My grandpa, the man they called 'The Grump,' was a master of the art of complaining. It was an art form he perfected over his eighty-two years, meticulously honed in the bustling city of Lusaka. His complaints were a symphony of grumbling, a tragicomic opera of discontent. He was the reigning champion of the 'Why Can't Things Be Like They Were In My Day' Olympics.
His latest grievance was the mango tree in our backyard. He’d been grumbling about it for weeks. “The mangoes are too small!” he declared, his face contorted in disapproval. “The ones in my day were the size of your head!”
'That’s because you were a teenager in the 1950s,' I said, trying to reason with him. “They probably had time to grow huge then, nobody was running around with smartphones.”
He grunted, unmoved. 'Things were just better then,' he mumbled.
I knew arguing was futile. He’d complained about the mangoes, the weather, the television, the internet, the lack of respect for elders, the disrespectful youth, and just about everything else under the sun. His grumbling was a constant soundtrack to our lives.
But grandpa’s complaints weren’t entirely negative. They were like a cryptic puzzle, a window into a world long gone. Behind those complaints were stories, memories, and a wistful longing for a simpler time.
One day, amidst his usual gripes about the noisy traffic, he started talking about his childhood. 'We walked to school every day. Not on these fancy paved roads, mind you. We walked on red soil paths, dodging potholes and dodging stray chickens,' he said, a rare twinkle in his eye.
He described how they played 'chisa munda,' a traditional board game, under the shade of baobab trees. He spoke of the joy of catching grasshoppers and the satisfaction of eating sweet mangoes straight from the tree. He talked about the community spirit of those days, when everyone knew everyone and looked after each other.
His stories weren't just about the past; they were about the beauty of simplicity, of community, of the pure joy of being a child. For the first time, I understood that his grumpy exterior hid a man who was deeply nostalgic, a man who yearned for a simpler time.
From that day on, I started listening to his complaints differently. I started looking for the stories behind the grumbles. And you know what? They were fascinating. I discovered a history of Lusaka, a love story between my grandparents, and a life filled with joys and struggles.
One day, while complaining about the lack of respect from the younger generation, he launched into a hilarious story about his teenage escapades, his daring stunts, and his mischievous pranks on the old folks. I laughed so hard, tears streamed down my face.
My grandpa, the grumpy, complaining man, had become a wellspring of stories and wisdom. His gripes were no longer just complaints but gateways to a world of adventure, nostalgia, and humor.
He continued to complain, of course. He grumbled about the weather, the mangoes, and the lack of respect, but now I saw him differently. I saw a man with a heart full of stories, a history buff trapped in the present. He was a grumpy old man, but he was also a storyteller, a historian, a comedian, and, most importantly, my grandfather. And I wouldn’t trade him for the world, even with all his grumpy complaints. They were, in their own way, a gift, a treasure that brought us closer, reminding me that even the grumpiest of exteriors could hold the warmest of hearts.
