child, raise this child, pay school fees for this child?
It’s not that I don’t want to have a child. I just don’t want to have one RIGHT NOW. Each to their own, everything in its own time. As soon as I’m ready, you’ll know. Or not. It’s not like I’ll be able to hide the evidence. So please, stop treating every childless woman in her 30s like some sort of Rent-A-Womb. Mind your own business.