I woke up at 4:30 a.m. with a start, unsure if I’d overslept—or just overshot my dreams again. My phone blinked with messages, and there it was: people remembered my birthday! Me! The girl who was once folded like an old newspaper by fate and thrown into the “recycle bin of destiny.”
I don’t take it lightly that someone spent 2.5 seconds of their scrolling life to type “HBD Asunta 🎉.” That message could’ve gone to Beyoncé or even the Pope—but it came to me. So please, allow me this moment. Let me feel special. And just for today, let me pretend I don’t need to hold my stomach in for photos.
The 6th Floor Check-In
I’m officially on the 6th floor now. For the uninitiated, that’s code for 60 years old—a floor I wasn’t sure I’d ever reach. Honestly, it feels like I’ve stumbled into a party I wasn’t invited to. You know that awkward moment—you’re dressed wrong, you don’t know the playlist, and the canapés look suspiciously gluten-free.
That’s me: standing by the punch bowl of my own life, wondering what 60-year-olds are supposed to do. Should I start knitting? Grow a cactus? Demand senior discounts with unshakable confidence?
Rewind a Bit
In my twenties, a very learned medical school principal tied up my life like a forgotten lunchbox—labeled it in clinical terms—and handed me an early expiration date. The “slim” (as it was whispered in the village) had claimed me. The aunties and church elders began their countdowns. They mourned louder than my actual death.
Some even started drafting eulogies, complete with creative sins I hadn’t committed yet. One man of the cloth prayed over my mother and whispered, “She’s resting in peace already.” Excuse me, sir—I was still breathing and craving mandazi!
If Google had existed then, my obituary would’ve trended before I posted my first selfie.
But Big G—my heavenly Father and eternal plot-twist specialist—had other plans. He looked down, probably chuckled, and said, “Nah. Let her cook.”
And so, I stayed.
I stayed to confuse enemies, stress scientists, inspire friends, and one-up every funeral committee that planned ahead of time. While they were ordering my coffin, God was designing diapers for my twins.
Who else walks into their 60th with one child in high school and two under two? Not even sitcoms can write that kind of plot twist.
Double Portions Everywhere
Life, in its chaotic glory, has given me double everything—double grace, double miracles, double diapers, double heartbreaks, double joy, and double “Mum, can I have five dollars?” conversations.
Do you know what it’s like being 60 and buying baby formula and high school gym shoes in the same week? At the supermarket, people look at me like I’ve kidnapped the twins. They whisper, “Your grandchildren are so cute!” and I just smile. I don’t have the energy to explain assisted reproductive technology, donor sperm, or the fact that I’m still breastfeeding emotionally at this point in life.
A quick shout-out to my pelvic floor muscles, or whatever remains of them. You’ve done your best. Sometimes you give up—especially mid-sneeze—but I forgive you. You’ve served me through childbirth(s), funeral sprints, and standing ovations. You’ve earned your retirement.
Welcome to Menopausia
Turning 60 is like discovering a whole new country—Menopausia. The climate is unpredictable, the language foreign, and the mood swings come with visa requirements. Memory? Nonexistent. Half the time I walk into a room and forget why. The other half, I’m in the wrong room altogether.
Still, I wouldn’t trade it for anything. Because for me, 60 isn’t a sentence—it’s a celebration.
It’s waking up and whispering, “Surprise again, devil!” It’s laughing at what was meant to kill me. It’s surviving stigmas, slurs, heartbreaks, and disappointments—and still dancing with my children at dawn.
From Obituaries to Inspiration
In the village, they said I wouldn’t live past 22.
At 30, I was already on “bonus life.”
At 40, they were confused.
By 50, they said I must be using witchcraft.
Now at 60, they’re asking for parenting advice and borrowing sugar.
The same people who once crossed the street to avoid me now wave enthusiastically and ask for help writing grant proposals. Life really does have a sense of humor.
So I laugh. I forgive. I move on—with mascara on my lashes, Wema on one hip, Debbie on the other, and my older boys sighing behind me saying, “Mum, not again…”
How Should 60 Look?
I asked myself, what’s the etiquette for turning 60?
Should I wake up at 4 a.m. for devotionals, sip hot lemon water, and do 100 pelvic tilts?
Or should I dye my hair purple, wear earrings that jingle like wind chimes, and post selfies with #HotAt60?
I think I’ll do both.
Let me wear my wisdom like a crown and my chaos like a handbag. Let me quote scripture one moment and forget where I parked the stroller the next. Let me toast to life—full of surprises, unfinished tasks, unpaid bills, unexpected miracles, and unwavering hope.
The Birthday Inbox Chronicles
My inbox is full of birthday wishes from people I haven’t spoken to since Moi was president. Some I last saw when I was sneaking to discos. But they remembered. They typed my name. They blessed me. Even if it was copy-pasted from last year—I felt seen.
Even Facebook remembered. Bless you, Mark Zuckerberg and your algorithm. I even got a message from someone I was sure had blocked me. That’s growth!
The After-Party of Purpose
Now, as I stand on this 6th-floor balcony—confused but excited—I realize this isn’t just a party. It’s the after-party of purpose. It’s evidence of grace. It’s divine stubbornness. It’s a legacy still unfolding.
So to anyone reading—young or old, hopeful or heartbroken, giggling or grieving—hear me:
If your plans fall apart, it’s because a better architect is at work.
If people throw dirt on your name, remember—seeds grow best when buried.
If they count you out, laugh. Then rise. Then glow.
And if you ever find yourself walking into a floor you didn’t plan for—be it the 6th, 7th, or 25th—show up anyway. Kick off your shoes, dance in the hallway, confuse the ushers, and bless the buffet.
Life isn’t about perfect timing. It’s about showing up with purpose and dancing with gratitude.
Thank you all for the love and birthday wishes. May the same grace find you. May the Big G direct your steps, shock your enemies, delight your heart, and bless your socks off.
As for me—I’ll be over here, Googling “how 60-year-olds behave” while pretending I don’t already have a cake in the oven and a baby crying for attention.
Welcome to my chaos. Today, it’s birthday-flavoured.
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