This week I turned 53 and the prospect of 60 and dread of old age looms large. With neither cattle in my kraal, nor money in my wallet, nor savings in the bank, my dreams become less and less of the exciting and pleasant brand . . . unusual aches creep up in unsuspecting bone crevices and 45 seconds of my every minute seem to be consumed by jolting anxiety, random spasms of fear and diminishing returns of confidence — the taste buds of life and youthful glamour seem to dim and the budding appetite for lonesome space and long hours of peace grows in me.
MATHABELAZITHA/THE ANVIL BY ZIFISO MASIYE
I had the opportunity 10 years back, courtesy of a horrible road traffic accident, to peep into the Pearly gates of Heaven and, honestly the prospect of death per se does not scare me. That was, by a mile, perfect peace, the most tranquil me I have ever been, and depending on the cross-over method, I would happily embrace the idea of dying. It is the imminent idea of loss of capacity that comes with ageing and the debt of a ruinous country I bequeath my children that really terrifies me. If He allows me question time, my main question to God will be: What had really gotten into you when you gave us a lifetime of Robert Mugabe and Zanu PF? But I have resolved not to discuss any of that nauseating abomination today. Just age and the fear of ageing!
I often observe with absolute horror and trepidation the misery visited upon most black elderly citizens in our cities, when, having cared for society, it becomes society’s turn to care for them.
On retiring and attaining age 70 and thereabouts, a white guy will trim his bills to the bearest minimum, flog all assets that are excess to functional requirements, sell his Burnside mansion and fleet of fuel guzzlers and instead retreat into some small city flat-let and a Datsun 1200 or indeed a well-appointed old people’s home. There, to be well looked after, in the company of his geriatric age-mates on the back of the proceeds of his assets or lifetime savings. Not so his black counterpart.
In traditional, communal African society perhaps, your typical 70-year-old would be similarly taken care of, in the comfort of their resourceful rural homestead by their accumulated wealth of cattle, expansive agricultural produce and repositories of grain wealth and dependable social capital. Besides the communal warmth and deeply embedded culture that revered and deferred to the elderly always ensured that only the most special care, both in the home and in the community, was reserved for and accorded old people and, regardless of their personal circumstances, just about all elderly citizens were assured special attention and a dignified old age.
The latter-day combination of rapid black urbanisation and old age is a very clumsy social recipe that is often replete with unenviable ageing misery and conflicted death. Courtesy of the cash economy, harsh urban life conditions, lack of prudent investment culture, increased individualism and a heightened sense of self and self- preservation increasingly, the elderly people in our cities are vulnerable and sorely exposed to potential personal ruin beyond 70 or beyond their personal capacity to fend for self. They are uninsured, they command miserly pensions and, except for their vote, the state simply doesn’t care about the old. Increasingly, the city is a dog-eat- dog jungle of survival and no place for recipients of charity no matter what claim they have to our names. The tiny properties they may have are endless war-zones of fierce legal wrangling between spouses and amongst offspring… They hardly accrue old age security and a peaceful retirement. The end of African lives is often as clumsy as its rarely planned beginning.
Researchers claim that in the last 15 years of their lives, “aged black urbanites, in different conditions of physical and mental health, whether alone or in the care of families, regularly pray for a quicker end of their lives owing to the misery that accompanies their final years of life . . .” This increased comparative loss of appetite for life, some argue, is attributable to a number of combined reasons:
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The fear of diminishing social relevance
The trinkets of global urbanisation and trappings of modern capitalist society, its entire tools and mechanics seem designed to make a 75-year-old city-dweller increasingly obsolete and irrelevant to society. Urban infrastructure is designed so as to altogether alienate the aged and render their view redundant in increasing spheres of life. It is not uncommon that family of metropolis customs that defines the city — the dress code, the lingo, the swag, the music and the whole vibe — tends to be weird and somewhat off-putting to me and my likes as one drifts along the urban flashpoints of late.
Except for your dreary burial society and church cell group, the corresponding absence of distinct, relevant roles and robust social mandates and preoccupations of the elderly, they have been made virtually redundant by city life.
The fear of incapacity
The ultimate dignity of all human beings is in the capacity to up and do stuff for oneself and never have to rely for basic needs on another. The diminished capacity of the elderly in an increasingly cruel urban environment, where the young and agile are consumed by their own urban rat- race and hardly hide their annoyance with charitable conduct, is a social prison for ageing citizens. While we are happy to participate in well-organised home-care schemes in world capitals far from home, it feels like irrelevant taboo to promote similar institutionalised welfare for our own mothers and gogos back home!
The fear of loss of power, authority
The diminishing ability to control and influence the behaviour of others, whether by negative sanction or positive suasion, reduces the elderly to family zombies. The voice of an elderly urban citizen, without the backing of distinct political power or other measure of wealth, is a voice in the wilderness… Nobody cares.
Similarly when, so often, they overhear all those hurtful words and fierce family feuds and conflicts between and amongst their own offspring quarrelling over the demanding chores and obligations of looking after themselves, their aged person, the elderly are so hopeless and torn apart. The list has no end.
The greatest present I got at 53 was word from my buddy who advised that, from now my true wealth must be my health and well-being; that though money is useful, it ain’t everything, but I should forget, forgive and prioritise laughter and good company.
I shall discuss his great advice in future instalments. Suffice to say I decided I would spend 30 minutes, at 53, with each of 20 special women and proxy moms that mothered me in their unique ways through the years and remind them what special human beings they all are.
Zii Masiye ([email protected]) writes elsewhere on social media as Balancing Rocks
