Funny thing about life is that it goes on. It doesn’t stop and wait for you to put your act together. It doesn’t wait for you to clear campus, get your dream job that comes customised with a blue Subaru or a year’s supply of fresh weaves.
Life simply goes on. And for most of us it’s a little scary, and this is why.
Two weeks ago, I spend my weekend bonding with my cousins. Naturally, I guess due to my age, marriage and the kids subject always pops up.
I normally throw in my hakuna-haraka-with-these-things response whenever I’m smacked with the ‘so when are you settling down?’ One of my cousins though wasn’t convinced. He looked straight into my eyes as if he was watching his own sex-tape, and had asked: How old are you? I swear, he sounded like Mr.Ainea Imbalambala, my authoritative primary school headmaster.
“Mmmmhh! As in…, Okay, I will be 34 in 3 month’s time,” I fumbled off. Then the discussion got interesting.
Long story short: this is basically the reality of my life right now. Assuming I get married in the next one year, for what is worth, I should be expecting my first little rascal, let’s call him/her Kim, when I hit 36. By the time Kim bounces into kindergarten, three years later, I will be 40.
Let’s assume Kim is a bright little thing that won’t repeat kindergarten. Hebu stop rolling your eyes – My uncle’s kid repeated kindergarten coz he failed class one entrance exam.
Crossing my fingers, we are made to buy graduation gowns, balloons and some ridiculous big cake. Wait a minute: yes, I mentioned Kim’s graduation. Kwani you have never been tagged on Facebook of pictures of your friends attending their kid’s graduation in kindergarten? My friend, welcome to the new parenting galaxy.
Where were we? Ooh! So crossing my toes, sorry fingers, Kim finally gets admitted to Class One. Hoping teachers won’t call for strikes every week, little Kim finally clears Class 8. By then I will be almost 50, an age where I need to be drifting into retirement. This means by the time Kim graduates from campus, assuming I would still have a job to pay for his/her fees, and fund Kim’s party-like-a-rock-star lifestyle, I will be 54.
Then give Kim two years of tarmacking – I’m being optimistic here – before he/she gets a job. Remember before Kim gets a job, he/she will still be devouring mlima ya sembe in my house, and incurring unnecessary expenses like asking pesa ya kwenda out.
Of course, I am so hoping by this time, Kim won’t have prematurely enjoyed the joy of impregnating Mrs. Jackson’s daughter. Or if Kim, if its a she, won’t be calling some tall, dark, jobless dude living in his parent’s SQ, ‘her handsome baby daddy.’
Remember I’m heading to my 60s in full throttle, and we are still talking about Kim, my first rascal. I’m yet to mention Carey The Diva, my second born. There’s Romney Washington Richards Fidel Castro Waudo, my third born. And if the gods allow I wouldn’t mind adding a Southern Bypass North West Kardashian Waudo.
Halafu you always have to expect for ‘golden handshake’ child. For this one, I plan to go ethnic to preserve the Waudo lineage. So, I will smack him with my ancestor’s name: Theophilus Alphonso Shimuchira Makwakwa Waudo.
So, in case I decide to have four rascals – which anyway is the plan right now. The reality is that, if I am not carefully, I will still be changing diapers in my 80s.
Why are you still rolling your eyes? Kwani you don’t know about the Twiraa and Instagram mums of these days? They don’t just pop babies every week like our grandma’s used to do. These days, I am told, after popping a ka-Kim, they need like kedo four years to first lose that baby fat, look cute on photos for their Facebook albums, and volunteer for the MyDressMyChoice movement, before they could CONSIDER adding another toi.
We probably will never admit it – but men too have that biological thing. So, in case a brother has been ‘putting pressure on you’ to meet his old man, walk down the aisle, move in with him in his hostel room, or pop a rascal for him, like ASAP. Don’t create a WhatsApp group or gather your BFFs together to discuss the poor chap. No, he hasn’t been diagnosed with prostrate cancer. It’s just that biological thingy.
And for brothers, who are just chilling with – no plans for settling down. No plans for putting their life together. No plans to advance their education or career. No plans for savings and investment. No plans for even someday sending the sexy Mrs. Jackson’s daughter to the maternity ward. No ambitions. No dreams. Remember how we began – unfortunately life goes on. It waits for no one. My advice – it’s never too late to begin planning your life. Better late than never, because trust me, we all have that biological thing. If you are like me, you risk being called grandpa by your own little ones.
