THE WEEKENDER'S ROAST: A generation chokes on fast food

There was a time when a man could spend his entire day behind an ox-plough, take a leisurely ten km walk home, eat a plate of mahangu the size of a satellite dish, and still have enough energy left to gather his children around the fire and lecture them for three hours about culture, respect and discipline.

That man is now 78 years old and somehow healthier than his grandson, who gets exhausted changing television channels.

The people of the 1970s and 1980s lived in a cruel world. They had no food-delivery apps. No triple-cheese bacon volcano burgers. No caramel-drizzled frappes containing enough sugar to power a small municipality. If they wanted food, they had to grow it, catch it, slaughter it, or at the very least walk to get it.

Now we live in the golden age of convenience, where a person can order 4 000 calories without standing up. Human civilisation has finally achieved its greatest ambition: removing every possible obstacle between ourselves and obesity.

The modern citizen's fitness routine consists mainly of reaching for things. Reaching for the remote. Reaching for the phone. Reaching for another chicken wing.

Exercise has become something people discuss the way medieval peasants discussed dragons: everyone has heard of it, but nobody has actually seen it.

Meditation fares even worse. Suggest to someone that they spend ten minutes quietly reflecting on life and they look at you as though you have proposed a new tax.

Instead, many embrace the modern mental-health strategy: doom-scrolling through social media until 2 am, comparing themselves to influencers who appear to own three yachts, six businesses and a jawline sculpted by Greek gods.

Then they wonder why anxiety arrives every morning before breakfast.

Even food has become suspicious. Our grandparents ate vegetables that tasted like vegetables. Today's tomato tastes like elephant dung. You eat ice cream and the next morning you’re losing hair.

Once upon a time, success meant climbing a mountain. Today, success is putting on a shoe without tumbling into a nearby coffee table. Apparently, bending down to tie a shoelace has become an extreme sport.

The nation's declining fitness levels have also introduced fresh challenges to the bedroom.

Once upon a time, romance was associated with passion, endurance and athleticism. Today, a full round of sex requires a doctor on speed dial.

Do not be fooled by WhatsApp messages from a man who claims he can pull an all-nighter. The body that struggles to climb a flight of stairs does not magically transform into an Olympic gymnast after sunset. The spirit may be willing, but the flesh is too weak from the fatal consumption of marinated chicken.

The contrast between generations is remarkable. A pensioner's smartwatch congratulates him for conquering a mountain trail.

His granddaughter's watch congratulates her for successfully reaching the kitchen from the bedroom.

Modern technology has become astonishingly supportive. "Great job! You have taken 23 steps today." Twenty-three. Not kilometres. Steps!!

I foresee an Olympics for misfits by 2040. Whoever walks from the couch to the fridge without falling wins gold. Whoever makes it back to the couch carrying a two-litre cooldrink wins silver. And if you can still see your own d*ck while standing, you get bronze.

Then comes middle age.

The knees file for divorce. They demand secession from the rest of the body, like Muyongo's Caprivi ambitions. The back hurts, but you cannot identify where exactly.

The old men of the 1970s did not have protein shakes, fitness influencers, smartwatches or wellness podcasts. But they moved. They worked. They sweated.

The irony is that we have never known more about health, yet we seem determined to die one takeaway meal at a time.