Am I Going Mad: A Reflection on Mental Health in Kenya9 min read.
While the public debate on mental health is welcome, as a person recovering from a mental disorder, there is need to push a wholesome discussion on the reality of the state of mental health in Kenya beyond depression.
Monday, 17th December 2018 was a normal day that stubbornly refused to conform to my expectations. An impulsive decision made at 3:30 PM in a 46 Matatu heading to the Nairobi city centre dramatically altered the direction of my life.
I was on my way from Inuka Kenya offices, when a gut feeling nudged me towards the Doctor’s plaza at Nairobi Hospital. I wanted to see a psychiatrist who could recommend some sleeping pills.
When I arrived at the Nairobi Hospital, the two psychiatric consultants had both closed their offices for the Christmas holidays. Feeling unsettled, I decide to seek help at the adjacent Upper Hill Medical Centre where I quickly scanned the directory board on the first floor desperately trying to locate a psychiatrist before closing time.
Too impatient to wait for the lift, I bolted up the staircase, arrived at the reception on the third floor, and to my relief, I found other patients waiting in turn.
I walked up to the receptionist who would not accept my Jubilee Medical Insurance card: “Your insurer hasn’t installed glade which should be used to raise a claim for your card. Sorry we can’t serve you,” she said bluntly while handing it over.
I was adamant and decided to press on. “Is there any other way? Can you call the insurance company so that I can be treated and you deal with the claims later?” My persistence paid off. A few minutes later, as if fate was moving mountains, I was on the phone with my insurer who found a way to resolve the challenge.
I had seen celebrated psychiatrist Dr Frank Njenga on TV. His analysis fascinated me. Only this day, I was not arriving in my capacity as a journalist to get expert opinion on a story. I was a patient.
My sleep patterns had gradually deteriorated to their worst state as far as I could recall. It had been weeks of violent nightmares. Bad people with crude weapons wanting to kill me and rogue Ikolomani Bulls chasing me through the night.
I could not outrun death and when I tried to scream for help, I found my voice frozen. I felt helpless and trapped in the nightmares. I would wake up in panic, breathless and sweaty. I wanted to see a psychiatrist who could recommend some sleeping pills just like one had done in 2014 when I had a similar experience.
Frank Njenga was wearing a clean white shirt with a blue-stripped tie. His smile and calm demeanor disarmed me on the spot. “Tell me more about yourself,” he asked after exchanging a few pleasantries.
I went on and on about my family’s history, and myself while his head was glued on my file taking notes. Sometimes he would lift his head when I said something that sounded like a trigger. “Tell me more about incident, what happened?” he would ask when I explained some of the darkest seasons I had gone through recently.
He gave me a piece of paper, which had about 30 questions and told me to tick statements that closely represented how I had lived my life. While he had hoped that I would only tick about 10 when he looked at the paper, I had ticked 25 out of 30 and that’s how he partly discovered what had been eating me. To ascertain his preliminary findings, he sent me for a cognitive test to corroborate what he was suspecting.
What I thought was just a simple sleep issue turned out to a symptom of something deeper.
“I’m glad you came here, we are going to help you,” he reassured me as we chatted for about an hour, the longest I have been in a doctor’s office.
“Odongo, we may need to take you to a place so that we can monitor your sleep and find out if there are other underlying issues,” he advised as there was sufficient evidence that I needed to be monitored.
I knew the weight of inadequate sleep and was desperate for a solution. I accepted his suggestion.
“Mental health is like an onion, we peel it from the outer layer as we dig in. That’s the only way we can find out the core of the problem,” he added.
When we arrived at the gate of Chiromo Lane Medical Centre in Lavington, I saw a disturbing sign: Visiting hours is between 9-11 am and 3-6 PM. My panic buttons went off. I was not suicidal and I did not have the urge to harm other people. I just had migraines, nightmares and an anxious mind. Why was I being admitted into a restrictive hospital?
Begrudgingly, I agreed to check in for a night. The bungalow house that sat on a lush green serene environment complimented by the friendly staff all disarmed me.
In hindsight, this was one of the best decisions, I made in my life. For the next six days, I would go through an overwhelming journey of self discovery that I was hardly prepared for.
At the end of the first day, I was diagnosed with clinical depression, mild Attention Deficiency Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD) and trauma. Though I was predisposed to some of the disorders, a toxic work environment for five years, an emotionally abusive relationship and front row coverage of the 2017 traumatic elections as a reporter played a key role in triggering the sleeping demons that landed me in a hospital.
