At the time of writing this, I have exactly 9 years and 4 months’ experience as a twenty-something-year-old. Which means I’m left with exactly 8 months before entering a new decade – my 30s.
Like any other birthday, I know nothing will magically change when I reach that age. Sure, I might gain a fresher perspective on life or have new experiences, but at my core, I’ll still be the same guy.
I always find it interesting when some younger folk ask what it feels like to be this old. I don’t blame them. I’ve also asked older people what it feels like to be 60 or 70. Not in an ageist way, of course, but hoping there’s some secret feeling that comes with it.
And honestly? As much as life changes – your body, your outlook – nothing really feels different at any age.
I remember when I was 15, left with just a few years before being called an “adult,” I used to wonder what 18 would feel like.
Then I turned 18 and wondered what 21 would feel like. Then 25. And now, on the last lap of my 20s, I’ve stopped thinking about it.
Because, honestly, it doesn’t help. You end up spending so much time looking forward that you lose track of today.
Then five or ten years go by, and you can’t even remember those days, because you weren’t really there.
I’m learning to accept that if I’m present and enjoy each day as it comes, I’ll eventually realise that these are the good ol’ days our future selves will miss.
I don’t care if you’re in your teens, 20s, 30s, 40s or 60s – depending on how long you live, there will come a time when you look back and realise that these were probably the best days of your life.
Which is exactly why you should try to live them intentionally – be a little more present – because time’s daily diet is a can of Red Bull. It really flies.
And what’s interesting is that the good ol’ days, even when you look back, aren’t always about extreme events. Sometimes it’s the mundane. The ordinary. Often filled with joy – though I’d argue it’s not always because of joy.
Mostly, it’s because you were present.
Even sad days from my childhood, when I look back, were the good ol’ days.
Growing up in a village means you’re often left to your own devices. Kids play outside the yard, free-range like chickens.
There was a river called Hasana in my village – funny how I say was, as if the river mysteriously disappeared.
Well, it’s still there. And a deeper section of it was called esidadweni – loosely translated: “the swimming area.” Whenever it was hot and we were playing by the river with our clay toys, we’d take off our clothes and dive in.
Whenever we swam, my mother would beat us – out of fear, not spite. She worried we’d drown without adult supervision, and fair enough, she probably had a point.
Either she had superpowers, or we were just too dumb, because two things always gave us away:
- Red eyes
- That extreme Vaseline glow on your face or legs – because after swimming in that river, your skin would be so dry it was borderline cracking. I still don’t know why. So, to hide the evidence, one boy would bring Vaseline to the river, just so we wouldn’t be caught looking like lizards. That way, we could lie and say we were just bathing by the river. This lie never worked, by the way.
I still don’t understand how my mom always caught us by the red eyes.
We’d come home after hours of playing, and the first thing you’d hear:
“Kutheni amehlo enu ebomvu?”
(Why are your eyes red?)
Then the show would begin.
Tearfully, we’d confess,
“Ewe mama, besidada… asoze siphinde. Uxolo!”
(Yes, Mom, we were swimming… We’ll never do it again, sorry!)
We’d keep calm for a few days and then do it again.
But looking back, even those days – whoopings and all – were the good ol’ days.
Maybe it’s the balance of childhood innocence and mischief.
Mischief, after all, wasn’t limited to swimming in the river. It seemed to follow us everywhere, especially when my older, extremely uncaring cousin brother Loyiso – or as we called him, Tar Loyd – helped herd my dad’s livestock.
He’d tell my younger brother and me to lie and say “iigusha ziphelele” (all the sheep are home) even when five or more were still missing.
My father had this direct tone and stern look under his glasses.
He’d ask,
“Impahla iphelele?”
(Did all the livestock return?)
Loyiso would give us that look – the one that said “don’t mess this up” – and we’d all reply,
“Ewe tata, iphelele.”(Yes, Father, they all came back.)
As if the sheep were snitches, a few minutes later you’d hear them bleating by the gate:
“Meh meh!”
Wanting to be let in. My father would be furious:
“Kutheni le nto ningama mene-mene nibancinci kangaka?”(Why are you such liars at such a young age?!)
And the three of us would scramble, colliding to open the gate before another lecture followed.
Tar Loyd wasn’t just mischievous – he also had a tendency of getting into fights whenever he was drunk, which drove my father up the wall.
Especially because he didn’t drink.
“Utywala bumenza umntu abeligeza!” he’d often say.
(“Alcohol makes people stupid!”)
It wasn’t just the drinking that made him mad – it was the aftermath, since he was always the one dragging him to the clinic or hospital after yet another drunken brawl.
“Yintoni na le nto wasoloko unxila ubethwa, Loyiso? Awukwazi uzilwela?”
(“Why do you always get beaten up when you’re drunk, Loyiso? Can’t you defend yourself?”)
Honestly, I refuse to believe there’s anyone in this whole world who’s caused my father more stress and grey hairs than Tar Loyd.
Sometimes, when he was pap drunk, he’d cry like a 7-year-old – loud, nonstop, with no explanation.
Like a widow who wasn’t written into her rich husband’s will. Wild scenes.
Looking back, even those chaos-filled days somehow slip into the category of the good ol’ days.
Maybe because they were real. Raw. And unforgettable.
I’ve got many stories like that – “sad” moments that still feel like good ol’ days.
Like the time I got robbed in matric while chilling at “our spot” with my then-girlfriend and had to walk home barefoot.
Thiza, isidima sam! (My poor dignity!)
Or when a girl I thought was my soulmate dumped me and crushed my heart… left it smelling like a burnt tyre.
Truthfully, most of the good ol’ days came from happy memories – not just drama and heartbreak, but countless simple joys too:
- Playing video games for hours with my younger brother – we were serious gamers.
- Pranking Tar Loyd by swapping his tobacco with teabags so he could smoke Rooibos for a change.
- Drinking amarhewu every time we visited my grandmother, with her proudly saying,“Ndiyayazi bayawathanda amarhewu abazukulwana.” (I know my grandkids love mageu.)
- Getting a number from a crush in primary or high school.
- Partying in varsity like there was no tomorrow.
- Getting your first salary… and blowing it.
I could go on.
But the thread is clear: the good ol’ days aren’t in the future.
They’re now. And you only realise it when you look back.
I’m choosing to make the most of these last 8 months of my 20s.
Not because I think something magical waits for me at 30, but because I want to live.
Live fully. Live now.
So that whatever happens – the wins, the flops – they’ll all be stories I’ll laugh at years from now.
Stories that will make me shake my head and ask,
“What the hell was going through my mind when I did that?”
I choose to live.
Now.
For now.
For the good ol’ days
…because I’m already living them.
© Phumzile