This is the age, I think, that becomes a place of failed dreams because it could never overcome its initial promise.
Those older than us will tell us, Young man! Run your own race; but they fail to mention that the starting point is similar, and it is hard not to look up and see the others sprinting ahead of you.
The 30s, really, are a graveyard for fantasies.
We are sat at a table overlooking Lake Victoria, or if you want to be pseudo-Pan African about it, Nam Lolwe. The sun has cast a golden shadow on the waters so that it looks as if the lake has a gilt-edged coating feel to it. It is beautiful, I think. I can't (won't?) swim, whether intentionally or otherwise, so I fixate my bum on the cheap plastic chairs, the default aesthetic of Kenyan local restaurants. The waiter, Adhiambo, asks us if we are okay every five minutes, “Mnajua nyinyi vijanawa siku hizi na maandamano haha!” The whole thing has a frantically performative vibe that borders on the evangelical—with Adhiambo in the role of the youth pastor palpably desperate to keep you going to church, but we are already converted.
We are here because our friend, Ken, is turning 30, that's partly why we are here, and partly why we keep the conversations, like our beers, “lite”. Age is an interesting thing, the difference between 29 and 30 is a mzinga and a ka-quarter. Brian is having Tusker Lite because he can, I am having Tusker Cider, warm, because I can, Ndungu and the birthday boy are having tea, but really it is chai mrefu, water with a rumour of milk, an apt microcosm of life in Kenya. When I think about it, we have about five years left to be UN-classified youth in Kenya, and we are still grappling with issues of adulthood – are we mature enough? We are getting older on paper, yes, but that's about it.
