MAN TALK : Reflections of a man on the brink of 40

I turned 39 this week. I need a commendation. My biggest triumph is surviving my 30s without succumbing to yoga.

I have resisted the urge to succumb to this Zen craze and drinking chamomile tea before bed, because apparently it soothes your soul and makes you have happy dreams.

I turned 39 near water, at a quiet resort with a few souls and a breeze and birds with long beaks. I woke up early on my birthday and struggled to write and when the words refused to come, I sat there and thought about the highlights of my 30s. Here they are (and some lessons learnt):

Losing my mother: I still think of her. Sometimes I think of her when I lose sleep at 2am. Sometimes I can go a good five days without thinking of her once, then in the middle of traffic jam, on a hot day, a sharp and searing memory of her comes through. Sometimes I think of her when she had healthy weight and when she cooked traditional veggies; when she had her signature cheekiness and brilliant humour and irrepressible hyperbole.

She would call me baba, after her own father who loved her dearly. (She only called me that when she wanted Mpesa. How manipulative!) There are days when my memory of her is raw.

Days when I succumb to silent bursts of unexpected tears. I lost her smack in my mid-30s and it continues to define the last half of my third decade.

Watching my kids get born

You get to the delivery room and you watch them check in. I have been in theatre twice. (Not to give birth, but to witness this divine occasion.) It’s a special unparalleled moment watching your child get born.

Then you watch them grow and they test you as a man and as a father. You question everything, but mostly you question your competence as a parent. And as a man. And you worry. Constantly. You worry about the hurt that awaits them in the real cold world where people don’t see them as your child.

And you wish you could avert that, but you can’t because it’s when they hurt that they grow.

Nobody cares about your life

Yes. I have learnt that you can’t live your life pleasing people. Nobody cares about your life that much. Inherently, humans are selfish, we think of ourselves first, or what it all means to us. I have learnt that there is a danger in trying to fit in a box and that if you step out of that box you will be seen as odd.

But odd isn’t bad. If odd works for you, then be odd because sooner than later, odd will be normal and you will be normal and people will have to accept you for that.

Jumping off a plane: Vertigo is my Achilles heels. If I stand at the edge of a tall building and look down, I feel like pissing in my pants. Last year I jumped off a plane in South Coast. It went high up until earth looked like a bad drawing and then I jumped off with another man strapped on my back.

Before I jumped I thought I would die of fright. I asked myself, “Why am I doing these mzungu things, again?” I was sick like a dog when my feet touched the ground, but I learnt one thing, there is no fear that can’t be conquered.

Money: It’s never enough. It can’t be enough. You make it and you lose it. I have learnt not to look at who is making how much. The city is a haven of smoke screens; flashy men and women drowning in loans, sustaining a lifestyle that you might admire. It’s easy to imagine that people are doing well when you meet them driving their cars and eating salmon at Sunday brunch. I have learnt not to take things at face value. Nothing is what it seems. Stay on your lane. Run your race. Finish in your time.

God: I don’t go to church. I’m not proud of that. Sometimes I pray. Most times I forget to pray. But God continues to be patient with me and he shows his hand often in things that he lets me touch. He’s gracious and generous and kind to me. And he rocks. He rocks daily. He rocks all the time. He rocks because he doesn’t have to be nice to me, but he is.