HUMOUR
No one is born old, says Ndumiso Ngcobo
Iwalked into one of those filling station spaza shops the other day. With the price of 95 octane what it is, I cannot bear to watch my kids’ inheritance disappear into the car tank at the pump. This particular shop’s mantra seems to be: “Let’s surprise them at the till before making them bleed through their wallets” because they don’t display their prices on the shelves. When I got to the till and discovered I was about to part with R27.95 for a litre of mango-and-orange Liqui-Fruit, I sarcastically remarked: “Jeez! Does this juice come with a lap dance or something?” Without missing a beat, the old geezer behind the counter (he must be at least 70), dished out this zinger: “Nah. We only offer that service to customers who pack two inches or more.” I nearly choked on the righteous indignation I had been smugly chewing on.
As I walked away chuckling quietly to myself at grampa’s audacity, I was interrogating why I was surprised that a septuagenarian possessed the chutzpah to question the adequacy of my equipment in the middle of a testosterone-fuelled face-off. It dawned on me (again) that many of us harbour a warped condescension towards the folks we refer to as “senior citizens”. I was invited to address a group of students at Wits University recently and I got the distinct impression I was experiencing the beginning of the #LivingFossilsMustFall movement. During the Q&A session afterwards, I even got a question that began with: “Now that you guys have lived your lives …” After I composed myself I had to begrudgingly acknowledge to myself that, as far as any 19-year-old is concerned, I should be cosying up to Desmond Dube and sorting out my “dignified” exit.
When most of us think about a roomful of pensioners at an old-age home, the default reaction can be summed up by: “Oh, schweeeet, man!” Hardly anyone thinks: “There is about 2,400 combined years of hellraising, HarleyDavidson riding, ’60s flower power wanton bonking, cocaine-snorting and Jimi Hendrix-worshipping experience in this room.” Most of us looked at Madiba during his last years and saw a sweet, dancing old man in garish shirts. None of us acknowledged the hellraiser who disrupted Communist Party gatherings, upturning tables like Jesus at the temple and organising the planting of bombs at power stations. Why? Because he was a cuddly teddy bear en route to his grave. I have watched Mbuyiseni Ndlozi and other EFF parliamentarians react to the charming nonagenarian that has characterised Inkosi Mangosuthu Buthelezi in recent times and wondered if they have a full appreciation of the bundle of complexity next to them.
I can say this because, in my mind at least, it wasn’t such a long time ago that I was young. But young people brandish their youth like it is an achievement and not just the accidental timing of their birth. Not too long ago I distinctly remember looking at my mom with deep sadness at the realisation that she had no idea who the hell Terence Trent D’Arby was. At least not in relation to Nat King Cole, Ella Fitzgerald, Frank Sinatra or Cliff Richard. At the time I was incapable of internalising the fact that my mother was not born old. That she, too, had been an exuberant youth who thought old people were annoying.
About 20 years ago I found myself seated next to an elderly gentleman at the Durban Harbour. He started flirting outrageously with a woman who couldn’t have been much older than 30. When he saw the look of shock on my face, he looked me in the eye and said: “Did you think I was born 72 years old?”
This was around the same time that I found myself queuing behind two ladies of advanced age at a Spar supermarket on Durban’s South Beach. I was naturally eavesdropping on their conversation, as one does when people who are hard of hearing shout at each other, in the belief that they are speaking in hushed tones. They were skinnering about a Moira or a Molly from church who, apparently, was a hypocritical Pharisee who acted holier than thou in the presence of the priest. My jaw dropped when one of them added: “She forgets that me and her used to turn tricks together on Victoria Embankment.” I was distraught for days on end, imagining that sweet ole lady waiting for ships to dock, in a micro mini, stockings and stilettoes.
I’m 46 years old and frankly, I don’t feel that differently about myself than when I was 30. It annoys me that people seem surprised that, not too long ago, I was a Michael Jackson impersonator with a perm and three-quarter pants.
But more importantly, you need to chill. Your granny, the sweet ole lady in the red Methodist uniform? Get used to the idea that she might have been a knife-wielding shebeen dweller who knocked out folks’ teeth in fist fights. Where did you think feisty rabble rousers go when they turn 65?
HE WAS A CUDDLY TEDDY BEAR EN ROUTE TO HIS GRAVE