I hear your house is stately and your children don’t speak the local tongue. I hear you’re driving a Tesla. You sit back and let the AI do the work for you. I hear that, too. So much I hear about you and how you live in the present, so I didn’t send you the invite.  

For those I sent invites to, we’ll meet at Uhuru Park and go over several things, like how to make the most of the present world you so cling to and find our way back home. We could’ve used your input here, but you’re all set, so it seems, and this present world is all you’ve ever dreamt of, so it seems. Right now, we are only ten, but the family is growing. Lots and lots of people will be joining our course. Unfortunately, you won't be one of them. Too bad. I must say I feel sad for you, but you’ve made your decision, which I highly respect. So, go on, boy, buy all the good stuff money can buy. Tell Alexa to scratch your back, and when sleep rejects you, tell Alexa to sing you a lullaby song. 

Remember that story I told you? One about the girl on Facebook. She’d posted her old picture and wrote a caption: I wished I had met you earlier. I met her and dated her. We drank too much coffee, and I told her about my group. She reached over the table and hugged me, her arm the vice-grip about my neck. Then she sat back and wept, not bothered by curious looks she commanded her way. Not that she had fallen in love with me head over heels. Not that I was the sweetest thing ever in her life. Long story short, I gave her the invite, and the next day, she called, asking about the group. She was so eager to meet her younger self, and I held her hand and looked into her eyes, swearing that we’d soon meet the younger versions of ourselves. For you, my friend, I'm sorry you won't. Because you live in the present. You’ve forgotten about the night discos during our time. You’ve forgotten the girls of our youth, how they’d draw maps on the dirt with their big toes, keep their heads down as we weaken their defenses with love lyrics plucked fresh for Lionel Richie’s songs. You’ve forgotten the endless love of our mothers. You’ve forgotten the carefree life of the past when we used to walk barefoot, swim in the rivers day long, and laugh until our eyes poured with tears. You have forgotten the Christmases of our time. We’d dance in the night, run around with burning sisal trunks in our hands, screaming our throats sore, and on the big day, we’d wear our Sunday best, Bandanas too, stroll the town like we own the world. 

If you ever change your mind, come to Uhuru Park and we’ll let you in. We’ve already grouped ourselves so that we have cooks, guards, scientists, readers, and many more among us. We’ll read all the books ever written about time travel. There are many stalled time travel projects. We’ll revive them. We’ll demand financial aid from the government coffers, and if none is given, we’ll cause anarchy in the streets. By all means, we shall build a time-travel machine. Then we’ll go. We’ll leave you behind. 

Sorry, I didn’t send you the invite.