A few years ago my uncle, Lazz turned fifty, and he hosted a party in Mombasa to which I was invited. I could not make it. At that point I wondered how old it must be to be 'half a century'. Fifty! Oh my gosh, it was sooo old. Then come January this year as we unfurled the calender, I got a jolt; I had got there. I had gotten to that 'half-way' point. I had bambad finje! Oh my, what was I supposed to do. Then I recalled uncle Lazz and his party and regretted not having travelled down to Mombasa to celebrate with him that major milestone. Recently, a friend's wife invited us to an old college chums surprise fiftieth birthday luncheon. Uuwii! There was a reminder right there. You see, when you turn fifty almost all your friends have either just turned the finje corner or are on that stretch like you. They are either a few steps ahead or behind, never too far. At the party we compared 'turning the bend' like elite Kenyan marathoners comparing the point at which they turned the corner after which the the final spurt of energy is expended to win the marathon.
The idea that this is the home stretch is so palpable. Is it cowardice or just pragmatism that makes us assume that when you turn this bend, the finje bend, the destination is nearer than the point of origin? Is it not possible to be optimistic about hitting the second fifty and by doing so you bamba hando?
The idea that this is the home stretch is so palpable. Is it cowardice or just pragmatism that makes us assume that when you turn this bend, the finje bend, the destination is nearer than the point of origin? Is it not possible to be optimistic about hitting the second fifty and by doing so you bamba hando?
