Thursday, February 18, 2010

My Age in African Years

"Middle age is the time when a man is always thinking that in a week or two he will feel as good as ever."
~ Don Marquis ~

Three times a week, around 8 in the morning, I board a rickety (matatu) minibus destined for Sironko. Usually I just try and look as scary as I can so that no body tries to hassle me for seat space or money and I can settle down and read my book. Just yesterday, our matatu pulled into the town of Sironko to drop off two passengers and let another seventy-four on, when an interesting change was made. Our mustachioed driver, who had been with us since our origin, was replaced by another man. Now, at the time I was reading Sherlock Holmes, so my sense of observation was in full force. For instance, I deduced from his tattered, soiled shirt that he had been spending too many shillings of his daily income on moonshine waragi. The back of his head was slightly misshapen, which told me he had been born and raised in the village and had been subject to sleeping on the ground when he was of the age when the head is still soft and malleable. Yet he also had a watch on, a knock off Citizen to be exact, pointing to a period in his past when the times were good and he spent money more readily on his appearance. His long strides suggested a youthful vigor, and his lack of facial hair and smooth forehead were enough to give me a solid conjecture of his age, the number I arrived at being eighteen years. After all, young boys are frequently driving matatus here, and I felt quite comfortable with my guess--Dr. Watson would be impressed. To prove my keen observation skills, I told my friend Eddie, who was sitting next to me at the time, the age I thought the driver was. Much to my surprise, Eddie responded by laughing hysterically. This man, he told me, was not close to being that young. I did not believe him, maintaining full confidence my original estimate. Eddie kept laughing, though, so I asked him to ask the driver what his age was. A long conversation ensued, entirely in Lugizu but peppered sporadically with muzungus, that finally ended with Eddie falling back in his seat with a huge grin on his face and shaking his head.

"Well?" I said, "How old is he?"
" This man," Eddie said, "is born of 1972"
The driver turned around from his driving duties to repeat this information, "Yes, eh, born of '72!"
Then Eddie started to say, "That means he is 38--"
"I know how old that is," I interrupted.
Then it hit me, this might be a cultural thing, so I asked Eddie to ask the driver how old he thought I was.
The driver looked back at me for a longer period of time, and, after first consulting with the passenger sitting to his left, finally offered his guess: "40 years!"

2 comments:

  1. Hahaha let me know when The Memoirs of Joel Hedges is published.
    Great blog. Hope all is well!
    -Lucia

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  2. Haha, awesome story Joel, I hope all is well on your end. Keep up this great narrative.

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