When I was in high school, one of my uncles asked me if I had a boyfriend. It was a typical question that many of our parents or relatives ask at this rather awkward period of our lives. The conversation remained a playful exchange until my uncle got really stern and told me this: “Before you get into a relationship with someone, make sure they have an ID.” At the time I thought that remark to be rather odd, and didn’t know what to make of it. I dismissed it with the thought that maybe he was under the influence or maybe it was just a recommendation that adults give based on their personal bias such as “make sure they are God-fearing.”
I never thought much about national identification cards until it was time to get my own. I had never heard of any odd stories around securing this document, the legal evidence of initiation into adulthood. My cousins and older friends before me had had a fairly easy time, so I never imagined that it would be an experience that would change my life forever, or one that I would be writing about five years later.
On the morning I went to apply for my ID, my mother, a very organized person, had prepared a folder containing the documents that were required by law. We went to the chief’s office – a walking distance – chatting and laughing as she teased me about what “adulthood” meant. We got there and there were a few young people, so I went in, oblivious of what would happen. My mom seemed a bit nervous but I was very excited. I was thinking of all the things I would be able to do; drive, travel alone, go out dancing, drink… She gave me the documents and I went into the application room, not knowing that I would come out a different person.
My father had died in 2007, seven years before I applied for my ID. I was aware that one of the requirements for the application process was copies of your parents’ identification cards and my birth certificate. The folder had a copy of my mom’s ID and my birth certificate. My father’s ID was not there because he didn’t have one.
When the chief asked me about my father’s documents and his ethnicity, I didn’t know what to say, because I was unprepared for any kind of interrogation. Actually, I didn’t even think that I was going to interact with the chief in any way. I had expected to be given forms, fill them, have my biometrics taken and go home in time for lunch, with my interim ID in hand. I called my mom into the room and had to witness her saying that my father never got an ID after decades of applying, because he was a Nubian and somewhere along the way, he gave up. In that moment I was being exposed to this kind of alternate existence that had not been a part of my reality but would affect how I saw everything from then on. For so many years, my mother had hoped that by the time I was applying for this document, that things would have changed and that I wouldn’t have to go through the humiliation that she witnessed my father go through for so long. She tried to explain the situation to the chief, but he dismissed her by saying “all foreign tribes must be vetted…huyu itabidi vetting.” (She will have to be vetted). The walk home was silent and heavy. My mother was teary and I was quiet.
Nubians were brought to Kenya from Sudan in the early 1890s to serve as soldiers in the British army under the Kings African Rifles, first during the building of the Uganda railway and second, in the First and Second World Wars. The British denied the Nubians the freedom to return back to Sudan after demobilization, and then categorized them as aliens, a label that has since been perpetuated by consecutive post-independence governments. Because they weren’t allowed to go back to Sudan, the British allocated the land that covers present-day Kibera to the community to settle on, but their status as “aliens” has meant that there can never be any legal documentation to show that the land in Kibra is, to my generation, Nubian ancestral land. This, in turn means that the state can and has refused to legitimize the rights of Nubians, keeping them in a permanent state of stagnation, which benefits powerful elites.
My father was Nubian. This label didn’t mean much to me in the sense that I never thought that being Nubian would shape my lived experience in any significant way. I just thought I was just a child, a person, a Kenyan. Outside of my grandmother’s house, this Nubian identity was basically an inconsequential part of who I was. Growing up I just found it strange, fascinating and finally tiring when people would ask me if Nubians were Kenyans, having never heard people asking Kikuyus or Kambas whether they were Kenyans. With my limited view of the world I just thought it was a game of popularity, like how we had the popular guys in school, who everyone knew, and the ones who were not so popular, but were still part of the school and still enjoyed the structural providences. So, Nubians, like the Mbeere and the Pemba, were just few in number and perhaps not well known, and my assumption was, even though these groups of people lacked social capital and recognition, they very much enjoyed all the rights that all other Kenyans enjoyed.
I did not know what vetting was or what it entailed in this case, and frankly, I had never heard of it. The chief had given us a piece of paper, on it, a list of documents that I was to produce to prove I was Kenyan enough for an ID. The list absurdly demanded that I bring; copies of my grandparents’ (dad’s parents) identification cards, my father’s death certificate, primary school and high school transcripts, my immunization card, and most surprising of all, a copy of the ID of our building’s caretaker, accompanied by a signed note saying that he knew me and that I was resident in the building I claimed to live in, for an extended period of time. There was also mention of appearing before a ‘council of elders’ and paying a fee to a magistrate.
