I have become like them

I have become like them,
who wear dress-collared shirts and ironed tailored trousers to work.
To “the grind” I once cursed in casual conversations.

On work:
It is a strange thing, to feel both pride and resignation about something.
Like to hold an internship in my hand like a trophy,
yet feel it weigh like a stone in my heart.
To win, but at what cost?
Like to have something to look forward to on weekends,
when once upon a time,
all my days were loose and formless, like an open sky.
Now the sky has a ceiling, and I walk beneath it daily.
The same ceiling I once mocked others for living under.

The tie on my neck strangles me from Monday to Friday,
and the work I once scorned now writes my schedule in ink,
loudly reminding me that the mocker often walks into the shoes he laughed at.
I have now become like them,
who complain about work.

The grumpy old men I used to avoid in public,
I have become exactly like them.
I catch myself frowning at noise in the streets,
shaking my head at careless laughter.
I have become the man who sighs before speaking,
and groans when getting up.

I have become like them old men who dance freely,
to Franco Luambo Makiadi, to Ferre Gola, to Josky Kiambukuta,
songs I once mocked young girls for loving with old men.

On girls:
I used to criticize them that dressed simply, with decorum and decency,
saying they are ignoring the ever evolving world of fashion.
Now I disregard the gloss and the bling,
and envy the simple ones who look after themselves:
those adorned in kitenge dresses that move softly in the wind,
who neatly plait their hair in quiet patterns that speak of patience,
and hair that carry the scent of home.
Who wear just enough red lipstick to be gorgeous,
but never desperate.

On love:
There were times, when I gave unsolicited advice to people in love,
because I had never known heartbreak.
Now I am one of them,
one of them who ask quietly for advice I once gave loudly.

I have become like them who dream of hair they do not have,
when once I joked about my friends’ taper fades,
now I wish the shape of my head could wear one proudly.

I once spoke harshly of what people ate:
too oily! too sweet! too much!
Now my own hands reach for soda every waking second,
my teeth aching with sugar’s insistence.

I didn’t understand old men staring out of windows,
or sitting under trees with a newspaper.
I did not understand,
the calmness of cows in the rain,
(they look like they know something we don’t).
I did not understand,
cats lying quietly beside a hot jiko.
Now I understand sunsets,
and losing an afternoon to a chapter in a book.
I have become like them,
like those fascinated by Mother Nature’s stillness,
and terrified by her raging possibilities.

The silent ones at bus stops used to puzzle me;
as if the bus will arrive sooner for their patience.
I laughed at them once, believing action was always the answer.
Now I envy their quiet.
They exude the peace of those who have met themselves.
Or the deep stillness of those who carry hurt.
Like myself.

I once mocked my sisters for calling mama fuas,
saying a real adult should wash their own clothes.
Now I too hire them when I can spare the coins,
grateful to write while my shirts are scrubbed clean.
Grateful for the sound of water slapping cloth in a plastic basin,
the sunlight turning wet shirts into sails.
What I called laziness, I now call delegation.
And I wear the freshness of their labour like a quiet luxury.

I once thought life was about avoiding the ordinary.
Now I see the ordinary is what keeps me breathing:
the making your bed, the folding your clothes.
Maybe that is growing up:
realizing we were wrong,
and carrying that realization like a mirror.
A mirror that reflects the faces we once judged,
until we see our own in the reflection.
We inherit the habits we once found ridiculous.

I have become like them who have no idea what they are doing on a daily.

Though there was a time I was sure I had it figured out.

Criticism is like a homing pigeon,

it always returns home.

✍🏽Reagan.