After I was done with a two-hour therapy session, I slowly dragged my exhausted body back to my admission room. As I sat on my bed while listening to music, a wave of emotions descended and I broke down and wept. I slowly moved from the bed and sat on the floor with my back against the wall and legs straightened. For the next three hours, I wept until I felt weak.
Kenya Mental Health Policy (2015-2030) indicates that mental disorder cases have risen exponentially in Kenya. Estimates point that 20-25 percent of outpatients seeking primary healthcare present symptoms of mental illness at any one time. There are no sufficient qualified medical personnel and facilities to take care of this lot of patients.
A 2015 performance audit report from the Office of the Auditor General (OAG) on the state of mental health paints a grim picture. As at 2015, there were only 92 psychiatrists in the country instead of the 1,533 required. 327 psychiatrist nurses instead of 7,666. The report stated that “While it’s expected that a psychiatrist should serve 30,000 citizens, currently a psychiatrist is serving about half a million citizens”.
I still count myself privileged to have gotten medical attention. The ability to afford private insurance cover, know where to go when symptoms arise and get treated by Dr. Njenga is privilege.
Millions of Kenyans who struggle to meet basic needs are exposed to mental disorder triggers stemming from their environment and cannot afford this privilege. For the poor masses in Kenya, quality primary health care is a mirage. Add the lack of specialized mental healthcare and you condemn a whole section of the population to destitution.
Mathari Hospital, which is an affordable public facility and the only hospital in the country offering specialized psychiatric services and training is in a sorry state according to the OAG. For the three financial years, 2013/14, 2014/15 and 2015/16 Mathari hospital was provided only about 30% of the funds allocated under the recurrent expenditure and nothing under the development expenditure.
As government policy, all mentally ill law offenders who require in-patient services can only be admitted in Mathari Hospital under the Maximum Security Unit regardless of severity of their condition. They make up 35 percent of the inpatients in the hospital yet there is no cost sharing to take care of them thereby straining the already limited resources.
Low funding means that apart from inadequate equipments, the wards are also insufficient with the hospital being reported to have an average bed occupancy rate of 115 percent. The low stock of critical drugs, inadequate skilled and qualified personnel to handle the patients are some of the issues plaguing Mathari as raised by the OAG report.
On the receiving end are the patients who are dependent on the hospital receive poor services including delayed diagnosis that can make the condition worse. While National referral hospitals should provide specialized healthcare services and should operate with a defined level of autonomy including a Board and a Chief Executive Officer, Mathari hospital is the only psychiatric hospital of its caliber in Kenya that operates under a department in the Ministry of Health.
The national statistics do not offer any reprieve either. County managed hospitals where the bulk of the nation relies on for mental health care is stuff of horror.
In the 47 counties, only 25 have psychiatric units. Even in the 25 counties where the services are available, they are pledged with the challenge of outdated equipment, inadequate stocks for essential drugs and insufficient personnel to treat mentally ill patients.
According to the OAG, besides Mathari national referral hospital, mental healthcare services are only available at 29 of the 284 hospitals in Level 4 and above of the referral chain. “This represents just 10% of the total facilities in Level 4 and above and 0.7% of the 3,956 government-owned health facilities,” notes the report.
A month before I walked into the hospital, I hardly thought that my relationship challenges could compound my psychological well-being. The revelations from a text message that came from my ex took me to the brink. That night, the thought of going to bed haunted me. I stayed on my couch writing until 4 am. I tried to pray but I could not. My heart was heavy.
My head was never the same after that night. It started to sound like the world’s busiest construction site. Constant hammering, grinders cutting through metal, welding machines and all sorts of construction chaos formed an unholy symphony in my head.
During the day, migraines became the norm and at night, insomnia took over. When I closed my eyes, I was battling anxiety unable to focus my attention on anything. I experienced anger, bitterness and a heavy dark cloud hovered above. I had never felt like this before.
While the public debate on mental health is welcome, as a person recovering from a mental disorder, there is need to push a wholesome discussion on the reality of the state of mental health in Kenya beyond depression.
