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The eldest man of the family turned 19 this week. “I can’t believe this is my last teenage year,” he said solemnly, no doubt weighed down by the supposed monstrosity of the milestone. I smiled and said nothing.
As one of the wise men in my life likes to quip: No one, no matter their age, doesn’t have their “one upon a time.” Even a toddler will hark back to a time they couldn’t walk or talk. In marking the milestone, I have been reminded of my own evolution in life and in writing.
The young-old man’s birth was heralded in newspaper pages, which tells you how long I have been producing meat wrappers. For those who missed the memo, former Prezzo Uhuru Kenyatta, aka UK, once claimed the singular value of the Press in society is to produce newsprint that will end up as meat-wrappers.
That was before hoodlums emerged in the dead of night to snatch his son away for alleged gun possession. I suppose he instantly modified his judgement, acknowledging the sanctity of a free Press in challenging the excesses of those in power. After all, power without responsibility has been the prerogative of the harlot through the ages.
These are not my words, though I can be as rude. They came from British author Rudyard Kipling, and were delivered by politician Stanley Baldwin in his attack on Press lords in the United Kingdom.
Similarly, growing up comes with enormous responsibility. These days, the young-old man runs his own itinerary. Which is just as well because growth is marked by one’s ability to manage one’s own time and activities.
On the rare occasion when he’s out with his college buddies—he attends a school that emphasises formal dressing, so my wardrobe has been quietly moved from one room to another, without my notice—I will call to enquire when we should expect him home.
A brief word about his phone. The phone is always engaged—but he’ll call without a hitch when he needs you—and his last known number was changed twice within one day. The explanation is that the original line was reportedly faulty and out of network, so folks at the telco advised him to secure a new line.
This was done and tested last weekend, but the SIM card slipped into a corner of the settee from where it could not be retrieved, so he went for a replacement of the SIM within a few hours of its issuance. These are the joys of being young.
On one occasion, when I did a random night call, the young-old man’s phone was answered by a female voice I couldn’t place. I ordered him to come to the phone immediately.
He did. It turned out he and a bunch of buddies from class were visiting the girl’s parents’ house. When the young-old man got home, I asked him how he would respond if he called my cell phone and it was answered, not by me, or his mother, but a female voice he didn’t recognise. He laughed his head off. He said he hadn’t thought of it that way.
A plan is in the offing to host some of those classmates, so I’d have a chance to verify some of the elements of this story. And quite a few parents have asked for our contacts to confirm if we’re doing the hosting, so I’m happy I am not the only parent paranoid about keeping tabs on these youngsters.
Meanwhile, the youngest man of the house is also slowly coming of age. At eleven, he and his classmates are hosting their parents in the Amboseli wilds this weekend. The idea is that they get to cook meals and do the dishes in a role play of sorts.
That’s probably what most of us did throughout our childhood, not as a novelty rolled into a vacation, but because when a cooking pot of githeri was left under your watch, you knew you risked being thrust into the pot if you didn’t keep the fire burning.
I understand such chores are now considered “child labour,” which sits at odds with the foundational principles of our agrarian society, where folks procreated mainly to provide a pool of free labour.
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The eldest man of the family turned 19 this week. “I can’t believe this is my last teenage year,” he said solemnly, no doubt weighed down by the supposed monstrosity of the milestone. I smiled and said nothing.
As one of the wise men in my life likes to quip: No one, no matter their age, doesn’t have their “one upon a time.” Even a toddler will hark back to a time they couldn’t walk or talk. In marking the milestone, I have been reminded of my own evolution in life and in writing.
The young-old man’s birth was heralded in newspaper pages, which tells you how long I have been producing meat wrappers. For those who missed the memo, former Prezzo Uhuru Kenyatta, aka UK, once claimed the singular value of the Press in society is to produce newsprint that will end up as meat-wrappers.
That was before hoodlums emerged in the dead of night to snatch his son away for alleged gun possession. I suppose he instantly modified his judgement, acknowledging the sanctity of a free Press in challenging the excesses of those in power. After all, power without responsibility has been the prerogative of the harlot through the ages.
These are not my words, though I can be as rude. They came from British author Rudyard Kipling, and were delivered by politician Stanley Baldwin in his attack on Press lords in the United Kingdom.
Similarly, growing up comes with enormous responsibility. These days, the young-old man runs his own itinerary. Which is just as well because growth is marked by one’s ability to manage one’s own time and activities.
On the rare occasion when he’s out with his college buddies—he attends a school that emphasises formal dressing, so my wardrobe has been quietly moved from one room to another, without my notice—I will call to enquire when we should expect him home.
A brief word about his phone. The phone is always engaged—but he’ll call without a hitch when he needs you—and his last known number was changed twice within one day. The explanation is that the original line was reportedly faulty and out of network, so folks at the telco advised him to secure a new line.
This was done and tested last weekend, but the SIM card slipped into a corner of the settee from where it could not be retrieved, so he went for a replacement of the SIM within a few hours of its issuance. These are the joys of being young.
On one occasion, when I did a random night call, the young-old man’s phone was answered by a female voice I couldn’t place. I ordered him to come to the phone immediately.
He did. It turned out he and a bunch of buddies from class were visiting the girl’s parents’ house. When the young-old man got home, I asked him how he would respond if he called my cell phone and it was answered, not by me, or his mother, but a female voice he didn’t recognise. He laughed his head off. He said he hadn’t thought of it that way.
A plan is in the offing to host some of those classmates, so I’d have a chance to verify some of the elements of this story. And quite a few parents have asked for our contacts to confirm if we’re doing the hosting, so I’m happy I am not the only parent paranoid about keeping tabs on these youngsters.
Meanwhile, the youngest man of the house is also slowly coming of age. At eleven, he and his classmates are hosting their parents in the Amboseli wilds this weekend. The idea is that they get to cook meals and do the dishes in a role play of sorts.
That’s probably what most of us did throughout our childhood, not as a novelty rolled into a vacation, but because when a cooking pot of githeri was left under your watch, you knew you risked being thrust into the pot if you didn’t keep the fire burning.
I understand such chores are now considered “child labour,” which sits at odds with the foundational principles of our agrarian society, where folks procreated mainly to provide a pool of free labour.
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By Peter Kimani