Being a young adult is tough. And when you belong to a generation that is lorded over by suspicion as ours, you never get slack. I was a millennial born at the dawn of an informational renaissance. My generation had been baptized by the internet and anointed with social media. We were blessed with knowledge, which was ironic considering libraries were becoming defunct to the extent of being converted into community halls where we could play squash or dance to some wildly inappropriate music. So much for future civilizations I guess.

Sometimes I would ponder, of the days yonder… when life wasn’t so seamless yet meaningless. When I was younger, I mean single digits old, and had dreams that would probably define me for the rest of my life. My dreams were pretty basic. Simple dreams. Standard dreams. To become the supreme ruler of the world for one. Probably get the same hairstyle as Kim from North Korea, which apparently was the default hairstyle for all nineties kids or megalomaniac warlords. Don’t believe me? Think Hitler. I wonder where Kimmy from Korea and Hitler’s barber got their inspiration from.

I would have jailed all women, with the exemption of mum, mostly because she cooked and we needed to eat. They are evil spawn! Nasty women. Or rather, that is what every boy my age was saying. With their pimples, and their clean white socks and their patterned shoes. Just an eyesore! And I would set the Department of Women Affairs be under the Ministry of War. If I knew Bi Msafari by then, I would have had her as the Warlord General. She always seems to have a vendetta against women. I wasn’t messing. Eve started all this. I was to end it.

Because I would be a kajillion-aire I would get myself a Siberian Tiger. I would call him, ‘Guy’ which would be befitting when I would try and stop him from mauling people. I would just pull his leash and shout, ‘You Guy!’ and everything would be ok. Ok because I would treat the injured with healing sand  and coconut water from the palm trees spread along the beach. The beach to my island. My Island called Estonia. And as expected, emissaries from Tallin would beseech me to change the name but I would have none of it, creating an international incident. But I would win the case, because like Trump, I get away with anything.

And most importantly, I would have the stamina of a black leader. Have a dream like Martin Luther King, sit powerfully on benches like Rosa Parks, have mesmerizing optics like Malcom X and be as eloquent as Barack Obama, not forgetting the deep authoritative voice as Admiral Barry Black.

Then I grew up. And I learnt that world domination doesn’t really settle well with people. Again, women aren’t as toxic as I imagined them to be. They are just ok. And while getting an exotic pet or a private island isn’t too far fetched, having the tag -illionaire attached to my name would necessitate me to work for a few hundred years continuously without food, water and any form of breaks including sleep. It was that or either play god-level soccer or be a serial entrepreneur. Two things I obviously wasn’t. The most painful realization was that I wasn’t black enough to have the presence of a black leader. I was just a normal richly-tanned African. 

So my dreams remained to be just that. Dreams. Valid only within the precincts of my imaginings. So I turned out to be an introverted millennial on the brink of quarter-life crisis. Big deal!

But who knows.


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