By then, I had figured out that what I was being subjected to was not standard procedure, but an act of institutionalized discrimination. I had been asking my friends about their experiences, and they all seemed to have flawless experiences. Most of them praised the government for “making the process easy.” On the other hand, my Nubian cousins weren’t even trying to get IDs. They already knew that hurdles were too great.
To the government, it was clear that Nubians were not human, because to be human is to belong. “At the age of 18, your life as a Kenyan stops” one Nubian youth from Kibra lamented. “It is only when you apply for an ID card that you realize you have been living a lie. This country does not want you, and the years you have spent here are all a farce.” Without an ID, one cannot register their sim card, therefore access to M-Pesa or any other form of mobile banking is impossible. One cannot vote, cannot access government buildings, cannot obtain a passport, cannot apply for jobs, higher education or even acquire a driver’s license. It is so absurd, to the extent that without an ID, one cannot legally die, which is what happened to my father. He does not have a death certificate because he did not have an ID. The state neither recognized his life nor his death. In the eyes of the state he never existed. To me, this is what statelessness truly means. The right to live and the right to die and the right to belong are taken away, without being granted in the first place.
Proving my humanity
Nubian youth today go to great lengths to get a chance to even apply for their identification cards. Many lie about belonging to other tribes, mostly the “popular ones,” many save up in order to afford to bribe officials in the many different offices they will likely have to go through. All this because the Kenyan state gets to play a game of the politics of exclusion and inclusion, who is “in” and who is “out”, but these acts have real implications to real people whose lives begin to be defined, first, by statelessness before they can claim to be anything else.
I have a great uncle, who by several untruths, social connections and stubbornness, was able to obtain an ID many years ago. His single ID caters to every official need that people in the family may have. Any dealings with the Kenyan government and he’s your guy. People depend on his vote to speak for many. Many M-Pesa transactions go through him. He takes people’s children to school; his bank account is basically communal. So this uncle’s details are the ones outlined on my father’s burial permit. The one legal document that bears my father’s names is his burial permit, written in my living uncle’s name, with my uncle’s ID number.
Back to my application for an ID. On the day that I returned to the chief’s office, I wasn’t hopeful. I wasn’t excited. I was dreading the humiliation of having to prove the only nationality I knew, in front of many people. I went with all the documents that had been demanded for the vetting process, except the death certificate which didn’t exist, and my grandparents’ IDs which also didn’t exist. Standing there, being talked down upon and ridiculed, all I could think of, strangely, was the caretaker. I had spent the week chasing him all over the estate. Once I explained the reason why I needed his help, he became too busy, an act he put up in order to get a bribe out of my mother and I. Being a heavy drinker, he always asked for “pesa ya kachupa”. I always said I didn’t have the money. Then he would get angry and tell me to look for him the next day. This went on for a couple of days until he finally gave me his ID which I photocopied and the next day he wrote a brief note, signed it and I attached it to the copy of the ID. The day I was going back to the chief, I met him at the gate, sober, telling me that he knew the chief. I didn’t know what that meant, but I saw my mum giving him a 200/- shilling note. Standing in front of the chief, I now knew what he meant. He could unravel this whole process just by his word of mouth. I felt so small and dispensable, like my life was hanging in the hands of these men who had more citizenship than me.
The chief sent me home, and as I was walking back, I was trying to think of all my family members; maybe I have lawyer cousin that I didn’t know about? I needed a lawyer, and I knew legal fees were expensive. See, the chief said the documents were insufficient to prove anything. The caretaker’s note was there, my mum even managed to find my immunization card, all my transcripts up to my final year of high school were there, but he said that the documents that were missing were the most important. So he advised that I seek the services of a lawyer in which I would swear an affidavit that my father died not being a citizen of Kenya, and that I was aware of this and was ready and willing to take the ID using my mother’s details only. This was to me, a protest to my protest. Here I was, trying my best to prove that I belonged, holding on to everything I knew about myself, but being told that I am not who I know I am, my life being unraveled, in an embarrassing and truly heartbreaking manner.
When I was turning 10, a year before my father died, my mom threw a birthday party for me. Till this day, even in the pictures, I have tears in my eyes because my dad couldn’t make it. I wanted him there so bad. He was my dad. Here I was, at 18, being asked to erase his existence in order to exist myself. I couldn’t process it. I just couldn’t. I always want him to be with me, and my country was asking me to wish away someone that I was part of who I was because of the favor of belonging; of legally obtaining the Kenyan identity.
