Wrecked Existence.

By Brian Nzomo.

The grim events of 2016 changed my life and its course completely. It was a dolent period when I wallowed in the unimaginable depths of a broken mental health system, and witnessed the austere destruction looming among the depressed souls in a collapsed health system, amid the mangled economic situation.

The morose story begins at the maternity section of Denver road Hospital. Minutes past midnight, my wife Abigael was consigned to caesarian birth on strict instructions by the doctor. According to them, she was stressed and therefore normal delivery via the birth canal would be a risk not worth taking. For two hours, I sauntered uneasily across the corridors, hoping that the procedure would be successful. At around 2:23 am, the doctor happily informed me that Abigael had safely delivered a baby boy, and that both of them were snuggly resting at ward 21. I was elated. I couldn’t believe that the tedious and frantic search for a child in our six-year union was finally abated. I warmly cuddled the young one in my arms, seated at the edge of Abigael’s bed. I smiled at her and decisively named him Eric Matano, after my father. The nurse came in and told me to come back at 8 am since it was time for the mother and child to rest. Satisfied of their well being, I drove back home and prepared myself for the morning’s visit. Calling relatives and exhilaratingly informing them of my bundle of joy.

8:45 am. On arriving at the hospital, a tense mood had clouded the hospital staff. I instantly walked into Ward 21, only to find my inconsolable wife yelling, nurses trying to calm her outbursts. I was lost. What was happening? The nurses had to sedate her to lull her. I was then directed to the doctor’s office. There, I found two tall dark gentlemen, who I was later informed were officers attached to the DCI. That was when I received the news that stubbornly refused to resonate with me. Eric had disappeared, or rather stolen at the wee hours of the morning when the mother was tranquilised to sleep. I was mad with rage. Barking threats to everyone, despite the two men’s assurances that the case had been taken up by the State and that those culpable will be smoked out from every nook and cranny in the country.

But that was just that. A month after the somber experience, the case wasn’t gaining traction and no leads whatsoever were formulated. Every visit to the DCI offices to garner any hopeful information, all availed to nothing but shuddering hopes. I had grown helpless from consoling my wife Abigael who spent full days weeping for her child. I didn’t want to show her I was also weakened from the experience. I had to be strong for her. Draw away any emotions from myself, act in a glacial manner. But deep inside, the agony of losing Eric had jaded me. Burgeoning my consciousness. Towards the third month, Abigael had ceased weeping, but had followed another more agonising trajectory. She became senile. Drawn away from the world around her, talking to nobody, eating became a banal coercion. I tried to soothe her and convince her to talk to me. And air out her pain. But all my attempts flopped to my utter disappointment.

Back at work, my seniors could detect my declining performance and warned me severally. I tried to reason with them on my peril, but all that fell on deaf ears. I wasn’t the first man to lose a child, they said. If I wasn’t going to concentrate and be productive at work, they would have no choice but to terminate my contract. This stressed me even more. To cull my thoughts, I joined my fellow colleagues every evening at a joint in Nairobi West and indulged in irresponsible alcohol drinking. This thrilled me, at least it kept me away from my annoyingly cold wife. But little did I know that this aggravated the disheartening state of our union even more. That night when I came back home dead drunk, I battered her but surprisingly, she lay down feebly and unresisting. She didn’t even utter a wail. Silent as a grave. When I tried apologising to her that morning, she remained mum. Staring blankly on the ceiling.

Friday afternoon. I decided to pass by my house on my way to a conference at Kilimani to check on Abigael. And coincidentally, I found her atop the stool, under a hanging noose. I was petrified as I quickly dragged her from the stool and cuddled her. She let out difficult sobs for the first time in months. I had to suspend the idea of going to the conference. At the dismay of my boss. He was furious, and when the phone call ended, he barked fiercely,” You’re fired!!”

**** ***** ****

Two months later. I came to the realisation that Abigael was depressed and her mental state was at a breaking point. I considered finding psychiatric help for her, and came face to face with a dejected state of mental health in Kenya. The public mental health system was in shambles if not dead. I therefore opted for private psychiatric help. Oblivious of my denigrated financial situation occasioned by the loss of my job. Eric’s missing case was stuck in the mud. Investigations might even have stalled, battering the hopes of ever finding my son. On my research, I found various private psychiatrists around Nairobi. And all my visits to them with my wife withdrew any hopes we had. I visited the last one along Moi Avenue. One called Dr. Bakari Mohammed. And after consulting him, I realised my financial crunch may not get Abigael professional help.

