Today, a friend asked me a simple question: "Do you want children?" Without hesitation, I said yes. But as I went about my day, especially during a long, contemplative shower, I began to meditate on the layers behind that immediate response.
My quick answer stems from a long-standing belief in legacy. I've written before about data and death, pondering what my grandchildren and great-grandchildren might know of me if the platforms I use today disappear tomorrow. The idea of guiding a life isn't just a concept. It's envisioning tiny hands gripping mine, curious eyes looking up as I share the tales of our ancestors. Helping them become better adults than I. I've even taken up hobbies like BBQing with the thought of passing them down as happy memories for my descendants.
As the warm water cascaded over me, the question echoed louder: "Do I want children?" I recalled a tweet in which I joked about expecting to be married with kids by 30. Now, at 31, I realise that if I have my first child at 32, I'll be 50 when they turn 18. Thoughts of being humbled at school sports days crossed my mind, balanced by fantasies of regaining my "fatherly honour" by supporting them in every school endeavour; I will be older, and winning the foot race will be a young father's game. But perhaps my child will enjoy the ski trip I never experienced.
"Are you making a joke to hide something?"
The current economy is daunting. My peers and I grapple with an increasingly out-of-reach housing market, skyrocketing living costs, and the weight of financial instability. Many choose pets over children, and some can't afford that solace.
"Why do you want the house?"
It's not just about property ownership; it's about security, a place to live when I retire, free from the worries of rent during a time when income might be limited.
"You answered that question. Why did you not answer th—"
I envision a future where I can slow down, away from the relentless pace of city life. A spacious home where time is mine to command, where friends and family can visit without the rush to leave. But achieving this under our current system feels like chasing Ecclesiastical smoke (something intangible).
"Do you only want children under those terms?" the voice persists.
Maybe I should put it on my upbringing? As the first-born son of an Angolan refugee family, cultural and familial expectations weigh heavily. I have an implicit duty to carry on traditions and fulfil roles set long before me. That's why I'm investing in learning and preserving my mother tongue, so my children will have a connection to our culture that would be deeper than the one I had. Growing up, stories of my heritage were a cornerstone of family gatherings. I vividly remember my mother's sister and her father visiting us from Angola, teaching my sister and me songs and stories about our culture. The weight of continuing those stories feels both like an honour and a burden.
"You're a grown adult at 31, too old to blame your upbringing. If you're self-aware enough to notice its influence, why not interrogate why you feel this way?"
I could chase this dream life by moving outside London, to Portugal, or even back to Angola. But then, I worry about the opportunities available for my potential children. As a Black man, I'm acutely aware that their outcomes will be influenced by the groundwork I lay today.
"So why don't you work towards that?" the inner voice urges.
Because I fear that in seeking my own peace, I might compromise their future.
"Are you stealing today's joy for a person that doesn't exist yet?"
Ouch. Maybe I am. They say a wise man plants trees under whose shade he may never sit. Am I postponing my happiness for a future that isn't guaranteed?
Honestly, this has left me with more questions than answers. Do I want children because I genuinely desire them or because it's an internalised expectation?
Can I balance preparing for a possible future and embracing the present?
I'm sure the true answer lies not in the certainty of "yes" or "no" but in understanding the motivations behind my desires and fears. For now, I can only continue to reflect, question, and navigate this complex journey one step at a time.