Always live curious

The other day, at the tail end of a meeting, a lady said, “You don’t look 40,” and I – seated across from her at the table – said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that.”

And she said, “I said you wrote that you turned 40 somewhere but you actually don’t look 40.” I said, “ I’m sorry, say it a bit louder, I still can’t hear you. Louder for the rest of these gentlemen to hear.” We all laughed.

There was a successful 48-year old guy seated at the head of the table and as the conversation centred on age and ageing, someone asked him what he plans to do at 50. He said he plans to retire to the village.

He said he has a great attachment to his village and that he has been working since he was 23-years-old – a total of 27 years now – and he plans to do nothing but farm and get involved in his community activities. I wanted to walk over and hold him on his shoulder with my two hands and ask him, “But why? Why are you like this?”

When he spoke those words I pictured myself in my own village, retired. Retired! First off, I don’t even want to imagine that ‘retirement’ is an option. What is that anyway? Retire from what? Retirement is what our parents did. You called it a day at work, the same job you had held for 40 years.

They sang for you and then someone gave a speech. Food was served on disposable paper plates and 1.5 ltr bottles of warm sodas on the table like sentries.

They clapped for you then the old and religious cleaning lady prayed and then you were handed a bicycle as a gift, and they dispersed later to do photocopies and construct letters on Word documents.

You? Oh you packed and left the city for the village where between sitting in committees for fencing land and in dispute resolutions, you waited for two things to happen; for your children to bring home your grandchildren, or death.

Whichever came first. That’s retirement in my head. And I ain’t doing it. I’m not cut from that retirement cloth.

Also, I just don’t see myself going back to my village to retire. I love where I come from, I’m proud of it, but I will be miserable. And I hate self-imposed misery. What would I be doing? Sit on the verandah, my radio on and read my Bible, like I see my own father do? (Although I think he enjoys it. He’s an introvert. He hates small talk.) Would I wear my white shirt and blue trousers and attend church on Sabbath?

LONG DREARY CHURCH SERVICE

Our long dreary church service that lasts a whole day? How would I fill my weekdays? Would the Wifi be strong enough to keep away the misery banging on my door? Would I befriend other retirees, a cast of former corporate brawlers and trade war stories?

Would I call my son and him not pick because he’s busy with his life like I am now? And him call me back later in the evening as I’m about to sleep and me not be in the mood to talk to him then because I can’t find my goddamn joint pain meds?

Oh no. That’s not going to be me. I’m not retiring. If I’m strong and I’m healthy and of sane mental health and I’m not in jail, I won’t stay still.

I will keep producing (not children, surely, those I don’t want anymore) because I wouldn’t want to ever ask my children for a penny or stare at the phone ringing and think, oh no, Papa wants money.

I’d also not want them to know exactly where I am at any time. Not that I will be avoiding them, which would be fun ha-ha, but just that I would not want them to ever predict what I’m doing or where I am doing it at any given time.

If say Tamms, my daughter, then perhaps working as an architect or a sports apparel designer, is asked by her nosy colleague where her father is, I don’t want her to assume that I’m in the village.

I want her to tell her, “You know, I honestly never know where he is. Let me call him, I haven’t spoken to him since Sunday when he sent me a cheesy forward,” and when she calls me my phone will ring weird and when I pick up and I say, “My only tomato!” and she says, “Kwani where are you, Papa?” I want to be able to tell her, “I’m in Kinshasa.”

And she says, “What on earth are you doing in Kinshasa, aren’t they fighting down there?” and I will say, “Not in Le Quartier, they aren’t!” and she will ask what Le Quartier is and I will say, “It’s a local bar in Salongo. I’m writing about Congolese new-age music. When you called I was interviewing an upcoming musician called Bokila Mandjombolo LuaLua Biakabutuka.” She will giggle and say, “Please. I’m sure you made that up.”

That’s what I want. I don’t want them to call me and assume that I’m in a committee meeting in the village to build another classroom for Nyaburi Primary School (that’s a school in my shags).

In fact I would not want that word to be associated with me. It’s an ugly word. It means to exit, to decamp, to adjourn. We don’t adjourn. We slow down.

We align into the wind at most but at best we lower our heads and face the wind. We don’t retire, for crying out loud, because we stay hungry and we find life and ourselves and happiness – whatever the hell that is. Race horses retire. Us? We live curious.