The object in life is to garner enough things, material and otherwise, that will increase your self-importance and self-gratification. You must do this while you’re still young such that, once you get old, these things save you from being an angry old grouch.

It is my stark belief that this epiphany causes our under-accomplished elders to take out their frustrations on the rest of the world.

It is in this same world that a young, fly African dwells. That African is me, and today I was jumping out of my 2009 Audi A6 driver seat on a hot Kenyan day looking cooler than Nordic designer ice cubes.

Now, I must clarify, by “my Audi” I mean “somebody else’s Audi that I was driving”, but that is not of consequence. The point of the matter is I looked more gooder than you can imagine, and the public believed the ride was mine.

Anyhow, I rhythmically strutted into an administrative office to the beat of my imaginary marching band, being sure to allow my invisible cheerleaders enough space to do cartwheels and spell my full name and surname with their contorted torsos and limbs. I heard my court jester announce my arrival as the door opened. I took 2 steps in and paused, posed, took my designer(not) glasses off, and shot a magnum gaze at the elderly lady behind the desk. Out of nowhere, a gust of wind blew my jacket open, and left it fluttering behind me like a majestic cape. I planted my fists on either side of my waist and tilted my head slightly up and to the right to my fantasy royal fanfare.

You should’ve been there. Believe me, it was gloriously, epicly sexy. But apparently my flawless aura was not impregnable to infuriated inquiry.

“Nataka nini wewe?” [‘What do you want, you?’]

She was clearly unimpressed. I smiled and replied back in English, announcing who I was there to see, the senior-most officer present, superhero stance untainted by her question.

The body is a fascinating vessel full of fun facts. For example, did you know the stomach and eyes were somehow connected? Me neither. Which is why I was so surprised when she shot me gallons of bile out of her eyes. I felt like I had somehow offended her or thrown a baby at her baby.

“He’s at lunch. What do you want?”

Ignoring the obvious angst on her end, I swaggerfully retorted that it was regarding a a semi-personal matter and insisted that since I had just spoken to the fellow, he must have been in his office. I reached for my shiny, impressive, cellphone and began to scroll through fictitious messages, as though I was texting him.

She was seething. Oh, boy, she was fuming. I could smell hair singing, sizzling, as sweat beaded and evaporated off her forehead, leaving only ovals of seared skin. The lady must’ve been at least 60. She wasn’t there as a secretary, so she was obviously, basically, a watchman. She looked like a raisin sculpture with very pruney features and her head was full of white hairs. She was naturally dark and seemed to only get darker as she got madder.

I had been careful not to be disrespect her, but at the same time had not remotely attempted to be humble. I flaunted all my worth, puney albeit. Short of opening my wallet and explaining what the color of my American Express and Visa cards meant, I made sure she knew I was no joke. I didn’t do this out of spite. First, I really did have to see the big boss urgently and confidentially and I also happened to be genuinely happy. Seeing as I grew up in the rectum of this city, it felt good to be doing well, to some degree. I was just so excited that I could not hide it. I was losing control and I think I liked it.

But at the same time, I thought she’d be happy for me. It took me a while to realize this, but the same lady, working that same position had seen me crawl these office floors as an urchin and should really have remembered me once she heard my name. Alas, she was blinded by the loathing and jealousy and so forth, and maybe it was my fault to a small degree. However, once I walked in the office, forcefully might I add, and met the senior secretaries before meeting the boss himself and his lovely assistant(no, I didn’t get her phone number. But thanks for asking.), I was met with nothing but open arms and congratulations.

See, when happy people meet happier people, the joy multiplies and the room becomes an orgy of glee. But when there’s bad blood in the mix, everything goes sour, fast. I plan to be a jolly old person, regardless of what I’m doing. I could be a retired blogger, with nothing but a grain of maize and dusty sandals to my name and I’ll still be the cheeriest bird in the cage. Why? Because much as life can be hard, the alternative is nothing to smile about. I figure be grateful for it and enjoy it while you have it.

Live the life you love and love the life you live, I say.

Anyhow, on my way out, I explained who I was and it clicked to her. She was shocked and overjoyed and hugged me like I was the Prodigal Son. She smiled and joked about how well I was doing and then as we parted ways I felt her heart sink as she realized what had happened.

I made sure I waved as I drove away. I know she saw it.

8 thoughts on “Elderage

  1. Pingback: When The Elderly Need A Spanking « Diasporadical

  2. Pingback: Beware Horny Kenyans « Diasporadical

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