This is about Change...

If you are reading this you must have some access to the internet. You must, no doubt about that. If not, then you must be a witch. The kind that feeds on stories. Yeah, because how else could you have accessed this piece without going online? Yep, Witch. Now, I know too (and I can bet my fattest bull on this) that at least once in the recent past, you’ve heard someone next to you go off the rails about some stuff that just 20 years ago didn’t bother anyone. Some or other new-age ishhh that no one lost sleep over. The rant could have been about something mundane: their book that had run out of power, or about how they found it hard to believe that the hotel they’d checked into had Wi-Fi only in the lobby. Or maybe it was their bank. Maybe the bank, unlike other banks, had yet to develop an App that allowed customers a way to deposit checks from home through their mobile phones, and they were pissed about it. True, nobody cared about these things 15 years ago. Nobody gave a monkey's squirt. In fact, nobody talked about “Wi-Fi” or “Apps” 15 years ago. It was a language that people were generally deaf to. And if, by chance, you mentioned Wi-Fi or App people would have thought you were talking about those pets that folks walk out there in the streets when the sun takes a dip, like it was their nickname or something. They wouldn't have cared.

Today, however, they do. Reality is that the envelope has been pushed so far. We find ourselves at really close quarters with technology. So close that it’s extremely difficult to even turn without poking it in the butt somewhere. That, of course, makes it fun to be alive today no doubt, to be a part of the high society that man has relentlessly built over time, where you can hightail from a teargas-clouded street in Gaza to a front seat at the Maracanã in Rio, all at the touch of a button while you lie on a couch in your air-conditioned room in Maputo. It's like to kiss a mermaid. It's beauty. Tell me if Nero would not doubt Rome if he heard about this, or if word of a time like this would not have moved Christopher Columbus to a walk on the deck of the Santa Maria on a hot afternoon, nursing a cup of dulce de leche and I'll tell you who's crazier than a bat. It’s a bloody epic time to live.

Now assume, for shits and chuckles, that you have a friend – make it your best friend – who happens to stay across the city, on the other end of Maputo. [Maputo is where you reside for purposes of this story] You might be in the habit of hanging out at his crib most Saturday afternoons. That means a good deal of driving. Not too long ago you’d have had to master all the street names and numbers to your buddy’s place. You had to remember which street leads into which, where to make a left turn and where to make a right. Today though, you are not obligated to, at least if you are a lazy human being and keep your phone close by. Today the GPS App on your mobile phone takes care of your direction needs and you are freed to worry about other things. After you plug in the address to your buddy’s you can just sit back and let the robotic voice from your phone guide you there. And guide you back. The mobile phone has come of age and it is keen to make an impression. It is outdoing itself. Today your phone serves your every whim. The phone has even replaced the dog as man’s best friend. Yes. I know you ask How? That cannot be! Hehehe, that’s like standing at the beach and asking where the water is. I'll tell you why: your phone more than keeps you company; it serves you! It does everything for you. Well, nearly everything. It shows you directions to places, lets you surf the internet, records your mileage when you go out to run, wakes you up in the morning, reminds you to pay your bills...my goodness, that’s why! What it still doesn't do you can count on the fingers of one hand. It still does not tuck you in bed at night or scratch your back or give you a massage but…those too will come with time. No, I take that massage part back. They already do a bit of that. They massage some of our skittish egos. Hell, I think they do, just look around. Very soon they’ll start massaging our backs too. And I predict that that would be a hell of a spectacle. 

I think that's also the exact point where the proverbial plot starts to thicken on this. Hang on.

