THE INCOMPREHENSIBLE VOICE

By Brian Nzomo

I hate to do this. For it may be misconstrued as a pity post. It happens. Many a facebooker have been taunted for contriving stories meant to glean sympathy. “Who cares?” We are told. “Everyone has their own problems.”

Suicidal tendencies have been viewed from the angle of sceptism. Arm-chair psychologists have been quick to conclude: “People who desire to end their lives, don’t even manifest the intent to do so. For it would disenfranchise their ultimate end.” I was of the opinion, sadly, some years ago. When I was inconsiderate and insensitive to others’ plight. Suicide was a bantam issue to me. Life isn’t sacrosanct. And none owns it except an individual. And when circumstances predisposed them to take it, I was of the idea that they take it.

I am no suicide moralist. I don’t inoculate rightness or wrongness on it. But my perceptions have changed a little. No one is dispensed off its clutches. And no one just plummets into it without frantically searching for the last, miraculous tendrils of hope. Like everything else abounding under the skies, suicide grows like a tumor. Pervades you slow. Inhabits in you sensually, innocently. When its first vestiges are present, one is tempted not to imagine it as a desire to end life. But on rigour focus, anyone else might perceive it as a glaring desire to end life, albeit covertly.

This is how I began. And this is where am heading.

I hate myself partly because I loathe help even when it is lucent that I need it. I am debtless partly because of this. I take pride in myself for not being a beggar or owing anyone, but it takes a massive toll on me. I remember how I beared three days of gnawing hunger in my second year in the university, avoiding at all costs, asking for help. I don’t know what compulses me to do this. I cannot fully comprehend it. And I honestly wish I could defeat this trait.

I help people where I can. Many times never expecting anything in return. I don’t do it out of a desire to be virtuous, or to stake souls who shall be indebted to me when my life is in turmoil. I just do it. Blindly. Unreasonably. But I’ll be damned requesting for help, or pleading for a listening ear. Supposingly, this is what has made me bottle up my problems. Every one has their own problems. What kind of man would I be beleaguering them with mine?

I won’t lie to you. I am on the verge of imminent end. I lost my source of income months ago. And nothing is likely to salvage my situation no matter how hard I try. But I won’t say it. The classical response would be: “Wake up and stop being lazy! Take up the reins of a new day and saddle up for survival. Life requires not weak men”. But I am weak. And I acknowledge my weaknesses. I never try to overcome the inundating powers they wield over me. Because the results would always be the same; Failure.

I said to myself: “I won’t give up. The possibility of surviving would be nigh to impossible. But if I have to die, I’ll die starving probably when the last coin goes.” And I lived on. Silently. And everyone knew of my repose. I interacted normally. And I was happy no one would suspect I was drowning.

Then I began fantasizing about death. Innocently it came. Suicidal? Naah! Just a little dabbling here and there with the idea of resting forever. What would happen if I was electrocuted by this socket? I would ask myself smiling. I saw cars and wondered what if they hit me. I saw the gas leaking and the house bursting into fumes. I saw it everywhere. Possibilities. Grand ones. Ruled out the painful ones. Those I was likely to survive. But all this while, it never seemed like suicidal thoughts. Or so I thought.

Then yesterday evening came. I was walking along the footbridge near KU, above the Thika superhighway. I was calm. Numb to my raging thoughts of despair.

I saw the cars zooming below. Nice cars, I remarked. Lorries, trucks, country matatus…all flying eastward. Then a small voice, muffled in my mind. One I never heard before, whispered: “Jump!”

It scared me. “No! This is madness!”

My strides slackened. And for a moment I was not controlling my body. The voice was taking over me: “Jump!” It said louder.

My hands were about to grab the railing when a friend who was following me nudged me from my trance. “Ebu twende! Masaa mbaya!” He laughed because I looked comically at him. Like I couldn’t understand what he was saying.

I pondered over it for a moment. What happened? How did I even think about it? For sure, that was not me. I have harboured the desire to die, but never one to actively take it. And I am now scared that it would happen again. Especially when am around instances that would tempt that voice to resound in me again.

What if I cut onions, and I capitulate to the desires of that incomprehensible voice to turn it to myself?

I have written this not to emotionally impact anyone. I shouldn’t have written it anyway. But I have written it. For I write anything I don’t understand.

~Brian,
22/03/2022
3:22 pm