Loving each other to death!
Middle age can be tricky. I hear once you go through the process of procreation, the urge to need each other (men and women, I mean) recedes. With men, they would rather go for an odd chat or drink or two to while the day away.
The things you once cherished increasingly become less and less important. My late old guy used to complain when they have had a tiff with the old girl: “Son, the surefire way of assuring yourself trouble in life are two things – a woman and a car.”
I would chuckle and look the other way. What was the Mzee talking about? I mean in those crazy years it was normal talk to the gang about you’re your and exploits with your ka-chick. Ninety per cent of the talk was wild fantasies. You walked from Dar to Miriam College in Morogoro to see your chick. She escorted you from Morogoro back to Dar. Love, you see.
You would lie to the rest of the gang (we were called gringos) about your exploits. “Did you score?” the gang would ask you, their eyes almost bulging out of their sockets.
“Of course.” You would lie, “What do you think I am, a wimp? Six bloody times! You should have heard her scream with pleasure” You could hear the gringos sigh with a mixture of frustration and desire.
Later the whole gang would quickly disappear into the nearest loo to ostensibly have ‘showers’. Some would were heard to fall flat on the wet floors of the bathrooms.
Before you know it, you are grown up. Money becomes a problem. Before you date her you must have the money. That’s when you are taught that before you spend money you must earn it.
This makes much sense to me today. You just cannot spend money you don’t have. Except, of course, you are an African government, like Bongo. I later came to learn that most of the toffee-nosed bums who did that, ended up being wimps when they grew up. But the culture is very much into fashion today. Individuals and governments. And all the wimps who spend money without working for it are called fisadis. I just wonder for how long we are going to continue with the culture of glorifying thieves.
Also the trouble with middle-age is that instead of working on the joys of this category of age, your body starts rebelling. Your body says: “Okay, old boy, go and kill that ka-little chick. Just right for you.” Your head says yes as you ogle her with desire.
But, south of the border, the ka-thing behaves like a little baby who is learning how to walk. Damn! You feel like singing to the little uncle down there: “Up you go, I said. Attaboy! You can’t let me down in Mzee’s hour of need”
Nothing. Then one day, the scientist of the world discovered those little blue pills. Take two and the fireworks begin. But the medicos forgot to warn the middle aged guys, that…simply don’t overdo it! In the process of trying to ‘kill’ somebody with joy, you might end up very dead yourself, with a cardiac arrest!
Hard times. How will it be, having a barful of grumpy middle-aged potential lovers? The guy thinks the ka-thing could be having the bug and the ka-dada worrying that the James Bond across the table is carrying a loaded gun with a deadly HIV virus, not necessarily at the service of Her Majesty the Queen? Hard times these!
Middle age can be tricky. I hear once you go through the process of procreation, the urge to need each other (men and women, I mean) recedes. With men, they would rather go for an odd chat or drink or two to while the day away.
The things you once cherished increasingly become less and less important. My late old guy used to complain when they have had a tiff with the old girl: “Son, the surefire way of assuring yourself trouble in life are two things – a woman and a car.”
I would chuckle and look the other way. What was the Mzee talking about? I mean in those crazy years it was normal talk to the gang about you’re your and exploits with your ka-chick. Ninety per cent of the talk was wild fantasies. You walked from Dar to Miriam College in Morogoro to see your chick. She escorted you from Morogoro back to Dar. Love, you see.
You would lie to the rest of the gang (we were called gringos) about your exploits. “Did you score?” the gang would ask you, their eyes almost bulging out of their sockets.
“Of course.” You would lie, “What do you think I am, a wimp? Six bloody times! You should have heard her scream with pleasure” You could hear the gringos sigh with a mixture of frustration and desire.
Later the whole gang would quickly disappear into the nearest loo to ostensibly have ‘showers’. Some would were heard to fall flat on the wet floors of the bathrooms.
Before you know it, you are grown up. Money becomes a problem. Before you date her you must have the money. That’s when you are taught that before you spend money you must earn it.
This makes much sense to me today. You just cannot spend money you don’t have. Except, of course, you are an African government, like Bongo. I later came to learn that most of the toffee-nosed bums who did that, ended up being wimps when they grew up. But the culture is very much into fashion today. Individuals and governments. And all the wimps who spend money without working for it are called fisadis. I just wonder for how long we are going to continue with the culture of glorifying thieves.
Also the trouble with middle-age is that instead of working on the joys of this category of age, your body starts rebelling. Your body says: “Okay, old boy, go and kill that ka-little chick. Just right for you.” Your head says yes as you ogle her with desire.
But, south of the border, the ka-thing behaves like a little baby who is learning how to walk. Damn! You feel like singing to the little uncle down there: “Up you go, I said. Attaboy! You can’t let me down in Mzee’s hour of need”
Nothing. Then one day, the scientist of the world discovered those little blue pills. Take two and the fireworks begin. But the medicos forgot to warn the middle aged guys, that…simply don’t overdo it! In the process of trying to ‘kill’ somebody with joy, you might end up very dead yourself, with a cardiac arrest!
Hard times. How will it be, having a barful of grumpy middle-aged potential lovers? The guy thinks the ka-thing could be having the bug and the ka-dada worrying that the James Bond across the table is carrying a loaded gun with a deadly HIV virus, not necessarily at the service of Her Majesty the Queen? Hard times these!
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