My mum wanted me to get the process done as soon as possible, because like any mother, she wanted to see my life moving. You don’t realize how hot Nairobi is during the dry months until you have to walk up and down Argwings Kodhek Road looking for an affordable lawyer. Luckily my mum remembered one of her friends from church who was a lawyer. She got his number from his wife; we called him up and were able to locate his office just before 3pm. We explained everything, and while he was baffled, he prepared the affidavit and I signed it soon after. I was soon back home but I was wondering if all those feelings were worth the trouble of trying to be a Kenyan.
I have heard stories of Nubians today only being allowed to apply for IDs on Tuesday and Thursday from 9am -1pm on each day, with only three government officials serving thousands of young and old Nubians. Other people from other tribes can apply on any day at any time that falls within the business hours. My father’s mother has been sick for decades. She had a growth in her abdomen that requires very specialized and expensive care. She doesn’t have an ID, therefore she can’t access insurance services. She knows she is in pain because she doesn’t possess any form of proof of citizenship. Hearing about this time that has been set aside for Nubians to apply for identification cards excites her, and she is happy at the prospect of more of her people being recognized as Kenyans and participating in society. She does not know that this process is just an extension of the injustice orchestrated by the oppressor, because the person who denies you your humanity cannot turn around and give it to you in small doses at their own convenience and by their rules. It is false and inhumane for a part of the population to be made to feel like their access to human rights is a favor and the little attention they are given, a privilege.
Where life stops
Like other Nubians, my uncle, the youngest of four sons, married outside of the Nubian tribe, hoping that this would mean that his children would have better chances of legal belonging. Creating a situation where people would rather marry outside of their tribe so that their children may have a chance of legally existing, is by design, ethnic and cultural genocide. My uncle was in a relationship with a woman from a different tribe, with whom he had a child and lived together. The girl was hiding her relationship from her family because of fear of their disapproval. Unfortunately, one way or another, her family found out and they forcefully removed her from my uncle’s home and took her, and the child, back home. Their reasons were that they had heard that Nubians are lazy; they sit around all day, without jobs and at the risk of deportation because they are not Kenyans.
A couple of years ago, another of my uncles, a father of three sons, was suddenly left by the mother of his children. She was frustrated by his lack of a steady income. She left him with the children, and we received word that she was married elsewhere. He would die two years after, because of lack of access to proper healthcare. He died still waiting for his ID application to be approved so that he could apply for insurance.
My uncles’ stories are testimonies of real life consequences of the evils of the state. This lack of legal identification affects more than just the one individual seeking the document. Many Nubian people are not able to provide for their families. They are left feeling that they are not doing right by their spouses, their children, and themselves. The situations that Nubians find themselves in are locked in by helplessness and despair. It is not my uncles’ faults that they are not able to even have the opportunity to have steady sources of income. When I see Nubian men, young and old, seating around their houses, playing draughts, I see men whose ability to affirm themselves has been taken away. So they carry their politics in their bodies. They talk to exist, to pass the time and fill the void of uncertainty. They talk, therefore they are. When I see my uncles, I don’t see ‘lazy, unmotivated’ people, which is a dominant narrative about the Nubian people. This stereotype is, behind the scenes, advanced by the difficulties faced in obtaining identification. When you don’t legally exist, legally love, legally die, when you don’t legally belong anywhere, it is easy for narratives about you to be formed and advanced by the people who belong. They have the voice, you don’t.
On the day that I was to pick up my ID, I was nervous about being turned away. It had been a couple of weeks of back and forth. After the humiliating vetting process where one man on the council tried to get me to sing the national anthem in Kiswahili, I just knew if I had to go through one more hurdle, I’d weep and probably just give up on the process all together. As I was standing in line, I thought about how I was being forced to basically denounce my father in order to be a ‘real Kenyan’. I wondered if that was the price I had to pay, and if any of it was worth it.
When I got home, I showed off the new shiny plastic proof that I was a human being worthy of being seen and heard to my mum, my cousins and my aunties. They were very happy. Getting this little thing was such an achievement and they all congratulated me for “keeping steady”, “staying strong” and “doing all it takes.” An outsider listening in might have genuinely thought that I was participating in a vigorous Olympic activity. And isn’t that absurd? I was just trying to drive and drink and party, and perhaps vote. It’s absurd. Every time I look at my ID card I feel like I am looking at the absurdity of it all. I hate being in situations where I am asked to ‘show ID’. It’s traumatic because it’s a symbol of the humiliation and the pain, and it hurts even more thinking of all the young Nubians who do not have the loopholes that I had, like having a mother of different ethnicity, or having gone to a national school which somehow made my transcripts more credible.
