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I was recently invited for a hike up the Ngong Hills. We were a troupe of five, including three Gen Zs, all of them university students. It was conceived as a bonding session for the trio, two of whom were taking up an internship with one of my mentees, the organiser-in-chief. Think of it as a multi-generational trek, with yours truly serving as a “senior citizen.”
The night before, what I had dismissed as stomach cramps developed into a full-blown crisis. All I needed to do was text the troupe leader and say I was indisposed, but I feared this would be misconstrued as chickening out. I would be sending the wrong message to the Gen Zs.
So, instead of a hearty breakfast to fuel the trek, I packed a lunch so as not to provoke a fresh stomach crisis. Coconut water was all I had for breakfast and most of the way. I also packed toiletries, “just in case.” Such was the delicate nature of the trail, but my mind was made up. I was going to summit the Ngong Hills.
One of the Gen Zs, it turned out, had determined he was in no shape to go up the hills. He claimed that his calves were aching from recent gym workouts. So, barely five minutes in, he was already squealing in pain. How long is it to the summit? He asked for the umpteenth time.