We need to broaden the discussion to talk about different conditions and their symptoms, different medication and management of disorders. According to the World Health Organisation (WHO), there are over 10 mental health disorders affecting human beings including borderline personality disorder, anxiety and panic attacks, bipolar disorder attention-deficit/hyperactivity disorder (ADHD) among others. Depression is just one of them.
We also need to talk about inadequate mental health facilities and the few stretched mental health professionals. By solely pushing the message of depression, we downplay the reality of mental health challenges in Kenya and the manifest consequences.
Stigma and lack of accurate information continues to cost the global economy about $1 trillion every year in productivity due to depression and anxiety. WHO data, reveals that mental illness accounts for 30 percent of non-fatal disease burden worldwide and 10 percent of overall disease burden, including death and disability.
In 2016, the grim reality necessitated the World Bank Group (WBG), the World Health Organization (WHO) and other partners to kick start a call to action to governments, international partners, health professionals among others to find solutions to what is fast becoming a global mental health problem.
Leaving the hospital on 24th December, I was informed that Jubilee Insurance Company had rejected my claim for two reasons: The condition I was diagnosed with is not covered in my policy I was holding (Never mind that ADHD predisposes one to other mental illnesses like depression which they claim to cover).
For trauma and depression, which is covered under the policy, they said I needed a one-year waiting period (I took the cover in September 2018 after leaving formal employment) despite the fact that I was a previous policyholder with the same company for three years and my claim history was generally low and it didn’t have any mental illness.
I was furious because while signing the form, nobody informed me that I was entitled to a waiver. While I took time (2 weeks) to read the policy document, I didn’t notice that ADHD (I knew this condition when I was diagnosed in December) was not covered. The agent who signed me on was either too concerned with the commission or the corporate culture of the organization encourages ambiguity for profit gain.
My review of the mental health policy and the relevant laws including the Mental Health Act of 1978 and the Mental Health (Amendment) Act 2018, showed that the same clause they used to decline my claim is potentially discriminatory. The policy states in part “Ensuring that the health insurance system does not discriminate against persons with Mental, Neurological and Substance use (MNS) disorders in accessing insurance policies,”
Though not yet enacted, clause 3D(3) of the Mental health amendment bill of 2018 amplifies the 1978 Act more expressly: “A person with mental illness shall have the right of access to medical Insurance for the treatment from public or private health insurance providers. An insurance company or person providing health insurance services shall not discriminate against a person with mental illness or subject a person with mental illness to unfair treatment in obtaining the necessary insurance cover.”
As a good citizen, I appealed their decision using internal mechanism but I still hit a dead wall. I am now preparing to take the dispute before the Insurance Regulatory Authority (IRA) with a view to not only settle my bills but also to amend the discriminatory clause for personal policy holders.
Kenya grapples with a low insurance penetration rate at 2.68 percent. The 2017’s Insurance Industry Annual Report 2017 by IRA flags mistrust among the reasons listed for the cause of low rate of insurance penetration in Kenya.
As I began to investigate the nature of insurance claims for mental health cases, I have encountered numerous patients who have suffered mental health challenges and the stories are similar: A clever refusal to pay claims using technicality.
In developing countries like Kenya, the mental health landscape is often plagued with insufficient data to show the economic impact of mental illnesses. However, the effects are wide-ranging and long-lasting including the impact on the families’ and care-givers’ resources; the expenses related to crimes caused by the mental disorders; the productivity losses due to debility, morbidity and premature death; and the psychological pain borne by the patients and their family members.
There is also a correlation between the state of mental health and rise of the Sexual and Gender Based Violence (SGBV). Evidence shows that mental health has a crucial role in the primary prevention of sexual and gender-based violence (SGBV) even though most standard practice has focused on the role of mental health post-violence, and primary prevention relying on public health models that do not explicitly include mental health.
For example, research shows that empathy, self-esteem, compassion, emotional regulation and resilience, stress management, relationship building, and challenging problematic social norms are crucial for primary prevention of SGBV.
A 2016 report by the National Gender and Equality Commission estimated that the cost of GBV stood at KES 46 billion, which translated to about 1.1 percent of Kenya’s GDP due to medical related expenses, litigation costs, productivity losses among others.
More needs to be done to create awareness about mental health and its economic cost. Also, there is need for an immediate taskforce to collect data about mental health in Kenya to advise policy decisions.
In the words of Owen Arthur, former Prime Minister of Barbados: “For he who has health has hope; and he who has hope, has everything.”
