Today, I met a man who loves his life, quite literally. A working man. He started talking, halting at first, then he wouldn’t stop talking. Counts himself as a morning person, a career man satisfied in the strides of public service.
All through, it was his drawback “I am a public servant, serving is my duty. He had all the hallmarks of a good man, speaks so fondly of his three sons but hacks at their lust for lands abroad, “I don’t like America, but it’s what he wants, he’ll have it.” He is especially thrilled that his son’s girl came to see him in India, “that should mean they are serious.”
Then he is on a tirade against the fanciful dreams of the millenials, “The problem with you guys, you want to get rich now, not this afternoon, now, I grew my beard at 40.” He has this encased phone on his table, it serves him well he says, but then he whips out another one from his jacket pocket and not being a killjoy, he says “ my son bought me this fancy Iphone, I really don’t use it.” Beats me why he would carry it anyway. Maybe it is sentimental.
I didn’t tell you about India. This man lost his voice (I guess I know why he wouldn’t stop), all his cognitive functions too. No, let’s cycle back, he had cancer of the oesophagus, then it was a stroke. I was looking at a cancer survivor. He scored a brace but I’d give him a hat trick for one, Here I had a man rising up to every question we fielded, telling us 4 years ago he was relearning his alphabets. He doesn’t forget to say he took up his Kikuyu first, makes me think about my own heritage. He speaks diversity to its furthest reaches all along recounting crossing ridges for his wife.
I didn’t ask him what he’ll be upto, seeing he has two years of service left but methinks halting, then unhinged.
