AND THEN THEY SAID THAT I WAS MAD.... EPISODE 2

AND THEN THEY SAID THAT I WAS MAD....

By Njonjo Mue

In PART ONE of the Memoir, I told of the first time that I came face to face with the demon of mental illness as I descended into the hell of depression while trying to settle down for my studies at Jesus College Oxford in the early 1990's.

In those days, the only thoughts that pierced through the fog of depression with amazing clarity were thoughts of the many number of ways that I could end my life. With hindsight, I realise that in addition to suicide, I could have died at the hands of any number of predators as I wandered aimlessly in many desolate places at ungodly hours of the night. But Mercy said "No", for God was not done with me. And so, in spite of myself, he eventually brought me back home...

PART TWO

A KIND OF HOMECOMING

The Church of St. Mary Magdalen in the centre of Oxford is described on its website as one of Oxford’s oldest and most historic parish churches. It goes on to say that St. Mary Magdalen’s today provides an island of stillness amid the noise and rush of Oxford’s city centre. However, what brought me to the compound of this old church on the last Friday of Trinity Term in mid June 1992 was not the search for stillness amid the noise and rush of Oxford city. I had long forgotten what stillness, rush or noise were, for these implied life and mine had become one dull ache and monotonous blur with day and night merging into one another and with nothing to distinguish one day from the next.

In the last few months, I had walked and walked in the irrational hope that I would somehow reach the edge of the world and fall off, never to come back. Exhausted with the very idea of living, I had ended up back in Oxford, in the grounds of St. Mary Magdalen Church a stone throw away from Jesus College. Although I had not set foot there since early March, Jesus College, which had been my home during my short stay in Oxford, was still technically my college since I remained enrolled there as a student.

St. Mary’s church sits on an old graveyard and its compound is dotted with old tombstones many dating back several centuries. As I wandered wearily into the compound I envied those who had found their final resting place underneath this soil those many centuries ago. At least they had fought their good fight and had finished their race. As I lay down on the grass above the long departed, I had the distinct feeling that it would not be long before I joined them. A part of me longed for that day since my own life had become such a meaningless journey to nowhere and I, little more than one of the living dead.

In spite of my overwhelming desire to disappear, the very nearness of death here in this graveyard this Friday afternoon seemed to arouse in me another longing, admittedly a very faint one; a longing summon up the will to live. In a moment of unusual clarity that I had not experienced in months, I found myself thinking that I had finally reached an unavoidable crossroads. I either had to summon up the will to live again, or if I lay down for the night here as seemed most likely, I would surely die, here in this graveyard of St. Mary Magdalen. I knew that to live was the more difficult choice and I could not do it unless I admitted that I needed help and go on to take the necessary steps to seek it.

Unbeknown to me at the time, this was a major breakthrough. Many people suffering from depression find it impossible to accept that they are unwell or in need of help or any form external intervention. While human beings instinctively take medication to help themselves to get better from illnesses such as Malaria and the flu and to manage conditions such as diabetes or asthma, admitting to any kind of mental illness is considered taboo. I have never been quite sure what the reason for this is. Is it because in many of our cultures mental illness is still attributed to curses and regarded as incurable? Or could it be because, unlike suffering a broken limb or a dysfunctional organ, there is no physical evidence of our brokenness?

It took me every ounce of energy to stand up amidst the old tombstones and to start walking away from the graveyard towards Jesus College, the only place I knew I could find help. It was a few minutes to 5 p.m. and I knew I had to get to college before the offices closed for the weekend if I was to obtain help from the college authorities. The distance between St. Mary’s Church and Jesus College is only about half a kilometer, but the walk seemed to take an eternity.

The fear of what other students would think about me when I walked, filthy and stinking, through the college gate was overwhelming. It was surely easier to go back to the graveyard and lie down and die. The voice was now back mocking me, discouraging me from seeking help, “Where do you think you are going now? Who do you think cares about you? What made you think you belonged in Oxford in the first place? You are such an embarrassment to the African race! You are such a poor excuse for a human being! You don’t deserve anyone’s attention. Why don’t you just go back to the graveyard and stay there! That’s where you belong! Among the dead! They are even better than you. At least they lived their full lives and accomplished their dreams; you have accomplished nothing!” and on and on it went. The closer I got to College, the louder the voice got.

The half a kilometer walk from the church, south along Magdalen Street, turning left onto Broad Street and then right onto Turl Street where Jesus College was located seemed like the longest distance I had ever walked. My feet were heavy beneath me and my endeavor to reach college before 5 p.m. became an epic struggle. I had to sit down half way there to regain my resolve.

I was caught betwixt and between. Behind me was what I knew was certain death; ahead of me was my only hope of salvation. The desire to turn and go back to the anonymity of the graveyard was overwhelming but I stood up to continue with my trek.

The people going about their business around me seemed to move in slow motion, the usual street noises receding into the background leaving me alone with the voice which became louder with every step I took. But I defied the voice and continued my painful walk towards Jesus College.

I arrived at the College just in time to find the Tutorial Officer locking up. She seemed genuinely elated to see me. I was to learn later that during my absence the college had launched a massive search for me including making a missing person report with the police and making frantic calls to my friends in London and the US whose contacts they had found in my room to ask if I had been in touch. They had also given regular updates to my family back in Kenya regarding the efforts they were making to find me.