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In the Absence of a Trophy, the Photo Is Proof
With increased human subject research in Africa, there needs to be benchmarking that is focused on justice and human rights instead of the neo-colonial mentality that perceives the African as a ready pool of human subjects to be had at a bargain.
When I first visited a leading global health organization in the US in 2014, I was overwhelmed by its behemothic stature. I was also taken aback by how the African, mostly the African woman and child, were a constant fixture on the walls of the institution. There were very few pictures of men. My experience is that men are skittish and have learned to distrust foreigners with cameras. Also, for various reasons that I won’t go into right now, it is also quite challenging to get men to consent to participating in research in rural Africa. I walked through the hallways looking at the large posters of African women and children, stuck in time, looking back at me. Their images, some women pregnant, others bearing young children on their arms, in long lines in front of rural health facilities that were too familiar, followed me with their eyes. Large white eyes like beads set on a beautiful black canvas of faces. I felt as if they recognized me. And I too, them. As if we shared the secret of the poverty and broken healthcare systems that had occasioned us to be in this space. They on display as subjects, or potential subjects of research, I as a researcher, occupying a higher social space thanks to my education and other opportunities that have trickled down to me. These images of Africans trapped in the uncertainty of the healthcare system, lost in thought, yet so hopeful, are too common on the walls and websites of every major NGO working in the African continent.
How much should we pay the African woman?
While implementing research in rural Kenya between 2007 and 2014, we were paying mothers of subjects 150 shillings per study visit. That is less than two US dollars per visit. The reasoning around this, and mostly around research done in sub-Saharan Africa and other developing countries, is that the subject stipend for participating in research should not exceed what people typically make in a day. Essentially, subjects are paid the perceived lowest amount for unskilled workers in these rural areas, or they are paid the lowest amount that one can live on in a day in the rural areas. A dollar or two per day is considered adequate. It is thought that any amount exceeding that would be economic coercion of sorts, and the strongly desired act of voluntarism by the subject would be lost.
Since most of the research volunteers in sub–Saharan Africa are women, the discussion centres around what a typical woman selling vegetables in a local market, for example, would make. The discussion never strays into the question of what people in formal employment—for example, the local primary school teacher—make in a day. Any additional burden such as travel, which is mostly on foot or on motorcycles, is assumed to be the normal way of life. Others such as the pain from injections and the drawing of blood, and other adverse effects, are assumed to be mitigated by the free healthcare received. The summation of this reasoning ends with the subjects in rural Africa making very little money from research, even though participating in research causes major disruptions to their social lives. It also creates a neo-colonial mentality in research where the typical rural African woman or child is perceived as a ready pool of human subjects available at a bargain, rendered desperate by the failure of the local healthcare systems and by government neglect.
When thinking of money, we should think of the environment too
I was recently part of a team undertaking very interesting and important COVID vaccine research. Part of my job involved reviewing study documentation as well as taking part in discussions about subject compensation. I worked with research centres to provide justification for subjects to be paid specific amounts of money, always acting as an advocate, while also being a good steward of the research budget. I advocated for increased payment in some circumstances and argued against overpayment. During the discussions around compensation, two words took prominence. One is voluntarism. A study subject is assumed to be volunteering their time, blood and other samples and personal data while withstanding pain in their desire to advance research and the increase of alternative therapies for themselves and humanity. Based on this assumption, participation in research becomes a higher calling, an act of altruism by the subject. The alternative to this explanation would be that, in participating in research, the subjects respond to incentives, be they economic, social, or psychological. This is more in line with the reality of capitalism and the world we live in. The question, therefore, is not whether the typical rural African woman is joining research to advance science; her decision is part of the survival calculus in an environment where healthcare is stretched and the reality of poverty is ever present.
Coercion is also a very prominent word in research. Coercion here implies that the subject is responding to some form of active or passive persuasion from the researchers to join research. The promise of money as compensation for research is passive coercion to say the least. The promise of efficient and superior healthcare to that which is available within the local ministry of health system is coercive.
The promise of money as compensation for research is passive coercion to say the least.
