Reflections of an Aging Man

 

Once the euphoria of campus fades and the excitement of your first job settles, reality introduces itself in the form of your first tax return—and it stings a bit. You dream big. You think of buying a car, moving to a bigger house, landing a better job. Bigger car, bigger paycheck, bigger ambitions. Sometimes, in chasing those dreams, you miss the simpler joys: wearing your first suit, buying your mother a handbag, or even taking a diploma course in flowers—just because it makes you happy.

Then you blink, and suddenly you’re 40 or 50. You don’t feel that old, but society insists you are. When you say “25 years ago,” your mind is still in the year 2000. You catch yourself wondering: Have I done enough? Have I achieved enough? What could have been different?

The once volatile, adrenaline-filled lifestyle has mellowed into pragmatic pursuits—fitness, health, private BBQs, watching plays. Every now and then, you still attempt the wild weekend binge, only to need three days to recover.

And people seem to die a lot. Parents, uncles, aunts, even that shopkeeper who once gave you bread and eggs on credit. You bump into an old neighbor and he casually says, “You remember Kaka? He passed away.” Suddenly you’re reminiscing about kikomando days—the bachelor’s feast of chapati and beans. You even become an expert in funeral contribution spreadsheets, the go-to guy to accompany friends to the mortuary.

The village pulls you back. You check if your tanuulu (clay cooking stove) still stands, while contemplating building a proper house. Some call that project dead capital; others call it peace of mind. Either way, you visit more often, perhaps because you think about death more than you’d like to admit.

Conversations with peers now revolve around “You remember that time…” and other abunuasi stories. If your parents pressured you hard enough, you probably have two or three kids—your reason for enduring an annoying boss, skyrocketing school fees, rent, and of course, bundles for TikTok videos you can’t even partake in.

Philosophical debates creep in too. With age, you argue about the silliest of premises, only to spiral into meaningless but somehow satisfying deep thought.

The nightlife is different. Many new clubs have sprung up—Silo, Aura, and the like—but your heart still remembers Silk, Governor, Centenary Park. You’ll go to the new ones only if they have an artsy, mellow vibe that doesn’t disturb your spirits. You don’t dance much anymore anyway—rheumatic shoulders and arthritic knees won’t let you.

Sundays are slower. They’re for farmer’s markets, picking up shorts or hoodies, sipping bushera or some prosecco-type drink. You look back and smile: it’s been one heck of a ride. And you wonder, is there yet another chapter?

Of course, there is.

So go forth and write that chapter, my dear Inno. You’ve done well thus far.

 

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