My grandmother is very happy that I was able to get an ID. She says that I should thank God for my mother, that I should be happy that I can participate in society, legally marry and legally die. When I go to visit her in Kibra, I pass the mosque at the corner, the children playing in a small open field next to a pile of garbage, the old men seated outside seemingly staring at nothing, the young men playing draughts next to the women painting beautiful henna patterns on each other. Sometimes I am unable to figure out if the glint in my eyes is my tears, or the glare from the shiny new apartments being put up by private developers, shiny like my new ID. I am lost to the realities of this place, Kibra, where people exist but not really, where nobody in the real Kenya knows the young men seated outside playing draughts are waiting for casual labour here and there, and the old men are seated in silence because there is nothing left to say, they have been talking about the same things for generations. My grandmother’s house is no longer a place where I excitedly go eat ngurusa and spicy beef while listening to taarab and her long stories. Now, it is a place where “real” life stops and everything happens day to day, because there is no security in thinking of the future. The future is a luxury left for ‘real’ Kenyans.
I have lecturers who, when I talk about Nubians in class, will still ask me where “these people” are from. There are adult Kenyans that don’t know the existence of Nubians in Kenya. During the census, we are grouped as “other.” Sometimes with my generation, when I say I’m Nubian, it is taken as a celebration of “blackness” and “authentic Africanness” because the word does not resonate as an ethnicity but as a label used to celebrate dark skin, kinky hair and non-European features. With my mum’s side of the family, my Nubian-ness is seen as the latent threat that may erupt one day and deny me opportunities that would have been accessible to me had my mother fallen in love with a person from the “right” tribe. On my dad’s side, my Nubian-ness is the thing I rejected, so much that I denounced my father’s involvement in my life – his entire existence – and took an ID claiming to only be my mother’s tribe. For me, it is the arrow in my heart. It does not pierce, it will not come out. I can feel it there, a constant reminder of a feeling I want but don’t know how to get, a feeling that I have but can’t seem to get rid of. It is my baptism by fire, my lens through which the world began to make sense through pain and contradictions.
To belong, and claim identity, in the Nubian Kenyan context, is to have privilege. It means that because you belong, you have the luxury to dream, to hope, to love. It means that you can participate in conversations around higher education, politics, health care, insurance, life, death. It means that the justice process is accessible, it means that you can live naturally as a human being, able to fully participate in choice, building community and that the possibility of dignity is a reality that is available. My uncle’s main concern that I end up in a romantic relationship with a person who has a national identification card was his way of taking care of me. It was his way of saying that he wanted me to have a chance at hope, at dreaming, at living as a person free of the complexities and humiliation of alienation.
Depression Is an Illness of the Soul, and My Faith Failed Me
When we grow up in a religious nation, a huge part of our identity rests on religion/faith/God, whatever you wish to call it. When this is shaken, the centre cannot hold, and we crumble.
In 2014, a friend confessed that he had been battling depression and had been on anti-depressants for a number of years. This friend is one of the most brilliant minds I have ever met, he seems to have it all together, and is admired by many. This confession took me by surprise because I never could have imagined that someone like him would be struggling with depression. I voiced my doubts to him; I told him he seemed okay, he didn’t look like it, was he sure? My naivety on the subject was clear. But that confession did for me was life changing, and took me on my own journey to face my own demons.
What I knew about depression was that people who suffered from it were sad all the time. That’s it. However, since that conversation, my understanding has changed dramatically, especially suicidal depression. Looking back at my life in the months prior to that conversation, and as I read and educated myself on mental health, I concluded that if there is a spectrum on depression, then I am somewhere on it – despite my quick reassurances to my friend that day. I have days when I am overwhelmed with life, I question my existence and can’t find a good enough reason for it. It leaves me with a profound emptiness, which I do not know what to do with but sit with it, cover myself with and stew in it.
They say depression is a mental illness, but I think it is more than that. It is an illness of the soul. The soul as defined by Wikipedia is the “incorporeal essence of a living being. It is the mental ability of a living being: reason, character, feeling, consciousness, memory, perception, thinking, etc.” ‘Incorporeal’ means without a physical body, presence or form. Therefore, it makes sense to me that it is a sort of malfunction of the soul.
