The tragedy of becoming a professor is that it takes almost an entire lifetime merely to qualify for the title. [Courtesy]
There comes a point when even Village Wisdom, where truth walks barefoot, stops walking, sits under the old mugumo tree, scratches its grey beard and asks a dangerous question: When did reading too much become a punishable offence?
That question returned with force after the recent court decision upholding the retirement age of professors at seventy.
At first glance, seventy sounds generous. To politicians, it sounds ancient. To footballers, impossible. But to a professor, seventy is often the age when the mind has finally finished introducing itself.
The tragedy of becoming a professor is that it takes almost an entire lifetime merely to qualify for the title.
An ordinary graduate may join the university at twenty-five. Then comes Tutorial Fellow. Years later, Assistant Lecturer. Then Lecturer. Senior Lecturer. Associate Professor.
Finally, after decades of examinations, sleepless nights, journal reviewers who reject your paper because they dislike the font size, conferences where your luggage reaches before you do, endless supervision of postgraduate students, external examinations, research grants, publications and promotions that move slower than a Nairobi traffic jam during heavy rain! you finally become a full Professor.
By then, your hair has surrendered. Your eyesight has negotiated peace with spectacles. Your knees have started quoting the weather forecast before the meteorological department.