The politics and ethics around the two words, voluntarism and coercion, is loaded. It gets even more confusing when it is apparent that the pharmaceutical company implementing the study is focused on profiting from their new therapy or device; in most cases, saving humanity is as important as profits for these companies. And these companies will hold on to their patents for as long as they can, no matter the human suffering, until they realize the desired return on their investments. Why then would the pressure be on the subject to volunteer when the whole setup is for profit? In the developed world, subjects are always very aware of the cost of drugs and how the healthcare system works. Study subjects are very vocal in negotiating for themselves and subject advocates ensure that their subjects’ interests are protected. In Kenya and many African countries, the subjects take what they are given. This is because of the pressure brought to bear on the subject by the local researchers to have them believe in the alternative truth that research is charity, and not business.
How do they do it in the West?
While working in the West, I have waited to hear of benchmarking decisions formulated around subject compensation based on the amount of money that waiters and waitresses make. Or based on the hourly payment of anyone making anything below the minimum wage. So far, I haven’t. The benchmarking in clinical research in the West always considers what skilled workers would be making per hour, how difficult it is to recruit from the population, past precedent, and the economic incentives that would result in quick recruitment and in keeping the subjects in the study. It is not based on any preconceived ideas of the researcher, it is not based on their perception of poverty and on how little people can get by. It tends to be based on the reality of the market forces, equity and study needs.
In addition to this, any transport and accommodation requirements are met through provision of lodging and reimbursement for transport costs, among others. The word coercion is therefore not prominent in the West as it is in developing countries. The assumption in the Western world is that the subjects there deserve a better quality of life when participating in research. Their time is also more valuable. They are also capable of making complex decisions to join research. They are not just a pool of humans readily available for data mining. On the other hand, the decision to pay a very small stipend in developing countries is tied to the image of the local African woman, or man, in rural areas. This is the same image that is captured in photos during the field trips to Africa by Westerners. And in this image, the African is seen as one who is hardened in his environment and quite capable of surviving on very little, one who should be thankful for the little that they receive since the options available to them is either broken, or not working. This assumption is also supported by local researchers and institutions who consider any additional benefits towards the welfare of subjects to be secondary to the outcome of the research. The continued existence of these colonial attitudes in research is strengthened by an image of the African in research that is based on a single story, on single moments captured on a photograph. These are the images I saw on the walls of the prestigious research institution I visited.
Images are powerful tools
In the absence of a trophy, images are the proof of that rich encounter between those in power and the powerless in those far-flung places. Images are also proof of the need for funding. They are also proof of work done. They are proof of privilege and relevance. They are also proof of love. Of comradeship.
The images in the halls of international public health organisations have served to encourage donations for research, providing the much-needed momentum and acceleration of interventions to improve life. On the other hand, these images have also reduced the worth and the story of the African woman, man, or child into a single moment captured at the click of a camera. In that sense, such images on the websites and walls of research centres have focused on a single story, sometimes perpetuating a stereotype of the African, often the stereotype of people without choice, but who can provide the much-needed data at the lowest cost to the pharmaceutical world, their aspirations and hopes not mattering in the calculus of profit and power in international research. Do these people go to weddings? Do they have smart phones? Are they on Instagram? Do they enjoy Christmas? Or are they stuck in that moment, in that small health facility waiting to be saved by international researchers. Does their voice matter? Or is theirs already drowned by the strong collaboration between the ministries of health, the local administration and international researchers and pharmaceutical companies?
The assumption in the Western world is that the subjects there deserve a better quality of life when participating in research.
With increased human subject research in Africa, there needs to be benchmarking that is focused on justice and human rights. How much compensation for research is reasonable to cover transport and time and allow the African woman living in rural poverty to save some money for food for her family after a whole day spent traveling for research? How much does local skilled labour cost per day in the rural setting? Researchers should focus on financial justice rather than perpetuating financial oppression while hiding behind the principle of coercion and voluntarism. And beyond that, if the rural African woman and child are going to be forever immortalized as the face of international research, then there should be a balance between their desperation and their resilience in these challenging environments. That balance is self-worth. It is power. And this power and self-worth are tied to the representation of the conqueror as well as the conquered, the researcher and the researched, through images and films.
Women at Sea: Testimonies of Survivors Fleeing Across the Central Mediterranean
Anyone crossing the sea to escape a dangerous situation or to find a better life is in a vulnerable position, but women face the additional burdens of gender discrimination and, all too often, gender-based violence, along their routes. Women represent only a small proportion – around five per cent – of those who make the dangerous journey from Libya to Italy.