I have heard numerous psychologists rightfully say that some symptoms of depression include not enjoying the activities one used to, social isolation, and difficulty getting out of bed. On that last point, it is not the usual oh-my-god-its-Monday-I-can’t-get-up, rather it is that you literally and inexplicably cannot get out of bed. The thing about sleep in this case, like many of life’s vices including alcohol and drugs, is that for a moment you forget everything and do not exist. Getting out of bed means facing yourself in this mess, and it is too much.
On some days, the mess falls to the background, and there you are – smiling, getting work done, having a social life, being productive. However, the mess still clings to you, it never leaves, hence the yo-yo effect of: today I’m fine, next week I’m back in the thick of it. Sometimes this cycle is weeks or months long. And no, talking to someone does not seem to help. You don’t even want to talk to anyone, even a good friend. I lost a great friendship during one of these periods because I couldn’t bring myself to pick up phone calls as I felt I couldn’t do it.
As a nation that is religious, or spiritual if you will, depression can be closely linked with God. Let me explain. Like most Kenyans, I have grown up going to church. I grew up Catholic and even served at the altar. Every Sunday, my mother would wake us up, scolding us when we were not moving fast enough to make it for the 9am service. The struggle to get up and get ready to go to church, with all the rushing and scolding, always felt like a punishment.
If you are Catholic, then you know how ceremonial the mass is. Because everything is structured so tightly and unfolds in the same way every time, after attending for years you can be present in the body but be totally checked out mentally during mass. So because I knew the flow, I had gotten used to zoning out after the second reading when it was time for the priest to deliver the sermon. Around me were people dozing off, so I thought zoning out was better than blatantly sleeping in church. Besides, what if my mom’s friends from Jumuia saw me and told her?!
In any case, we sang, “Jesus Loves Me” long before we could comprehend what that love looks like. We were taught to pray and love God more as an obligation than because we meant it. We were taught to profess our love to God – more than actually understand it. Why should we love Him? Because he made us, His son died on the cross for our sins, because we hope to go to Heaven when life on earth ends. Doesn’t the Bible teach us to instruct our children in the way of the Lord and they will never depart from it? So, we grew up believing all of this before we had time to question any of it. We are told that as children of God, we are special and are here for a purpose.
It reached a point when I could no longer carry on with all of this simply out of obligation. In 2015, I started questioning this whole notion of a God-given purpose after going through a year of overwhelming hopelessness. I wanted to know for myself who God was, if He exists, if he loved me, what He wants from me and so on. I was really going out of my mind at this point because I was having an identity crisis. Relying on the idea of God loving me because the Bible says so wasn’t enough. I needed to know for myself, and I didn’t. The reason this is important is because when we grow up in a religious nation, a huge part of our identity rests on religion/faith/God, whatever you wish to call it. When this is shaken, the centre cannot hold, and we crumble.
I didn’t know just how huge a part of my identity God was until I was shaken and felt I had lost myself. The death in my life came from a loss of faith. It was time to get out of the childish way of obligatory faith, and really believe as a choice. But the truth is, I couldn’t find my footing. Feeling worthless, I began seeking out answers to my existence. I’m sure to those around me, I looked fine and had accomplished a lot, but inside I was stuck. My whole life felt like a lie the moment I wondered what my purpose in life was. Answers on the mystery of God, on how we should not question His ways were no longer good enough. It is like when someone dies, and people quickly say that His will is being done. Such answers didn’t cut it for me any more. I wondered, was I an agnostic, a nihilist? Are all depression sufferers just pessimists? It was the beginning of an identity breakdown that has brought me to my knees and left me there. I don’t know who I am, and the personality and character attributes ascribed to me by others feel foreign.
What I know is that on some days, it is like I am trapped in limbo, neither alive nor dead. I wonder why I am wrapped in this mess, never moving forward or backwards. It is like you are sitting on the edge of a cliff and you can’t jump off nor retreat to safety. This is what depression looks like to and for me. The anti-depressants you might be prescribed ensure you keep retreating to safety while suicidal ideation ensures you take that leap.
When I think about people I know or I know about who have died by suicide, including Millie Kithinji, Stephen Mumbo, Robin Williams, Anthony Bourdain, Kate Spade, Avicii, several students in Kenyan universities… I am certain of one thing. Prior to their deaths, they were on this cliff, like so many of us are. Questioning their existence, even those who seemed to have it all – money, fame, love, power. Even with all this, they must have asked: who am I? They must have felt guilty and ashamed at the same time.
