Prime
There’s nothing to gain from being patient; I’ve discovered happiness in cutting lines
I would like to stop reading self-help materials, mostly because one permanent side effect of aging is a sharp increase in cynicism. There is only so much I can change or improve about myself – and where would I find the physical energy to practice a new hobby to ‘nurture’ my dwindling brain cells, or the mental health to acknowledge the benefits of failure?
But these smarter living articles keep straying into my view, beseeching me to be my best self (who is that?), to dance like nobody is watching (somebody always is), to practice the top seven habits of the happiest people (happiness is overrated) and lately, how to be a more patient person (let’s talk about this some more).
Admittedly, my impatience is getting in the way of me living my best life now. I blame it all on this city, this hideous little gem in the tropics, which torments me relentlessly in ways I can’t even begin to explain. But let me try.
Why is it my luck that every annoying driver wants to pull out in front of me?
So many people in this city drive with the formidable skills of a drunken man weaving his way home; they change lanes erratically or deliberately join the wrong one so as to cut in line, are estranged from their indicators and cause you to hammer your brakes so hard your brain constantly shifts positions; swing into your path and then slow down to a crawl; take it personally when you overtake them and become hell-bent on payback, enough to run you off the road with dangerous manoeuvres.
By the time I get where I am going, I have mentally throttled several other drivers and buried their remains in anonymous graves.
As for the so-called city road network, it is a warren of narrow trails more suitable for cyclists and foot traffic. Every journey feels like a marathon in a treacherous desert; you never know when you may turn a tight corner and disappear into a giant pothole that materialised mysteriously since you last used that route.
I am cursing loudly and, yes, mentally burying other drivers. What is the point of getting where you are going in a wretched mood – and dreading the return journey?
Research says that the quality of your commute has a direct bearing on your long-term happiness, and even lifespan. In these high value stakes, I am already a loser.
The gurus at living well would argue that I need an intervention, to save myself from myself. Perhaps it is not as bad as it seems when you spend two hours travelling a few kilometres; when you are relentlessly provoked by indifferent strangers; when you gird your loins for battle every time you leave your house. They would advise that I try harder to maintain my cool in situations over which I have no control, and even possibly work on developing more empathy towards the other people in this city who are struggling with the same problems. Except they don’t live in Kampala City.
This city will take the best of you and drown it like an unwanted kitten. So I am abandoning any pretence at self-improvement. I am going to give as bad as I get and earn my chops in the trenches. My new philosophy is to live instinctively and respond to all stimuli with reckless abandon. There is nothing to gain from being patient; in fact I have discovered immense satisfaction in cutting lines and creating my own lanes. But I still always use my indicators.
