Mzee, Not Yet, Surely!

 I boarded the matatu with exact fare and a podcast in tow,
Headphones on, the world tuned low,
“Karibu, Mzae,” the conductor said.
Who? Me?
Mzae? As in, the old one?

A mirror wouldn’t lie,
The retreating hairline,
The silver squadron above my ears,
the way I sigh when I bend to tie my shoes.
But still, Mzae?

I tiptoe through WhatsApp groups now,
Where “big bro” lands like a velvet slap.
“Daddy” at the kiosk,
“Fathe” at the garage,
“Mbuyu” from a youth selling airtime.

Is there no refuge left from reverence?
No corner where I’m just a man,
Not an age bracket, not a lesson, not a past?

I want to shout:
“I’m a customer, not your patriarch!”
“I’m a brother, not the council of elders!”
Let me be anonymous in this line,
a wallet, a joke, a quick goodbye.

Did I do this too?
Did I Mzee my way through others’ prime?
Did I honour or harm with those sudden elevations?

Now, I sit with my strong tea cup,
watch steam rise like the thoughts from my scalp,
less covered these days, more aired out.
The world insists I’ve arrived somewhere.
But I still check the mirror, unsure if I’ve left.