“Life is one long process of getting tired” – Samuel Butler, 1835-1902.
The famous English writer lived 67 years and spent about ten of those suffering from very painful gout. I was 32 when his observation came to my attention; and it was immediately included in my collection of quotations. For someone who had known only a member of my family, my grandmother, who made it to 85, direct experience with very old people had been limited. Growing up in Lagos Island in the 1940s to early 1960s, it was an exceptional person who made it to 70.
The friendly old men were called Pa and the women Iya Agba, i.e. old Mama. The not so friendly ones were definitely witches and wizards; of that we were certain even if there was no evidence to support the claim. Those suffering from dementia (a word unknown to us at the time) or who, on account of loneliness, talked to themselves were certainly evil; as far as we were concerned. To be quite candid, few of us expected to reach 70. I was sure that 60 was out of the question for me. But, they shared one characteristic in common – they moved slowly; if at all.
Somehow, the lesson to be learnt about old age escaped me until my third year in the university and Butler summarized it for me. Tiredness is the ultimate reward for getting too old. Now at 81+ and struggling not to succumb to another round of cancer, I now find myself questioning if ten or more years is really worth it; especially in Nigeria.
About four years ago, a group of people went to visit a prominent Nigerian who was 104 on his birthday. I could not go because I was on a wheel chair and there was nobody to take me. Another lesson about old age struck me forcefully – increasing helplessness and isolation. As the years roll by, you need people to do more things for you than ever before. You are no longer the master of your own fate. They leave you out of things.
One of the visitors stopped in my house to give me a feedback. The celebrant, who, in his younger days, was always on time for appointments, had given them 12noon as the time to come. They were all there promptly and the security guard and steward let them into the sitting room. Pa was not there. “He is still resting upstairs”, the houseboy explained. They waited until 1.55pm when the august celebrant came down in his night robes. They all rose from where they sat: “Good morning everybody”. Pa greeted them. Well, the answer, as if they had rehearsed it before was “Good morning Sir”. And, just before they could get into the annual routine of deception about Pa’s good health and the song, he raised his hand to stop them.
“Don’t come here to wish me many happy returns again,” he thundered. Then giving his hand to the house boy, he marched back upstairs. He died four months after; but not before leaving a dairy full of details of his suffering in the last 12 years during which he was flown abroad at least six times – all to no avail. His last entry, barely readable, on account of Parkinson disease read: “Each time they came to wish me many happy returns, I pray to God to take me away from life which had become painful for me. They told me, ‘Sir, you are looking good’. I felt terrible all over.”
Even for the chosen few who, after 70 or 80, can still move around on their own, with or without walking stick, the truth, which confronts them every minute, is different from the lie they are told by well-wishers. I had planned to go to an office on Broad Street on Tuesday, September 16, 2025 – the day Afriland Towers went up in smoke. The office was very close and my appointment time coincided with the event. An old friend, 78, also had an appointment. I chose not to go because of a downpour. He went; and almost became a casualty. In the pandemonium on the street, he was knocked down by young people running.
Separated from his walking stick; he would have been trampled to death but for the quick intervention of a hefty young man. In his young days, standing at six feet three inches, and weighing 230kg, nobody could knock him down. But, he has lost weight and can now barely walk. We met later in the early evening and he said: “I have never felt so ridiculous in my life as when I fell on the sidewalk, stunned, unable to get up until the Good Samaritan helped me and piloted me to a safe place. Feeling ridiculous comes with the territory. You find yourself unable to do things which seven or eight years old kids do with ease – like jumping over a narrow gutter or dropping from a moving bus driven by an impatient driver.
Pain is the constant companion. You try falling asleep with arthritic pains in the joints and wake up with swollen feet or tooth ache. If you wake up without feeling any pain, better look around. You might have woken up at Peter’s gate – ready to be dispatched to heaven, or most likely hell. You soon realize that life is like a river; it never moves backwards and is carrying you inexorably to the same destination as others.
As an economist, I have grown up living my life on carefully planned budgets. Consequently, I have never had to borrow; and, thank God, never been totally broke. Two weeks ago, I was clearing my archives, preparing to go and came across a 1979 diary in which all anticipated monthly expenses were listed. Provisions for health accounted for 12 per cent and they were seldom exhausted. Today, medical bills consume 45 per cent of income and sometimes they are exceeded. Nothing less than N350, 000 goes into the fight to get steadily tired. It is now the highest item on the monthly budget. In 1979, I worked for my family and me; in 2025, I work for doctors and pharmacists and Uber drivers.
Want to live to 100 or 120? Think again. There is very little enjoyment in it.
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