By Joseph Maina
Life may be compared to a trumpet – small at one end, large on the other. Baba Jimmy is approaching the bulimic end of that trumpet and trust me, middle age has subtle ways of announcing that your days are numbered. I’m growing old. My body has been falling apart, I’m losing my athleticism and I‘m not half the man I used to be.
There’s not much grease in my kneecaps anymore, and the only athletic thing I do these days is jumping to conclusions. So, has Baba Jimmy achieved much in his life so far, you ask? Well, not much, but I’m trying. I currently boast three heirs, a prehistoric jalopy, a job and a lovely comptroller. A lazy cat named Tyson is just about the only "livestock" in my hacienda, but that’s something.
Anyway, if you’ve lately been larding your conversations with expressions like "back in my day", and your favourite part of the newspaper is "25 years ago," and you’re no longer offended when people ask for lifts using the words "Niweke pale mbele mzee," and your kids have suddenly started to look like grown-ups, then you’ve grown old. To put it politely, you should probably be working in the Post Office!
Young people scoff at "ageing" because they’re yet to experience the painful loss of one’s physical strength and mental capabilities. To such youngsters I say boohoo! Like it or not, you too will grow old someday. You’ll wake up one morning and sneeze "hatchoo!" and do something else that will drive people out of the room to catch fresh air. And have I mentioned hair yet? Well, last Friday, my mboys and I went to the neighborhood kinyozi and while there, the barber announced the first sighting of grey hair on Baba Jimmy’s scalp:
"Heh, Baba Jim, unapanga kutuacha ama?" he quipped while fingering a white strand that had taken root right next to my temple.
"Get serious!" I gasped. Now, the emergence of grey hair is the first sign that your goose is officially cooked. Deep down, I secretly prayed that he was wrong – but no Señor. Too bad, he bore hard evidence in his hands. My mboys surveyed me from head to toe like I was a strange animal.
"Ah, daddy umebeat," Russell announced in a tone that seemed to suggest that I’ll soon grace the obituaries. There was a whole volume of mockery in that sentence.
"Really?" I moaned.
"Wewe cheki hapa," Mr Kinyozi said while holding the strand like some prized trophy. To tell you the truth, I’m starting to wonder why kinyozis in Kenya do not write books. They see and hear so much!
"Ni kweli, umeanza kuchapa," Jimmy quipped. Now that’s what my friend Odhiambo calls "mental graffiti."
"Ati kuchapa?" I prodded while struggling to decrypt the lingo. That’s another hallmark of middle age – you just don’t get it. See, my ageing mental infrastructure can scarcely metabolise that boy’s strange gobbledygook. Sometimes, Jimmy’s Sheng leaves me feeling like a "hot air buffoon." Like most city mboys, Sheng bestows "swag" on him, which is cool among teenagers in my part of the county. More importantly, it accords him tremendous leverage in his dealings with members of the opposition sex.
"Umeanza kuzeeka," the kinyozi announced dryly. The word "mzee" certainly received a workout that day. Well, goodbye tension! Hello pension! There you have it, fellow taxpayers. Life is now officially unfair for the man who brings home the unga. But as I agonise over my emerging grey hairs, Mama Jimmy has been farming her hair like a cash crop for Irene the hairdresser. It remains as dark and shiny as a police boot.
Anyway, Kim eventually mowed my hair and we left. Back in our hacienda, I took a roll call of my present, past and future accomplishments, and let’s just say that I awarded myself an E plus. I really haven’t achieved much these past 38 years.
If the headmaster of Nyakemincha Primary School were present, he’d probably have gasped "Heh! Baba Jimmy, which school is this you attended?" Pretty soon, Baba Jimmy will be chewing his pension while doing all that appertains to old age. I’ll forget people’s names and learn to spit.
My mental hard disk will crash, which is how the "cookie" crumbles for people on the wrong end of the trumpet. Before long, my joints will be more accurate at predicting earthquakes and weather patterns than the Meteorological Department and Prophet Owuor. Thereafter, my Maker will press the delete button and what will happen next? Baba Jimmy will receive his one-way ticket to fertilise the red soils in Nairobi’s Eternal Bedroom, namely, Langata. Phew! You never see it coming, but that’s ageing for you.
mainajoseph166@gmail.com