Birthday Musings

Of the Memory of a Sieve: A Millennial Birthday Reflection

Today, March 13^th, marks another year of my life. To be honest, I still haven't quite fallen into the habit of "celebrating" my birthday. Growing up, I didn't even know such a thing existed; it was just any other normal day. My debut into the world of surprise parties and pleasant words only happened in campus back in 2018, thanks to friends who realized I’d reached adulthood without ever blowing out a candle.

Even now, I prefer the quiet side of things, though I occasionally get lucky with gifts. This year, someone special already gifted me a traveling bag. I find this incredibly thoughtful, especially for one who did not receive any gifts aside from the occasional maandazi or sweets when mum came from the market. So, instead of a party, I’ve decided to celebrate by sharing a sneak peek into the early life that shaped the boy from the village.

The Millennial Errand Commando

Yes, I am a proud millennial. And like most kids of my era, my primary job description was "Errand Boy". My mother had a love-hate relationship with my services. On one hand, I was surprisingly fast for a chubby kid. On the other hand, I had the memory of a sieve, literally.

The logistics of our household were simple: we weren't poor, but we certainly weren't "elite." In our world, "cooking salad" (liquid oil) was for the high-fliers who probably had paved driveways. We were a Kimbo family—that solid white cooking fat that came in a tin and required a bit of manual labor to scoop out. Kimbo was for the elite of our caste.

Umoja - the Classic Nuclear Weapon of the African Mother

I remember being sent to the shop to get a kilo of that Kimbo. By the time I hit the shop—a light 2-kilometer sprint away, my brain had performed a hard reset. I saw a vision of my mother scrubbing clothes earlier and concluded, with the confidence of a confused scholar, that she must have needed a bar of soap.

I rushed back, breathing heavy and sweating like a marathoner, triumphantly presenting a bar of soap instead of dinner ingredients. Normally, the right side of her notorious and the then infamous Umoja flip-flops would have collided with my skin at a frequency that defied the laws of physics. The manufacturers of those flipflops must have had African mothers as their designers. They were sturdy and easy to use as a weapon. But that day, she just laughed and sent me back for the Kimbo. I must have whispered a prayer that morning, or my late grandfather had protected me from the land yonder.

The Kerosene Corruption Scandal

Life before 2010 meant no electricity in our home. Solar-powered lamps hadn't become the village "flex" yet, so kerosene was the gold standard. One day, I was handed a 20 Shilling coin for the fuel. Now, 1 bob back then could buy a kid a small kingdom. I decided to "tax" the kerosene fund by 2 bob to satisfy my craving for those tiny round biscuits and Toffee sweets in the yellow and red wrappers. It was a flawless crime, until it turned out that the kerosene vendor had closed on that fateful day.

There I was: a tiny, biscuit-eating fraudster holding 18 Shillings and no kerosene. I spent 20 minutes on the road trying to manufacture a lie, or get ideas on how to turn water into kerosene, but I eventually folded and decided to go with the truth. What followed is for you to exercise your creative imagination. Safe to say, there was no dinner for me that day, or a lamp for us to do our homework. The ripple effect was not friendly, especially for my brother. I got a way with most mistakes in school because I was a favourite of many teachers. My brother, on the other hand, wasn't so lucky.

This became the subject of my brother's constant torment. I hated it but could not raise a finger because it was true. (The most logical reason I could not raise a finger though was because my brother was stronger and could beat the hell out of me.) On her part, my mother's punishment ended that night. I do not recall a single day, either in jest or in moments of her anger with me, when she reminded me of that day. The grace of a mother manifested, and I never again "taxed" her money.

I was relegated to the young boy who only had the courage to enjoy the discreet moments of scooping a spoonful of sugar and hurriedly wiping my mouth to conceal my indiscretion. I am sure most times mum would know I had sugar in my mouth but chose to ignore. Besides, I come from a sugar belt. From my home, you can see South Nyanza (Sony) Sugar some short distance away. 

Protecting the Frame

Back to the surprise campus birthday. My friends were saying all these pleasant things about me. It was a strange sensation. You see, back then I was miserably single partly due to the scarcity of resources that ensured my romantic life was as dry as a piece of leftover crust. I had no one to tell me pleasant things, so hearing them all at once was overwhelming. Safe to say, I am not too broke anymore. At least the levels have changed.

Some of the ladies were looking at me, expecting me to shed some tears. Apparently, that is what should happen when you are surprised. I couldn't know as this was novel to me. However, even if I knew, I had to protect the frame. Masculinity had to win. Inside, I must have felt waves of deep emotion, but on the outside? I was as solid as a fresh tub of Kimbo.

Safe to say, growing up carefree was a gift I didn't appreciate until it was gone. Today, I don't just celebrate another year; I celebrate the boy who once threw his mother's change at a bird and the man who (mostly) can't still remember the shopping list, but is able to use tools at his disposal to write down the list.