Party Pooper

When I wrote about gifting last week, a friend read it and decided to ambush me with a surprise present. She tricked me into tagging along to Wangige market under the guise of hunting for thrift clothes, but then bought me this cool shirt she’d seen me eyeing. I’m a sucker for shirts—plain, simple, cotton shirts. You can never go wrong with a good shirt, no matter what trousers or shoes you have on. My closet is overflowing with shirts but severely lacking in trousers to match them. But what the heck, my shoulders are squaring up anyway. I need shirts that make my head look smaller and my arms bigger.

It was a simple, thoughtful, early birthday present. My friend—let’s call her Amanda, just because—is one of many close friends who know I couldn’t give a rat’s ass about my birthday. At least, not these days. Birthdays remind me of the cold reality of death, and of just how painfully meaningless our existence can feel. They remind me of the agony of childbirth, of the failures I’ve collected over the years... blah blah blah.

Pessimistic? Maybe. I warned you last week that I’m a tough person to love and deal with.

“Why don’t you care about your birthday anyway?” she asked.

“I stopped celebrating after my brother died.”

“Oh,” she replied, startled.

“There’s no real connection,” I clarified. “It just didn’t feel right. To me.” Amanda went back to rummaging through clothes while I kept rambling.

Ever since he passed, birthdays just lost their glamour. I’d rather the day slip by quietly and have everyone forget about it. But the more I told people to drop it, the more I started sounding like a glass-half-full killjoy. The party pooper.

Eventually, though, my boys got used to it. I love how quickly men move on. One July, I just told them, “Achaneni na mambo ya birthday. Tuende tuguze PS.” And till today, I bet none of them even remembers it. And those are my guys. That’s why I love them.

“It wasn’t always like this,” I continued, to a half-listening Amanda.

“I used to host birthday parties as a kid. Well, not real parties; more like a bunch of friends coming over to play games, drink soda and juice cola, and shower me with presents (mostly books and pencils). Simple fun. I was the fun kid. People waited for July because they’d get free soda, bread, and sausages at kwa kina Reagan. Some of my classmates threw their birthday parties at school, but those were a snooze-fest thanks to teachers policing everything and making long, boring speeches. God, I hate speeches.”

“I know you do,” she said, eyeing a crop top.

“It was fun, though. I even used to print out invitation cards ahead of time, and not-so-secretly hand them out to my inner circle. In a class of 40, only about 15 or 20 got invitations: the ones I knew wouldn’t make a fuss about drinking soda, eating bread, and having sausages for dessert.”

“So why’d you stop?” Amanda asked, barely paying attention.

It’s hard to pour your heart out to someone scanning for mtumba tops in a deafening, chaotic market. Watu wa mareeeee kwa mareeeeee kept interrupting my tragic monologue with their aggressive sales pitches.

“I stopped because time caught up with us. With all of us. Suddenly parties needed more… oomph! More spice, you know. During high school years birthdays became more about alcohol, twerking, and girls doing all sorts of questionable things. You know I’m not about that life.”

“I know you’re not,” she replied, now checking out a silk dress.

“But is that really the reason you stopped celebrating? Just to avoid throwing a twerk-fest with cheap liquor?” she asked, finally looking up at me.

When she was done picking out her finds, we headed to a nearby restaurant for a drink. I’m still amazed by how cheap some women’s clothes are, and how incredible they look on them after a quick wash and iron.

The real reason I don’t care about birthdays anymore is that time changed me. I’ve grown to enjoy simpler things, and my personal joys have gotten more private. The small birthday parties were fun in childhood, but nowadays I’d rather just chill, you know? Soak it all in that we’re getting older. One day when I am way older I plan to take a week-long birthday trip to the sandy beaches of Honolulu with Fede’s mother and just chill by the rocks. Very low-key.

There are a few lessons you pick up as you grow older, especially when you’re a 90s kid trapped in a 21-year-old’s body. You start to appreciate the finer things in life, like more quiet. You stop chasing the hype and the social media performances. You are not impressed by the airing out of your life or your birthday on social media or even in social settings. You pray every night, to wake up one day to have gathered enough money and resources to retreat to the dry plains of Karachuonyo, living a simple life among cows and cotton fields.

You learn to take care of your body and take keener attention to your dressing. You shave your pubes keenly, and trim your beard just enough not to itch. You don’t shave awkward hairstyles that don’t match your head, no matter how much your girlfriend wishes you had a taper fade. You don’t tattoo yourself, because you did not forget your mother’s teachings. You wear suits more now, because you’re becoming a man; no longer a boy who always wears shorts even in corporate settings. You keep the morning watch in prayer, because no matter your best efforts, you know your fate is in a Divinity that shapes your existence. You clean your room when you make a mess, and apologize when you’re wrong. You protect those you love, because that is what a man does when he starts getting of age.

You appreciate your family more, even though they they are a pain in your ass 24/7, 365 days a year. You still love them, because if life has taught you anything in 20 years, it’s that it’s short. So you buy your baby sister a Madrid jersey with a giant “1” on the back to celebrate her first birthday, in honour of the two things you love most: her and Madrid. You buy your mum a birthday cake on her day because no one deserves a thank you more. You don’t buy your older sisters anything because you’re still a broke comrade surviving on scraps, but you’d defend them against any man who tries to treat them poorly.

You also learn about courage. That sometimes half the battle is won when you simply get out of bed. Because when you swing your legs over the side and stand up, you’re basically telling the day, “Let’s see what more punches you got for me, you old fart.” You start sleeping with your curtains open, so you can see the stars and feel the breeze at night, and so that the first rays of Were’s sun can greet you in the morning. You wake up with the singing birds.

However, perhaps my biggest fear—or regret—about turning a year older is that I’m still a hopeless soda addict. It’s been almost a week since my last sip, and I feel terrible, practically on the verge of a relapse. These silly addictions are a harsh reminder of how meaningless birthday resolutions can be. After all, I promised my 16-year-old self on my sweet sixteen that I’d stop drinking so much soda. Five years later, I’ve probably consumed more soda than I did before that sweet 16, and now probably a diabetic.

*****

“Okay, give me that soda,” Amanda scolded, snatching my Coke bottle away. “And let’s get out of here before you get all emotional on me. Sina tissue ya kukupea upanguze machozi.” You know someone loves you when they banter you.

If anything, it’s not that I hate my birthday. I just can’t stand the hype around birthdays. Any birthdays. I’m almost done reading Big Little Things by Jackson Biko, and I bet I’ll come across an argument about birthdays that feels exactly like mine.

Of course, everyone around me has their own theories about why I don’t celebrate. Some say it’s because I’m a male, or because I’m traumatized, or because I love being negative, or because Ruto is president, or because I never get the presents I want, or because life generally sucks, or… you name it. Everyone’s got their own theory. Which is fine, I guess!?

✍🏽Reagan.