On board the Geo Barents, female survivors regularly disclose practices such as forced marriage or genital mutilation (affecting either themselves or their daughters) as being among the reasons they were forced to leave their homes. Women also face specific risks during their journeys – MSF medical teams report that women are proportionally more likely to suffer fuel burns during the Mediterranean crossing, as they tend to be placed in the middle of the boat where it is thought to be safest. . Many women rescued also report having experienced various forms of violence, including psychological and sexual violence and forced prostitution.
“The minute I was alone, they would have raped me.” Adanya, 34 years old, from Cameroon.
Among these women is Decrichelle, who fled a forced marriage to a violent husband with her baby. They left their home country of Nigeria and went via Niger to Algeria. When they arrived in the desert, Decrichelle’s daughter fell ill and she could not do anything to treat her because she had no access to care or medicine. The young girl died, and Decrichelle had to leave her behind before continuing the journey to Algeria: “an immense and inconsolable sadness” for her.
Decrichelle attempted to cross the sea once but was arrested and sent to prison, where she was released immediately, only to be taken by taxi to a brothel. Some Cameroonian friends helped her escape. For six months, she lived in the campos (the abandoned buildings or large outdoor spaces near the sea where traffickers gather migrants) before scraping together the money to pay her way for another crossing. “I want to be in a place where I can live like a normal person of my age. I want to be able to sleep at night,” she says. “I wanted to be here with my child. It hurts me to think that I am safe, and I left her in the desert.”
Beyond the difficulties women face on migration routes and in Libya, MSF teams on board the Geo Barents often witness the strong bonds that develop between survivors on the women’s deck. The women come together to support one another with daily tasks and childcare.
“In Libya, I was sleeping under trucks and buses as I did not have any money.” Afia, 24 years old, from Ghana.
“I want to tell women: it is not your fault. You are exactly the same person as you were before. You are even stronger,” says Lucia, deputy project coordinator aboard the Geo Barents, who has herself experienced rape. “I think it has been really moving to see these women, who actually escaped what I experienced for an hour of my life, and in their struggle, their strength and their hope, [they do not stop] this fight,” she adds.
Meanwhile, when male survivors are asked about the people they left behind or the reasons for their journey, a woman is always mentioned in their stories. Ahmed, 28 years old, was born in Sudan to Eritrean parents who moved to Sudan to escape the war. Having lived all his life as a refugee, Ahmed never felt that he belonged in Sudan. He wished to leave, but as an undocumented person, unable to return to Eritrea for fear of military conscription and an oppressive dictatorial regime, he decided to travel to Libya and cross the Mediterranean Sea to Europe.
Ahmed’s mother was the only one who stood by him when he decided to convert from Christianity to Islam, despite harassment from his other family members. “[Converting to Islam] affected me, affected my friendships… for sure [I faced issues because of that]. At first, from the family… in the beginning, I was secretive… until my family knew; then the harassment started. But my mother accepted me. She told me, ‘Whatever makes you comfortable, do it.’” Ahmed says his mother is one of the reason she was able to make the journey from Sudan through Egypt and into Libya. “She has a really big role in my life. She was continuously supportive and motivating me, wishing me the best. She is my inspiration… I hope to meet her again.”
“I know if I tell my mother I am in Libya, she will be crying every day.” Ibrahim, 28 years old, from Nigeria.
Nejma, cultural mediator on board the Geo Barents, explains her bond with survivors like Decrichelle and Ahmed: “I am African and I am Middle Eastern. I am a mother. I am a woman. There are so many things that link us together. Maybe also the fact that I had to flee. That is a big part of it. I think it helps me understand where people are at the moment we find them; it is an understanding that books could never teach me.”
As a refugee herself, Nejma shares what helped her to move forward in the places she fled to. “[Survivors need to] keep the strength… once they disembark in Europe, it is not the end of the journey,” she says. “It is a different challenge: to not let go of who they are, to never forget who they are, where they are from. To be very proud of their origins. Because you will not know where to go if you do not know where you came from. And I want my brothers and sisters from Africa and the Middle East, or anywhere, to remember who they are. It will make it easier to move forward.”
These stories of the women on board the Geo Barents were collected during rotations of the ship at sea. The portraits and testimonies were captured by two female photographers, with a view to amplify women’s voices, while respecting cultural sensitivities:
Mahka Eslami is an Iranian photographer, who was born in Paris and lived there until the age of seven before her parents returned to Tehran. While studying engineering in Iran, she worked as a journalist for the Chelcheragh. She returned to France where she finished her engineering studies before branching out into documentary photography and transmedia writing to become an independent photographer. Her work has been published by Le Monde, Libération, Society, Néon and Les Inrockuptibles.
