By 
When a man says, ‘our car’, he sometimes means ‘my car’, which you can admire but cannot drive.
I believed we had made it when we eventually purchased our first vehicle.
“Welcome to the car owners’ club!” was the cheer from everyone when we posted the photos we took at the bond to the family WhatsApp group. I could already imagine Sunday drives, late-night ice-cream runs, and no more fighting for space in taxis.
I saved most of the money from my side jobs and marketing gigs, and my husband added a little to buy it. But since he handled the paperwork, the logbook came out in his name. I didn’t mind. After all, what he has is mine, right?
For the first few weeks, everything felt fine. He drove us everywhere, polished the dashboard like a newborn’s face, and even named the car Kansiime because, according to him, she had “attitude.”.
Then, slowly, the small rules began.
Whenever I asked to drive, he had a reason ready.
“Fuel is low; I’ll top up later.”
“The traffic in town is terrible, babe; you don’t need that stress.”
“Let me first teach you parallel parking properly.”
At first, I believed him. Then I realised the only thing being “parked” was my freedom.
One Saturday, I insisted on taking the car to the salon. He sighed deeply and said,
“You women love showing off. If you scratch it, people will laugh at me.”
That’s when I knew the situation wasn’t about safety. It was about control.
The Morning of the Flat Tyre
One weekday, he overslept, and I had a presentation I couldn’t miss. I grabbed the keys.
“Babe, I’ll be careful,” I said, already halfway out the door.
Halfway down Entebbe Road, the inevitable happened – a flat tyre. My heart raced for a second, then common sense kicked in. I called the mechanic, paid the guy twenty thousand, and within minutes I was back on the road. I even stopped for fuel and arrived at work early.
That evening, I returned the car clean and humming. My husband looked at me and said,
“You were lucky nothing happened.”
I smiled. “It wasn’t luck. I handled it.”
That night, while he scrolled through his phone, I quietly opened mine and searched ‘Driving Schools near me’.
Over the following weeks, I enrolled for proper lessons, earned my licence, and started saving again – this time for my own car. Not because I wanted to compete, but because I never wanted to ask for permission to move.
Love should feel like a partnership, not like being a passenger in your own life.
Occasionally, a steering wheel isn’t just about transport – it’s about control, confidence, and choice.
So I Ask You
In many homes today, couples say, “our car”.
But how shared is it really?
When does sharing a car stop being sharing and start being ownership?