“Considering the state of your wife, I’m afraid it will cost you deeply. I will have sessions with her on the course of her treatment. Each session will cost sh. 100,000,” he said gazing at me with anticipation. “What!” I was perplexed. “Okay. How many sessions in exact?” “Well,” he began, “As many as they demand. Probably in line with your wife’s response to treatment”. “Are you kidding me doctor? Where am I supposed to get that kind of money?” I asked. He looked at me in annoyance. Surely this buger isn’t capable of paying that much. Only wasting my time, he possibly thought. “Mr. Kato,” he continued, “You’re not asking me that question, are you? How am I supposed to help you now?”

“Isn’t there anything that can be done? My wife Abigael really needs to get well again,” I asked pitifully, clutching senile Abigael’s arm. “Mr. Kato. I can see you’re just wasting my time. This is a reputable psychiatric hospital that needs money to run. Not a charity organisation that treats its patients for free?” the old doctor yapped. I had to leave. Disappointed at the fragile mental health system prawled by egocentric buccaneers. My hopes for the cure of Abigael’s mental distress in the corridors of professional health system were wrecked completely. And Abigael’s mental timebomb was still ticking to its end…

**** ***** ****

A lazy day at the local joint. I was now a frequent visitor at the pub still trying to comprehend the magnamity of my downward spiral. I was drinking my Guiness beer calmly, going through the newspapers’ job adverts for vacancies. The landlord had given me a 10-day ultimatum to park out or pay my arrears. I had sold my car, but at a throwaway price pay off a bank loan. Now I was empty and optionless. Debtors were on my neck, endless phone calls all ending with threats. As I quietly sipped my beer, a plump man came and sat beside me on the bench and ordered for a bottle of Tusker. How the conversation began, I didn’t know. But within no time, we were opening up to each other about the problems encircling our lives. His son was experiencing mental health issues like my wife. Only that he had tried all possible options he could think of. He told me of how he had been duped by six pastors requiring him to pay special tithes for special healing prayers. All of which flopped. And everytime he complained, the pastors will tell him,”God’s time is always the best. Don’t question the plans God has on your son. He is preparing you for something better and miraculous”. Now that his son was depressed and a “danger” to the society, he was expelled from high school and had to stay at home. Under sentinel watch lest he commits suicide. “Now I’m taking my son to a famous witchdoctor in Mutitú kwa Ndoa called Kilukya. I heard he is powerful and his wonders could work on my son,” he said, sipping his Tusker. “You said this witchdoctor is real? You see I don’t believe in spiritual matters. Furtherless their connection with mental health,” I said. “My friend. This is no time to set aside options based on your disbelief. It’s still better than consulting those white robbed thieves called psychiatrists, or those robbers called pastors. I trust Kilukya will help me”. Maybe he will. Maybe not. I decided I will pay a visit soon to the famed witchdoctor.

The visit on a sunny Saturday came a day after a second suicide attempt by Abigael. I had to salvage her soon, I said. But on visiting the mud-walled hut clustered by webs. I knew that this wasn’t the solution. “What do you mean by a snake ritual? And what have snakes got to do with my wife’s mental health?” I asked, annoyed that the grizzled old man was asking me to allow him carry on with his crude but useless healing procedures. “You don’t question the gods of my ancestors. Do as I say, or leave at once,” he growled. I had to leave. There was no help here. Just an idle old man wasting my time, I cursed.

***** ***** ****

The month of darkness came. The cold month of July. I had been kicked out of the previous residence and was residing in Kawangware. Tired from the day’s backbreaking labour at the construction site, I was walking shudderingly numb across the crowded market. Dusk had fallen and movement was fast paced in the market. I got home. The lights were off. I knocked the door but got no response. Had Abigael gone to get supper from the shops this late? I asked myself. I pushed the door forcefully and the wooden door gave away. I then switched on the lights. And the sight on the tattered sofa freezed my blood. Blood was everywhere. Splattered on the floor and the sofa. A sharp blade lay snuggly on her left palm. I quickly rushed to feel her pulse. But it was totally hushed. Her body was dead cold. The timebomb had elapsed and her wrecked existence detonated. It was over. What had began as a grave loss of a son at the hospital, led to a string of misfortunes and emotional downs that ultimately ended at the splice of the wrist. The burial was conducted at her home village. As her hypocritical relatives, those who failed to give their emotional support to her, mumbled at how good a soul Abigael was. Four years later…

**** ***** ****

The events still remain etched in my mind in an inerasable blob of ink. My life recovered from the shipwreck of mental health. But still saddened that I was helpless to sever through the loss of my child with Abigael. And even with all these, Eric’s casefile is still patched with dust at the investigators’ office. And thousands of other Kenyans, battling mental health issues, left at the preying hands of escapist spiritualities and an egocentric public and private health system. The end results, a lucky swim to survival or drowned to suicide…