WHY IT IS BETTER TO GROW OLD IN NIGERIA THAN AMERICA

WHY IT IS BETTER TO GROW OLD IN NIGERIA THAN AMERICA

Editor’s note: Naij.com‘s contributor, Ikhide Ikheloa gives an insight on growing old in America, compared to what he remembers of old people and aging while he was growing up in Nigeria.

I have always wanted to be an old man. Growing up in Nigeria, childhood seemed to be an overrated experience. We were not poor, but my parents were Spartan in affairs that mattered to me a lot.

I was always hungry but it always seemed that the best meals were reserved for elders, certainly the choicest parts of meat and fish. I never quite understood what old people did, outside of supervising women and children nonstop and demanding things meant solely for their comfort. Any child or woman who dared question the inanity of their judgment or alleged wisdom would find a suddenly spry “old man” connecting painfully with sensitive parts of their body or heart.

For me, as a child, all parents were old people, especially the men. My dad enjoyed being an old man. Everything I loved was reserved for him. I loved chicken gizzards; that was for him. I loved chicken legs; that was for him. I loved to do nothing but supervise other people as they cleaned the yard. That was his responsibility as I cleaned the yard. I started going to church every Sunday praying to God that he spared my life so I could become an old man with the necessary benefits that accrue to old people. God answered my prayers, but in the wrong country.

It is great to be a man in Nigeria. It is even greater to be an old man in Nigeria. I live in America now, I came here as a young man, I am now an aging – err, old man. In America. Trust me, you don’t want to be a man in America. You are not in charge, never will be. You certainly do not want to be an old man in America. Your children cannot wait to take you to an old people’s retirement home where if you are lucky you would spend your days staring out of a fake window as a nurse forces you to down pureed pounded yam and egusi.

It is not always a bad thing. There are some good days. Saturday morning. I feel great. Feeling really great is a rarity at my age. Energy comes in limpid spurts, the mind adjusts, learning to be super-efficient with time and energy. The older you get, the scarcer they are as commodities, I mean, time and energy. Hurry up children, hurry up, daddy is feeling great today. Daddy has energy today, let’s do all our chores before daddy has to take a nap!

The kids are happy to see the return of my energy and my sense of responsibility as a father. We are going to the optician to finally get those eye-glasses for Netter Shoks. We are going to the shopping malls, Ominira has some gift cards she must spend or I will lose my mind from the constant asking to go to the shops because Ominira has gift cards that must be spent. We are going to the shops to rescue things we don’t need from bankrupt stores. We are going to the barbershop, me and the boys. Why, I do feel great!

I have already played two rounds of cards with my son, Fearless Fang. He has this card trick he plays endlessly, starting with the chant, Daddy, pick a card, any card! It is a card trick that doesn’t even annoy me, even after a hundred chants of Daddy, pick a card, any card!

Life is good today, life is really good. I wish my wife was at home with us today, life would be really great. But she is the real breadwinner of the house, she is out making money and I am here at home doing baby nurse.

America get as e be sha! America is no respecter of age. America. I am in the wrong place and time. The old don’t get much respect in America and I miss Nigeria. Life is a cycle. I am at a certain age now, and my children treat me like their son.

But life is great today, life is really great. Maybe I’ll have a drink to celebrate a golden day. And ruin a golden day.

I remember Wole Soyinka’s ruminations on his first white hairs. I only remember it now, because I didn’t understand it then and I don’t understand it now. Here, see if you can understand it.

To my first white hairs

Hirsute hell chimney-spouts, black thunderthroes
confluence of coarse cloudfleeces – my head sir! – scourbrush
in bitumen, past fossil beyond fingers of light – until …!

Sudden sprung as corn stalk after rain, watered milk weak;
as lightning shrunk to ant’s antenna, shrivelled
off the febrile sight of crickets in the sun –

THREE WHITE HAIRS! frail invaders of the undergrowth
interpret time. I view them, wired wisps, vibrant coiled
beneath a magnifying glass, milk-thread presages

Of the hoary phase. Weave then, weave o quickly weave
your sham veneration. Knit me webs of winter sagehood,
nightcap, and the fungoid sequins of a crown.

My objective, in depth review: Very nice poem. Very nice. But wetin di man say? End of review of head-breaking poem by olodo (moi!).

I don’t remember my first strand of white hair. I remember a wave, a mean army of amebos outing my mortality before pretty damsels. That is the other thing– all the beautiful women start coming out of everywhere once your white hair starts sprouting all over your ancient body.

I am officially an old person in America. The mail came some moons ago and I got my membership card to the American Association of Retired Persons (AARP). With your AARP card, you get pretend-perks like airfare and hotel room discounts. Big deal. At my age, in my village in Nigeria, you get a chieftaincy title. In America I got a piece of paper screaming “old man!”

But old age is not that bad. My stomach is still trim. Well it is not bulging yet, but I see the beginnings of a paunch… My passions have aged, mellowed. I give advice to the young and they pretend to be awed by my inanities. Old age robs you of memory also. Anything that is not inside Amebo, my iPhone, might as well not exist. I have to write everything down or else I forget. My doctor says not to worry, as long as I know that I am forgetting something I am fine. He says when you forget that you forgot then you are in real trouble. Sigh!

Source: naij.com