DMT
There I stood—Ntinda’s unofficial mannequin—draped in a kanzu starched so stiff it could’ve doubled as a coffin. Auntie Carol, armed with a carnation and a grin wider than the Nile, stabbed the flower onto my lapel like she was spearing luwombo meat. “Mzee wa Rutaro!” she declared, as if I’d volunteered to be the human punchline of my sister’s matrimonial circus.
The church? A sauna with hymns. My sweat pooled in places even the boda-boda guy wouldn’t dare discuss. The groomsmen? Strangers who kept calling me “Uncle”—at 25!—while elbowing me for wedding cake predictions. Cake. The mythical dessert that, in true Ugandan fashion, arrived three hours late, after 17 speeches and Auntie Jolly’s tearful ballad about “when I was a bride in ’86…”
But the carnation. Oh, that carnation. It wilted faster than my dignity. By the photo shoot, it sagged like a politician’s promise, petals dropping like flies at a Rolex stand. The photographer—bless his overzealous soul—yelled, “Smile, jajja!” as if my face wasn’t screaming, “I’d rather be stuck in a Kajjansi traffic jam!”
Then, the dance floor. My kanzu betrayed me, tripping me mid-kadodi. I face-planted before the cake, earning cheers louder than the couple’s kiss. The finale? A slice of fondant so sweet it numbed the shame.
I fled at dusk, carnation-less, trailing glitter and Auntie Carol’s cackle. Kampala weddings: where you’re never just a guest—you’re a casualty of love’s artillery…
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