Author: Zeha Tembo
I was a stubborn teenager, fact. I remain what I prefer to describe as a strong-willed adult with firm opinions, take that as you may. Whenever I shrugged my shoulders (which was often) – my way as a young person of saying, ‘how hard can it be’ or ‘I am capable of handling the consequences’, my mother often retold the same story, a stark warning on the perils of being in denial. The story which is a true account of the events goes as follows.
My great, great, grand-uncle, was a handsome man. In the small African village in which he was born, he was quite the catch; tall, with a striking physique, hardworking and from a well-to-do homestead. Needless to say, he had the pick of doting brides and later the option of adding on a brood of wives, should he have wished, these were indeed the ways of a polygamous tribe. Whether it was this choice, or whether it was the fact that he really enjoyed his own company, he did not pick a bride nor show any inclination of a wish to settle down. That is, until he was nearing old age. In those days, a person’s age was evident from the length of their earlobes. The longer they fell, the older you evidently were. The art of ear stretching was used to enhance one’s appearance.
So it seems my great, great, grand-uncle fell in love in his old age. From the description given of the length of his hanging earlobes, I would place his age at the equivalent of today’s retirement age. Thus, the life-long bachelor falls in love with a younger woman, demands her hand in marriage, is betrothed, and voila, done. But there was a problem. A big problem – the younger woman was, for want of a better word, wanton. Everybody knew and everybody talked about how she seldom spent the night at home. Soon she, and by default – the couple, became the talk of the village. With the gossip spreading, the extended family decided to confront my great, great, grand-uncle. Apparently, he shrugged. Another attempt was made by a council of elders. They suggested, a quick divorce, he however, was having none of it. Another delegation was sent, this time of the village chief and handy helpers, to convey, that they had heard the rumours and wanted to find out how they could help.
At this point, it is said, my great, great grand-uncle rose to his feet, and marched steadfast to the market. There, he proceeded to buy two padlocks. He returned to the delegation and to their bewilderment, in their presence, unlocked the padlocks, inserting one padlock after the other into each stretched earlobe and locked the padlocks shut. He thereafter took hold of the keys and with all his might, flung them as far as he could, never to be seen again. “There – I have locked my ears”. No one ever brought the matter up again.
I don’t know about you, but I do have some admiration for my great, great grand-uncle’s padlocks. I also have a lot of unanswered theories; was it love, the so-called blind kind of love, or stubbornness? Was he blasé, or was he owning the situation, or was it just plain denial? I guess I will never know.
What I do know though, is that my understanding of denial as I’ve gotten older has changed. In the past, I assumed that being in denial was unhealthy. Denial was in my view, for those that wished to live a lie. With the passing of years, as I have been eluded by some of the so called, adult milestones, I have gradually doubly, consciously and sub-consciously, regressed into denial. The reality of dithering backstage, all the while, in anticipation of the razzle dazzle, has invariably resulted in a game of defiance. Calories have become a permanent worry, so is a silent refutation that my knees actually creek or the fact that my hangovers last three days long, not to mention an alarming increased penchant for predictability; just some of the factors that are turning this defying game on its head. It’s a work in progress, a therapist’s playing field – or is it?
Alas, whether I was aware of it or not, as a self-proclaimed nomad, I have all my life, thrived on denial. Denial has enabled me to ignore, naysayers and pursue my dreams. Denial or some shade of it, has enabled me to figuratively speaking, padlock my ears to unwanted and quite frankly unhelpful opinions. As a first-generation immigrant, all shades of denial have not only been a necessity, but also a lifeline against such burdens as having to prove oneself at every step, or enduring micro-suspicions whilst sitting quietly commuting in a crowded bus – everyday concerns which, if not checked and padded, can erode one’s sense of identity.
There is the rub. When the language learned is, ‘just keep moving’, how does one stop? Where is the line between, being in denial, being determined, or just being stubborn? Arguably there exists an invisible point where this inbuilt reaction evolves from being a benefit into becoming a detriment. Oddly I have now become adept at noting other people’s blind spots. Are they or aren’t they in denial and if so, from which side of the slippery slope are they?
Back to my own padlocks, I can only pray that, as I continue to strive for a part in the milestones’ graduation parade and other lofty pursuits, that, when the defining moments come, I will know when to push on, when to stop and listen, and most importantly, when to quit.
Stage left only please. Afterall, auditions for the next play will be on soon.
Zeha Tembo’s book ‘How to be Hakuna Matata – Life’s Adventures through Swahili Proverbs’ will be published on 28 October 2024.