I know it sounds selfish especially to those of us struggling financially. You wonder, this person “had it all” and still ended their life. And so, people call them sinners and criminals for ending their lives, and we reach for the refrain we have always been told since childhood – that life is precious and a gift from God, even when we don’t feel it and when our cruel society shows us our lives don’t matter, especially if you are not rich and not politically connected.
Take Millie Kithinji, who died by suicide this March. This wasn’t a spur of the moment decision for her – for a long time, since around 2017, she had been begging God for strength and grace to carry on through the trials she was facing, going by her Facebook posts. She was unemployed with a young daughter, the father of her child had abandoned her, and she was struggling to make ends meet.
The spiral was slow but steady. We don’t know what else was shaking her identity, to the point where she wondered what she was doing alive instead of dead. Who knows how many times she came close to ending her life, but perhaps the thought of her daughter kept her going, until this last time. Ultimately, ending the pain took the upper hand to holding on for the sake of love.
Another recent case was Stephen Mumbo, who was a star employee at audit firm Price Waterhouse Coopers (PwC). He was intelligent, a family man and a committed employee, he was put together and had everything going for him. The death of his mother shook him, and perhaps other things we don’t know. Piecing his last moments alive reveals a trail of work-related stress and a man who was broken long before he fell to his death.
Those like Millie and Stephen were on the cliff, hurting, feeling the burden of their mess and how all the love from their families did not count in that moment before they jumped off the cliff. “They will be better off without me,” they must have thought.
When you are on the cliff, you sit there until jumping is the only viable option to end the pain. It is the only option because you have retreated to safety many times (perhaps from friends who checked up on you, or the thought of loved ones) yet here you are back at the cliff, and the pain is too much. Yes, suicide is a choice. It is the only choice in that moment, and if you have ever come close to jumping, then you understand. Granted, I still don’t have answers, I can only describe what my depression looks like in hopes that someone out there might see themselves through this. You don’t have to know my name, gender, age, or educational status to resonate with me. Because the truth is that a lot of things will bring you and your mess to the edge of the cliff. Mine is my identity crisis. What you can bear might be too much for another person. What has brought me here is a mess perhaps easily cleaned up by somebody else. What will bring you here is a mess that I could easily discard. What is your mess? Are you sitting on the edge of the cliff too?
If you or someone you know is experiencing depression or suicidal thoughts, or if you want to know more, reach out to Befrienders Kenya on +254 722 178 177, or the Meshack Samson Foundation, at +254 715 713 212. You can also find these organisations on Facebook.
Land, Dance and Finding a Way Through This Painful Life Together
Trusting one’s body, and one’s experience of the world is not celebrated or even tolerated in the formal education forced on Africa through missionary and colonial education. School and religion alienated me and us from ourselves, and from the Earth.
For British colonisers, the lands that now form Kenya were a space that needed to be traversed on the way to the ‘Pearl of Africa’, Uganda.
The Pearl of Africa was a place where kingdoms, a form of governance recognisable to colonisers from a kingdom country, existed. It was the place where the long-sought source of the Nile was found, and with it the assurance of outwitting challengers to the control of Sudan and Egypt. In Uganda, on top of the cotton varieties they found, the British saw potential for commercial cotton production. A place rolling with greenery, lots of rain, lakes and rivers, teeming with flora and fauna. Winston Churchill visiting in 1807 recommended that Britain should “concentrate on Uganda” whose people, climate, scenery and vegetation were “different to anything else in Africa”, and his statement reaffirmed the title of Pearl that had been given to Uganda earlier by other colonial scouts, Speke and Stanley.
However, to get to the Pearl there was the problem of a strip of coastal lands controlled by the Sultan of Zanzibar (and having had numerous other controllers in centuries prior), and the vast lands and peoples in between the coast and the prized kingdoms. No such fancy names as Pearl were reserved for what was to become Kenya and Kenyans. We were in the way. When the Uganda Railway (note the name), proved expensive, the lands and people that now form Kenya were dispossessed of their inherent value and of themselves, made objects, and turned to profit-making to enable this venture.
This was unseeing violence. Disembedding violence. Dispossessing violence. Appropriative violence. Thingifying violence. It must do something to you to know that you are only a throughway to a thing, body or place more desired. Your value only tied to enabling arrival elsewhere.
The first violence remade land into an inert source of potential capital to be realised through exploitation by a colonial State, and now by a post-independent and still colonial State. Life was rethought dead, chopped up and offered at a cheap price to profit settlers, who were producing value, to enable the journey to the Pearl. It was violence peoples’ bodies, being-ways, knowledge-ways, economies, cultures, and psychologies, on their embodied and unembodied earth relations, and on the interrelationships amongst them.