Nyancho NwaNri is a lens-based artist and documentarian from Lagos, Nigeria, whose work revolves around African history, culture and spiritual traditions, as well as social and environmental issues. Her documentary works have appeared in numerous publications including The New York Times, The Guardian, Aljazeera, Reuters, Quartz andGeographical Magazine.
MSF has been running search and rescue activities in the central Mediterranean since 2015, working on eight different search and rescue vessels, alone or in partnership with other NGOs. Since 2015, MSF teams have provided lifesaving assistance to more than 85,000 people in distress at sea. MSF relaunched search and rescue activities in the central Mediterranean in May 2021, chartering its own ship, the Geo Barents, to rescue people in distress, to provide emergency medical care to rescued people, and to amplify the voices of survivors of the world’s deadliest sea crossing. Since May 2021, the MSF team on board the Geo Barents has rescued 6,194 people, recovered the bodies of 11 people and assisted in the delivery of one baby.
This story was first published by Médecins Sans Frontières/Doctors without Borders (MSF).
Nairobi, Nairobae, Nairoberry
Cacophonous, labyrinthine, gluttonous, angry, envious, charming, paradoxical, mysterious, confusing, alluring.
Nairobi. A cacophony of matatu hoots and booming bongs from church bells. All in inexplicable harmony. Like a Beethoven piece. A muezzin’s melody moves the ummah from a minaret here, a bus conductor — shouting from the most pimped out mathree — moves umati there. A hawker here. An ambulance there. But there’s also a silent monotone. The sound of hope dying. Of someone stealing two billion every day, of the clock going tick-tock from your 9 to 5. There’s that saying: if a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound? But what if it’s in the middle of Waiyaki Way? Just because someone thinks giving us an expressway will absolve him of war crimes. While in reality, all it does is leave all the marabou storks homeless.
Nairobi. A labyrinth of lipstick-stained shot glasses and semi-filled ashtrays. Where a party starts regardless of where the limbs of the clock point. And only ends when everyone is browned out and on the brink of calling the one that got away. Nairobi is looking for coins during traffic because you want to help the beggar, who is patient enough to receive the donation before snatching your phone. It is being stagnant in that same traffic for long enough to buy crisps made with transformer oil and served in compact disk wrapping. And like clockwork, you put the window back up because Nairobbery isn’t just a play on words. But the ones that hurt the most are the conmen, because nigga I trusted you!
Nairobi. Where gluttony is second nature. A kaleidoscope of too much gold tequila and too many smokie pasuas. Of good pasta and wine in overpriced restaurants. Of ramen noodles and pre-cooked meat. Where nothing is ever enough. We drink and eat to our fill because life sucks. Why wouldn’t it? Our last president’s advisor was the bottom of a Jameson bottle and our current one’s advisor is Jesus. The spirit guides the nation either way, I guess. But still, Nairobi tastes like chances and do-overs. It tastes like anxieties and aspirations and I know it doesn’t feel like it but today you omoka na 3-piecer then one day you omoka, for real.
Nairobi. Reeks of piss and thrifted clothes. Fresh bakeries and Subway. Old currency and that one cologne every man in their early 20s wears. Smells like fighting your titans and sending a million job applications. Nairobi. Where you can go weeks without a lover’s touch but only days without a cop grabbing you by the wedgie into a mariamu because you shouldn’t be idle as you wait for your Uber outside Alchemist. Because of course in that time you should take up a sport, play an instrument, solve world peace, et cetera.
There are few occasions when pride will linger. Like when Kipchoge finishes a marathon in under two hours. When Lupita wins an Oscar. The hubris you feel when your copy makes it to the billboard on UN Avenue. Or when your lame joke gets five retweets because Kenyans on Twitter will massacre you if you think you’re the next Churchill. Orrrr that one time we were all watching Money Heist and so gassed that Nairobi was one of the characters.
