The Jesus Years: Why Thirty-Three is So Different

Turning thirties smells like rain and roasted meat. If it is thirty-three, the Jesus Years, it is even more candid, sort of aged goat ribs. And Nairobi has a way of ushering in the storms of the thirties, grandiose style; it is often akin to holding a storm in one hand and a grill in the other. You get dared to choose between reflection and appetite. I have always chosen both. Haha

Not long ago, we were seated at a downtown joint just off Kenyatta Avenue. It is one of those places with plastic menus that have survived more political regimes than most of us. The TVs are always muted but still loud in spirit, looping highlights from a match nobody was fully watching. Other times, the Charlie Chaplin stints.

On this day, a waiter with the patience of a saint and the sarcasm of a philosopher set down our drinks and followed up with, “Nyama choma (roast meat) or should I go and come later?” My friend, we will call him Stano for this piece, dismissed her with a grin of “tunajuana kwa vilemba” (we identify ourselves by the turbans).

“Brother,” our other friend Chokx said shortly after, tossing his bottle against my glass of milkshake. I think milkshakes are overrated. “You are in the Jesus year. Even water should be careful around you.”

That’s how it started. A throwaway line. Much of a joke until it is not. I had shared Eddie Ashioya’s previous day’s piece with the boys, and this was a way of sneaking it into our conversation.

I had read Eddie Ashioya’s How Men Learn to Settle that previous evening, and it had stuck to me the way a tune does when you don’t want it to. Thirty-three. The age, which sounds more like a threshold for most men. In fact, it is the age that feels less like a birthday and more like a border crossing. Forget the thirty and thirty-five for now.

“You know,” I said, tearing a piece of chapati, by now I had been served my obvious simple order “, it’s wild how thirty-three comes with expectations. Like you’re supposed to have crossed over into something by now.”

Stano laughed. “Crossed over? From where? I’m still looking for the demarcation.”

The table erupted, the way it does when men are pretending not to be afraid. Only happens when men are in their own company. We all knew what he meant. Thirty-three carries weight. Not because of loans or promotions but because of that other story. Jesus. Ministry. Fulfilment. Exit.

The Jesus Years and The Crew

By thirty-three, Jesus had gathered his mbogi (crew). Twelve of them. A proper team. Not perfect since one would betray Him, another would doubt His resurrection, but committed enough to walk dusty roads and ask dangerous questions. The thought sat heavily with me. At thirty-three, who was in my twelve?

“Let me ask you guys,” I said. “If this is the Jesus year, what does that even mean for those of us who are right in it?”

Chokx leaned back, philosophical now that his beef ribs had arrived. “It means we stop pretending we are children. You can’t blame your parents, the system, or the past for stagnation forever.”

“Speak for yourself,” Stano quipped. “I still blame the system. It’s “a very good” system to blame.” He hinted at the historical quintessential system in the eyes of the sycophant politician.

We laughed again, but there was truth underneath the humour. Thirty-three is when excuses start expiring. When the narrative shifts from potential to pattern. When people stop asking what you want to be and start noticing what you keep doing. In short, what you’re becoming.

Outside, a blue nganya (customised artistic PSV vehicles in Nairobi) blasted gengetone as it crawled past traffic. A bodaboda (motorcycle that ferries passengers) rider wove through cars with the confidence of someone who believes in angels. Nairobi was doing its thing; it is always about urgency, chaos, and staying alive. And here we were, men in our Jesus years or thereabout, wondering if we had missed the memo.

“I think,” I said slowly, “it’s less about achieving everything and more about understanding what you’re here to do.”

“Ah,” Chokx said, pointing his fork at me, “be careful with the mission talk. That’s how you will end up starting a podcast.” I guess he knows my capabilities.

Back to Jesus story. Jesus spent thirty years mostly unnoticed. No miracles. No crowds. Just carpentry and community. Mission crafting in silence. Maybe missions don’t have to be loud. Perhaps Jesus’s climax at thirty-three wasn’t the goal, but the preceding clarity. That is, his becoming in the thirty years prior.

By that age, Jesus knew who he was. Not because the world affirmed him, after all, more than half of it rejected him, but because he had done the inner work. He had gone into the wilderness and come back with fewer illusions. That, I realised, might be the real objective of thirty-three: to step out of the noise and illusions and listen to your own voice.

“Do you guys feel different at your current ages?” I asked. “Like, less interested in impressing people?”

Stano shrugged. “I still want to impress my barber (Stano’s barber is some fine babe somewhere in Utawala). But yeah. There’s a settling.”

That was it. Not settling for less, but settling into yourself. The frantic energy of the twenties is always about proving. Past that hullabaloo, you begin to choose depth over speed. Fewer friends, better conversations. Less noise, more meaning.

Jesus didn’t have many followers at thirty-three, but he had the right ones. People who asked questions. People who stayed at the table. People who didn’t need him to be spectacular all the time. And I mean the people who stayed close to him, truthfully and faithfully. Not those who came because of the bread, fish, miracles and testing.

I looked around our table, at the jokes, the shared silences, the unspoken understanding that life had already bruised us a little, and thought, maybe this is my twelve (divide the 12 by 6, though). Not perfect. Not always available. But present.

“Here’s the thing,” Chokx said, wiping his hands. “If Jesus knew the end was coming, and he still chose love, service, and forgiveness, what excuse do we have?”

Then there was Silence. Not the awkward one. Just the one that invites honesty and introspection.

Outside, the rain drizzled rhythmically, rinsing the city like a baptism Nairobi didn’t ask for but probably needed. It can be very dusty at the end and start of the year. Inside me, I felt something loosen in my chest. Thirty-three wasn’t a deadline. It was a doorway. Most likely not into greatness, but into intention.

We paid the bill, argued about who had nyota (star) for whatever you may be thinking, and stepped into the wet evening. The city swallowed us again, phones buzzing, engines revving, life moving on.

The Jesus year, I decided, isn’t about dying to the world. It’s about dying to the parts of yourself that keep you small. And choosing, daily, to live awake.

At thirty-three, that feels holy enough. Hahaa