The dispossession and appropriation that birthed the Kenyan State in the late 1800s, did not end with flag independence in 1963, but was reinforced, frozen, made ‘State-ic’.
Peter Ekeh helps me understand how. In a theory of two publics which I think of as the two Africas, the psychological disruption of Africans who participated in the colonial system caused an unsettlement. To regain equilibrium, these unsettled Africans attempted settlement by being better at being the coloniser than the colonisers were. They regained a kind of psychological balance by being better at performing violence than those who first performed violence on our spirits, human, Earth and ancestral.
This goes on even today. Newspaper headlines regularly detail the numerous ways in which lands and bodies turned into things are appropriated and made disposable for the benefit of the few in State. It happens so frequently and so efficiently that we are numb, frozen, as we watch and hear play-by-play accounts of who can violate us more, like commentary in a football match.
Slowing down enough to feel the pain
Violence hurts. Violence injures. One common response to violence is to brace oneself and keep moving. After all no use in crying over spilt milk, right? And there is so much more that needs doing, who has the time to feel? Not feeling is a powerful protection against potential future vulnerability and violence, and there are times we need this survival. But this does not, cannot, go on forever.
In my psychology study and practice I have come to learn that trauma which doesn’t get processed gets stuck and continues to replay until we acknowledge it and move it through our bodies and psyches. Slowing down enough to feel and witness the pain of the historic and present day violences on our spirits is far from indulgence. Rather it is what enables me, and us, to be resilient and to retain my humanity, pushing back against the actions and forces that would have me be an object with no inherent value. Here is an example:
It is August 2018. I am at a protest and memorial for the 34 humans slain during the Marikana Strike in 2012. This protest is happening outside the South African High Commission in London. Speeches are made, we sing and hold signs. A tall thin man, briefcase in hand, walks past us briskly. After he goes some distance, he turns and shouts, “You already got your independence, fuck off!” I laughed at his receding back.
What I didn’t say was “ouch.” Later that evening I am in a group workshop on racism and colonialism. We are doing some role play, and one man is taking the role of a coloniser. He says this, acknowledging a truth he didn’t even realise, “We took what we wanted, and we left what we didn’t want.”
A dam breaks and I weep. Slowed down, I can breathe my pain – the same one I couldn’t when the brisk walker shouted. In that moment I have the space to create a relationship to my own hurt and pain at the violence we and I have been through and continue to go through. Through the tears a song comes – the same one I had led at the protest: Senzeni na. What have we done? A comrade sings with me.
Even while it is not always easy or comfortable, I have learnt that I need to go through my pain to pick up my power, lest I harden, and also become a perpetrator of appropriative violence, seeking to outdo the one who was first violent towards me.
Seeing with new eyes
When a people are mired in the unseeing dynamics of dispossessing violence, we begin to believe that there is nothing to see in ourselves, our places, our histories after all. So I have to remind myself of all that was unseen, in order to reclaim our value.
British colonisers unsaw us and all who we are. I mean us in the full sense of community: human spirits, embodied and unembodied earth spirits (plants, animals, ancestors, and more). They unsaw the remarkable irrigation systems of the Cheranganis, the wonder of setting life to the rhythm of bee migrations, the beauty of decentralised cohesiveness in various governance systems, the science of making rains, the studied play of producing life from an equally dancing set of ecologies as pastoralists do, the connective rituals with which we ensured cycles of life, incorporating the past, present and future, and so much more.
It doesn’t help that for the majority, our upbringing doesn’t tell us of these lives and lifeways either. I recall my high school geography class for instance, which focused on how we can do more unseeing in the style of those that first unsaw us. “Tropical indigenous forests are uneconomical because they grow in mixed stand [i.e. haphazardly, going by that worldview]. Planted coniferous forest is more efficient as it enables mechanised harvest.” This is true, if your goal is to take without reciprocity. And there is no need for reciprocity where the other is a thing without value. The goal of the coloniser was to take, and to enable arrival and capture of the Pearl without putting back.
I set different goals – reciprocity, rebuilding and reconnecting relationships.
We are not the dregs of humanity. We are not what is not wanted. I am not what is not wanted. I see my self, our selves. I want to always sink deep into the knowledge that I have value. We have value.
Re-membering land as living entity
Trusting one’s body, and one’s experience of the world is not celebrated or even tolerated in the formal education forced on Africa through missionary and colonial education. School and religion alienated me and us from ourselves, and from the Earth. I, and we, learnt to trust only in our teachers and in the state-approved textbooks for knowledge.
