John Ekongo After turning 27 years this other day, I realized that I am not so young anymore. So the usual camaraderie of young, energetic minds and passionate wild adventurous zeal has somehow died in me a long time ago. If any there was in me. Even at varsity, I was a bore and an uncultured hypocritical bookworm, who cared nothing about social entertainment platforms. The closest I ever got to that was when during my final term, I drastically changed to adopt to a new social avenue, in anticipation of my pending graduation. But nonetheless, I still had my amount of fun and relaxation; I am just saying that it was not extreme but merely moderate. Please trust me I was not that complete a moron. But once in a while you are forgiven, if strange things do happen. Over the weekend I thought that I would be in the company of some old crooners who are young at heart, reliving the memories of yesteryears at the Amos Shiyuka testimonial match. But if anything, that was where the old times ended, right with the match. The after event reminded me of my early adolescent years, with a concoction of young ones tuning themselves to the tunes of local artist. It was something clearly reminiscent of matinees at clubs La Coastal, Basement and Thriller, and so all the other exotic places we so frequented when we were young ones with a budget of N$20. Seven dollars for entrance and N$3,50 per dumpy of beer. If you so happen to be with a partner, then you squeeze another ten dollars out of your mother, so that your darling can have at least two Redd’s ciders during the four-hour event. What am I going on about if you should ask? The music show after the match painted a reality picture for me, made me understand at least the behaviour. Not so long when two of the country’s top musicians came on stage each with his loyal following. Trapped hormones reach overdrive and the teenager next to me dressed in a material girl kind of like miniskirt with some candy like pantyhose resembling something like the TV series Tellytubbies screamed out at the male superstar. The next thing, as cold as it is in Windhoek she gets rid of her sweater, and remained like that for the remainder of the night; in her bra plus the miniskirt with Tellytubby pantyhose. I must say that I was having a hard time trying to veer my eyes to something else, in a discreet manner not to encourage a fight with my partner, who clung on to me like superglue averting competition from the young ones. Last Saturday night was cold, if not the coldest I must say. Just when I thought I had seen quite enough, here past me strolls one obviously drunk lady teenager in some, what ladies refer to as a spaghetti top, and I ponder don’t these kids ever get cold my vader. Just at the other end of the field some guy lays about on the grass T-shirtless, with a well structured six pack muscles as young as he is (who is this young boy trying to show off to?) much to the praise of my partner. She thought it would be nice if I made an effort to look like that as well, to which I replied nicely “my pot belly is just about to grow and I have no intention to parade it whatsoever”. Midway through the show, some loyal die-hard fans threw off their T-shirts by request of their star and jumped in the air as they exhaled the tunes of their beloved artist. In the end it was indeed true fans and loyalty, like one young man said for Kalandu and Moroki the cold is nothing. He had me fooled though because I could clearly see how his engrossed stick-thin ribs in his ribcage were trembling from the icy cold wind at the Independence stadium. I am sorry for those uninformed: Kalandu and Moroki are none other than our two most revered musicians Gazza and The Dogg, so I’ m told that it is their clan names – original African. The most unfortunate part is that we did not have the type of Kalandu’s and Moroki’s to shed off our clothing for when we were growing up. The only time I came close to screaming and a yelling was when Ma-Brrr (Brenda Fassie) did the splits at Kuisebmond Stadium. Call me old fashioned but at least with the kind of Windhoek weather, jumping with my shirt off in praise of someone, it is a huge sorry ngo.