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.
He was told it all depended on our pace, and he’d be our pacemaker! Two more steps, and he was back to his wailing ways. A pep talk to help the troupe was delivered by the leader: Don’t think about the destination; just put one foot in front of the other...
Thankfully, the hills were wrapped in the fog of the season’s end, insulating us from seeing the distant horizons we needed to scale. Nonetheless, the lad bailed out. His mind was fixed on the obstacles, real and imagined.
The stomach ache subsided, so I took my lunch at the summit, at 2,460 metres above sea level, crowned with a tumbler of refreshing cane, beets and garlic juice on our descent, ruminating on the crucial life lessons about focus, fortitude and endurance that the Ngong Hills provided.