Sadly, Nairobi pride also comes in with its individualism. Everyone is out here on their own trying to get some bread whether they’re in the upper class getting baguettes and rye bread or in the lower class getting Supaloaf. I get it though, the city doesn’t let anyone rest from the grind and the hustle and the drudgery. And the wealth gap is bigger than Vera Sidika’s bunda. But ironically, the city is a paradox. An optical illusion. Sometimes the people are so ready to convene in community that it kinda revives the fickle hope you have in humanity. From safe spaces to fundraisers to a simple hearty conversation with your Uber driver.
And there’s obviously that murky feeling of greed that comes from 90 per cent of our politicians. When you’re at the bottom of the food chain it’s called hunger, but the higher you climb the more you want and it becomes indulgence. Greed makes them say and do all kinds of things. Like apologising to Arab countries that are exploiting Kenyans because they don’t want to be cut off. Y’all know any juakali guys we can commission for guillotines? – Heads gotta roll. Because how will I steal cooking oil and flour and end up in a cold cell but they’ll steal billions and end up with a second five-year term?
I think wrath is the most Nairobi-esque of the cardinal sins. We’re angry at the police. At the government, at global warming, at nduthis, at KPLC, at Zuku, at Safaricom, at KCB, at each other. Agonizingly though, our anger fizzles out as fast as it blazes up. I don’t think we’re ever angry enough.
And then there’s the envy. You know you’ll get there eventually but that gets lost in translation when you see someone with better because that sparks something in you even though we are all on different paths at different paces. Whether it’s a BMW or an airfryer, the question stays: Why not me? And also I’m personally jealous of the people who’ve managed to move out of Nairobi to Naivasha, Watamu or wherever. It feels like they’ve figured their way out the maze while I’m still at a dead end wondering whether I can just hop out the sides. Doesn’t matter what it is, our eyes are as green as the parks and spaces we so desperately need in this godforsaken city.
Nairobi. The city of miniskirts and cheers baba jackets. Lust dripping down the sides of our mouths because we can’t seem to contain it under our tongues. I don’t even know why people bother to go to Vasha for WRC when they live in the city of sexual debauchery where the only thing that’s on heat more than the sun is whatever’s between people’s legs. Where even Christian Grey would pause and do a double-take. Where ropes aren’t just for skipping and leashes aren’t just for dogs. If you find ordered love in the city, you must have saved refugees and orphans in your past life. This is the city where the flesh is truly willing.
You know that intense sloth-like feeling when you wanna wake up for Sunday brunch at Brew Bistro or K1 and then later watch Hamilton race at around 4 when all the mimosas have hit your head and you’re surprised that your wig is still intact? Or the next day when you’re trying to get out of your covers and you’re thinking about that beastly Nairobi traffic you’re about to face and all you can do is tweet “Nimewacha pombe mimi”. Truthfully though, other than that and a few other instances, the pace is too fast for me. I just wanna be in a dera next to the beach drinking a passion caipiroska and eating viazi karai cause why are y’all always running?
And y’all are way too fast when coming up with new words too. There’s like a million words for currency, ass, sex, sherehe, et cetera. Truly, there is a certain linguistic je ne sais quoi when it comes to the Nairobian’s language. It stops being a transaction of random syllables and begins to become an understanding of feelings, emotions and behaviour. I, especially, like how we knead it into our art. We sneak it into our music and get phenomena like gengetone.
We compress it into our films and get Nairobi Half Life. We squeeze it into our visual pieces and get Michael Soi. One thing about Nairobians is we do not cower in silence, we have words to say and we shall say them. Even if that means running a president out of Twitter. That’s why our writers are as staggeringly sensational as they are. Ngartia. Sookie. Grey. Muthaka. Laria. Abu. And those are just my friends, dawg.
But it’s not just the writing. The fashion. Rosemary Wangari. Nicole Wendo. Samantha Nyakoe. The music. Mau from Nowhere, Vallerie Muthoni, Karun, Maya Amolo, XPRSO. Just a Band. The films. The painting. Muthoni Matu. Zolesa. The architecture. The cinema. The theatre. Too Early for Birds is back! et cetera. Man, I gotta tell ya, when God was cooking up the cauldron of this city, he went hard on the talent. Quote me on this: a lot of exceptional creatives from this city are gonna hit the world with a head-splitting bang in a couple of years.
Nairobi. Despite the crowds, the queues and the poor drainage, it still has a charm. Mysterious. Confusing. Alluring. Despite the fact that you can only truly enjoy the Nairobi experience if you’re a bird or an expat, me I love it still.
Nairobians, keep sinning, keep winning!
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