I read recently that Google is testing a self-driving car that might be released into the market sooner than you think. It might even be before you get to the end of this paragraph. It’s a car that will be able to drive you to Farmers’ Market across town while you chill in the backseat taking selfies and updating your Instagram like a boss, or whatever you choose to do back there. And when you get to Farmers’ Market I imagine a voice like the Jack Nicholson’s drawl will come through your speakers and announce, “You have arrived at your destination sir (or ma'am). Please stay seated while your car is looking for a parking spot.” I think a smile will escape your lips at this point. That's because your car serving you and addressing you in this manner will make you feel important. Yes, that time is nigh. And when it comes, there will be a change of roles, of man and machine. Man in the backseat and machine taking charge. Secretly, you will awe at the imagination that put it all together. This will be yet another edifice, another mark of high society – that place where fiction and reality converge and hug and melt into the same thing, where stuff that once lived in dreams only become substance and take shape and form, even acquire a smell and a character. And a touch of swag. It will be a long leap of faith. Important of all, it will leave you thinking, which is good, because thinking keeps you alive.

That said, I still cannot shake off the foreboding feeling of high scandal that I foresee come with that leap. High society is high scandal and, knowing this, the Google self-driving car is the kind of car I would dreaaaaad.  You’d have to tie me to a pole in the middle of an open market on a busy day and threaten to singe my nipples with a hot metal rod before I’d even come close to that car. Am not alone. Tell me: who would calmly sit there and trust a car to drive itself in the mad asylum that is our highways and not feel their stomach tighten somewhat? Point him out for me so I can beg for an autograph. He would have to be nuts, real real bananas. One would have to nurse a double-digit exponent of harrowing craziness to pull that ishh off, believe me. It’s a walk on thin ice, a daring provocation of fate. It’s scary as hell, noting the laughable fickleness of technology.

If the frontiers are stretched that far I’ll begin wearing mini-skirts and akala, I promise. Or I'll leave and you won’t see me. I’ll board a time vessel to the past. And am not referring to the swinging 70s with the bell bottom jeans and shirts that looked like a rainbow had thrown up on them. I mean a past so dim you’d have to squint your eyes to envision it, when names like Org and Zog still made sense.

Stuff must have been way simpler then. And forward. Vanity had not been invented yet. They didn’t say LMAO then...or even, what's that other one, TTYL. No. I imagine your typical life story played out something like this…

Birth...

There was none of that fan-fare leading to this oh-so-special moment. No one constantly hounding you and prodding, asking if you knew whether it was a boy or a girl…the information wouldn’t really do anyone any good. Think about it. Equipped with the knowledge of what was to come, what would happen? Would they stroll into a little gift shop and pick up a pink pebble or a blue boulder? The parents didn’t have to put up with the whole redecoration of the house thing either. My very educated guess is that you all slept together, you and your other folks; there was safety in numbers. The room was covered in stone. Painting was not a thing until much later. Sure, there were hieroglyphics and all that, but going out and making the room habitable essentially involved rearranging a couple of rocks, stepping back to admire your handiwork and glowing with delight.

D-day would be a non-event.

“Honey am home. I bring boy.”

“Great!” The end. No decorations splashed about creating the impression that you had in fact gone and outdone the Virgin Mary. It’s highly unlikely that there would be some relative waiting to see where the new member of the gang got its looks from. Given that razor blades had yet to be invented, you looked like just about all your relatives. That moustache could have been from your aunt Ira.

The part I haven’t figured is how the breastfeeding thing worked. I often wonder: did the prehistoric mothers execute it differently? Or is it one of those things that time has failed to defeat? Did they, much like mothers today, suddenly think: well, now would be a grand time to yank out a boob and slap Org’s face with it. Somewhere along the way instinct will kick in and he’ll open his mouth and give it a suck. I imagine the daddy must have looked away right at the moment when his baby began to suck, or he might have pretended to feel the blade of his flint stone, feigning to test its sharpness and whistling an empty tune.

The 1^st Birthday

Depending on how events played out during the year, this one would either be a cause for a big celebration…or great sadness. Rather than contend with the infamous childhood killer diseases like polio, measles and others, prehistoric families lived in the constant fear that a Pterodactyl would sneak into their houses, disguised as a birthing stork and feast on the fruit of their labour. Thus to make it to birthday number one suggested that you were special. You were either too heavy to be carried away by a stork or yours was a pure case of good fortune, the kind they call beginner’s luck. As such, you would likely be given a gift for getting this far ahead in life.

This was the hardest part of existence back then. After you aced it, the world was yours to conquer.