I recently visited my grandfather after failing to do so for months, despite the promise I had made to see him every week after my grandmother passed away.
Needless to say, he was delighted to see me, letting out a slight bellowing as he extended his arms to give me a hug. The old man is still surprisingly full of life despite being in his mid-90s.
We spoke in detail that evening, about how my generation was gradually losing sight of their "Afrikan" identity in their process of adapting to Western culture.
He made me realise how I was falling in the same trap, having been so consumed with my selfish ambition to make something of myself that I neglected to pay attention to what matters; most notably, my relationship with the loved ones who helped mould me into who I am today.
As I prepared to leave, I kneeled down in front of him and presented a gift. He in turn gave me his blessings.
I visited him again the following week and found him sitting outside by himself, clutching his walking stick and listening intently to the radio.
I resisted the urge to embrace him as I felt like that would disrupt his peace, and settled for a firm handshake instead. As I sat next to him, I developed an even deeper appreciation of my childhood.
I began imagining how my cousins and I would run around the front porch, behaving as children ought to. I remembered how extraordinarily mischievous I was and how my grandmother once felt compelled to discipline me after an experiment involving faeces and a kitchen knife.
I laughed to myself as I recalled how remarkable growing up under the guidance of my grandparents was. Ntate, as we call him, asked me what I found so amusing.
At that moment, I wanted to tell him how grateful I was to him for raising me, but settled for a less sentimental response instead: "I’m just thinking how time flew. I was the height of that boulder over there just yesterday." He smiled and nodded his head, without saying a word.
Days later, I drove past an elderly woman struggling to walk as she carried heavy shopping bags. She passed a group of teenage boys who seemed too preoccupied with their beer and cigarettes to notice her.
My heart bled because we were raised to not only respect our elders, but to look after them as well. It’s all part of the principle of Ubuntu.
This principle is something I fear the next generation, with their fixation with technology and sex will never get to experience. Not because it isn’t as readily accessible as the latter, but because it’s not as appealing.
I owe a huge portion of who I am to my grandparents and the values they instilled in me as a child. I just hope the rest of my community doesn’t completely write off our elders as invalid.
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