I found it strange that the Tutorial Officer, who was always very careful in her own dress and appearance, did not seem in the least bothered about my disheveled appearance. She warmly welcomed me back to college as if I naturally belonged there and took me to one of the rooms reserved for occasional college guests.

It was nearing supper time and she asked me whether I wanted to have supper with the rest of the students in the college dining hall or I preferred her to bring me some food in the room. It was incomprehensible to me that she was so kind and that she thought I was actually deserving of joining other students in the hall for the evening meal. Although I chose to have a quiet supper in my temporary accommodation, the very fact of being given a choice made me to start to feel almost human again.

Later that evening, Sir Anthony Kenny, the Warden of Rhodes House (in charge of administering the Rhodes scholarship which had taken me to Oxford), came to see me. He didn’t seem in the least judgmental about my predicament or irritated that I had caused Rhodes House so much anxiety and embarrassment by disappearing unceremoniously for months as I had done. On the contrary he seemed relieved that I had been found and even invited me to accompany him to Rhodes House and spend the night there as a guest of his and Lady Kenny’s.

Feeling unworthy of such consideration, I turned down the offer preferring instead the simplicity of the college guest room. He had brought me a set of his old clothes, a grey pair of trousers, a vest, a white shirt and a pair of black shoes to replace mine that by now had holes on their soles from the endless walking I had done in the last few months. He informed me that he had booked me on a flight home the following day and would be back in the morning to drive me to the airport.

On Saturday morning at Heathrow Airport as I sat on the British Airways Flight to Nairobi, I looked out of the window to the Terminal Building which was then slowly receding from view as the plane taxied to the runway. I struggled with a torrent of feelings. They were jumbled up but they all led to one distinct conclusion. It was now official. My utter failure as a human being was complete.

Less than a year after I had left home with great expectations of conquering the world, not only was I returning without a degree, I was returning with nothing, not even the clothes on my back, since even those were not mine but were the ill fitting clothes from the wardrobe of a sympathetic old man.

Throughout the eight hour flight, I wished in vain that the plane would somehow crash and end my miserable existence, but of course this did not happen. All too soon, the captain announced our final approach to Jomo Kenyatta International Airport.

I had been told by Sir Antony that my family had been notified that I would be on the flight and I knew that someone would be waiting for me, but I was not ready to face them. For the first time in my life, I had altogether failed them, or so I felt at the time. I was not worthy being waited for.

Nothing suggested to me that anyone could ever be interested in me for my own sake and not because of my intelligence, my cleverness, my wit or my sense of humour. These were all gone. I was now an empty shell at best and at worst, a terrible waste of space. Everyone was better off without me, or so the voice kept telling me.

I sat in the plane until the last possible minute, then disembarked and made my way to the terminal building still wishing that I could somehow disappear. I lingered within the airport building doing nothing in particular for a long time. Later, I made my way through immigration to International Arrivals without stopping at the baggage area since I had no bags to claim. All the while, I kept my head down and prayed that no one would recognize me. I made my way to the bus stop next to Unit 1 and quietly boarded Bus Route 34 which carried me to Donholm where I boarded a Matatu to my sister’s house in Umoja.

I was to find out later that my father and my brother had come to meet me at Arrivals and when I did not come out they had gone to inquire from the BA offices as to whether I had been on the flight. The airline had declined to give them that information. They had then looked frantically for me all over the airport before giving up and returning to my sister’s house where they found that I had already arrived.

My homecoming in June 1992 was as inauspicious and subdued as my going away the previous September had been jubilant and celebrated. Back then, on the night I departed for Oxford, my aunt had thrown a big party for me. Good food and drinks had been served with abandon. Speeches had been made in tribute to an altogether brilliant fellow, the latest recipient of one of the most prestigious scholarships to arguably one of the world’s best universities.

My father had even brandished and circulated a copy of a recent newspaper announcement of my award of the Rhodes Scholarship for all to see and loudly reminded everyone that only one Rhodes Scholar was elected every year in the entire East African region, and that in that year, that lad happened to be his son.

Thereafter, I had been escorted to the airport by friends and family with much pomp and ceremony, like a village hero taking off on his way to fight an epic battle upon whose outcome the survival of the entire community depended.

Now I walked in, fearfully and unannounced, under the cover of darkness into our eldest sister’s house in Umoja Estate to find my siblings cramped in the small living room, an air of uncertainty hanging over them like a dark cloud.

Everyone pretended to be delighted by my arrival but it was impossible to conceal the look of concern on their faces. To them, I had always been the whizz kid in the family who overcame the challenges of life without seeming to break a sweat. I had easily gotten admitted to Alliance High School and the University of Nairobi’s Law School. I had served my pupilage in one of the country’s most prestigious law firms and had proceeded to Oxford for my post-graduate studies after having been on the first group of my lot to be called to the bar in August 1991.

It seemed that everything I touched had turned to gold, but here I was, now a pale shadow of the person my siblings had known all their lives. They seemed not to know quite how to relate to this new Njonjo who had lost a lot of weight, was losing hair in uneven patches on the head, and did not speak except when spoken to, but sat restlessly, seemingly lost in his own thoughts.