In trying to reconnect broken relationships I am constantly re-evaluating my relationship with land and with those with whom I share this Earth – plants, animals, soil, etc. I recollect and learn new practices that reaffirm the intrinsic value and self-possession of embodied and unembodied entities that collectively share the Earth.
I do this by talking to plants and trees, approaching them as the living selves they are, and listening to what they say. Thanking my food for making its way to me. Sitting in silence by water and acknowledging how often we treat water badly. Lying on the Earth and taking the time to really feel how the Earth holds me from my heels to the back of my head, inch by inch.
Appropriative violence empties all of spirithood or personhood, making all living things parts of a machine, a means to an end. Acknowledging that I am held and nurtured by the Earth puts a pause on that lie, and helps me to be present to what kind of interaction I want to have with all my Earth relations. This replenishes my stores of care and value that I then come to the rest of life with.
Building collective power
What does one do when they are stuck? Move. The violence that continues to (re)play out today in ever tenacious forms is a collective violence. As I seek ways to name what happened/happens, and to see, feel and move through it, there is work that must be collectively done to repair the harms inflicted on us. Movement and movements do that for me.
Moving my body and doing so with others through dance is a form of collective healing to unstick the stuck places in order to be well, and to be well with others. Dancing with presence has become a practice to shift and move things that I cannot do only with words.
I also work to build movements that can acknowledge and heal this collective violence so that we can start again from a different place. I combine working for justice with healing in my movement building, and understanding healing to also be justice work. I think this is necessary if we are to avoid the race to outdo each other in who is better at performing appropriative violence. It is a way of rewriting our origin story to begin elsewhere. An elsewhere that acknowledges our value – all of us, human, Earth and ancestral spirits.
An ADHD Diagnosis: ‘My Nights Were Characterized by Racing Ideas, and Days Filled with Failed Projects’
My mind had failed me so many times I could no longer trust the ideas it put forth, no matter how brilliant or mundane they were. The tipping point came after a violent altercation with my cousin, which landed her in hospital and me in the refurbished blue container recounting my life story, and eventually, finding a turning point.
The diagnosis came about seven months ago. I was sitting in the counselling room of the hospital, a refurbished 40-ft shipping container painted light blue. I remember being annoyed by the breaks in the painting caused by the vertical ridges on the walls, and sucked on piece after piece of hard candy to calm down.
After a series of routine questions to get my history, an analysis by the psychiatrist, and several written tests, the verdict was delivered to me. Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder. At first I was skeptical about the diagnosis. It was a strange case of déjà vu, one on which I’d sat in the same position across a psychiatrist two years ago and was given a host of diagnoses: I was told I had major depressive disorder, then affective disorder and then bipolar 1 disorder.
So I prodded the doctor, testing to find out if my symptoms covered a wide scope of diseases, or comorbidities, as the medical fraternity called them. To put my heart at ease, he showed me a TED Talk of a lady talking about her struggle with the condition, and the end of the video, I broke down and cried.
I’ll call the beginning of my visible symptoms as the crash. I’d excelled academically in primary and high school. I was a relentless high achiever, adapting the routine of school life which accommodated my bursts of energy and productivity. I graduated from high school with a good grade and joined university. But campus life came with the absence of a strict routine, and the unravelling at the seams of the thread of my life began.
I dropped out of my course after one semester and was kicked out of the halls of residence after failing to pay accommodation fees, due to procrastination. I resorted to clever methods to hide the absences in school from my parents. To cope, I drank and smoked a lot of weed. My nights were characterized by racing ideas, and days filled with failed projects because I couldn’t map them out; the brainstorm process ended up being crowded by other ideas and my mind couldn’t shut down. Then came the shame and low self-esteem. My mind had failed me so many times I could no longer trust the ideas it put forth, no matter how brilliant or mundane they were.
The first psychiatrist I visited was a referral from a general doctor. I’d arrived at the triage suicidal, struggling to breathe, and paranoid that I was being followed and watched. He prescribed some sleeping pills and handed me a sealed envelope addressed to a private psychiatrist clinic at the Doctor’s Plaza at Nairobi Hospital.
I didn’t feel bipolar – I was told bipolar disorder entailed massive mood swings, and this didn’t quite apply to me – but I accepted the diagnosis as it gave me a semblance of peace. At least I had a reason for my behaviour.
For two years, it cost nearly Ksh800 a day to pay for consultation and medication. Physically, the drugs left me feeling comatose on most days, and demoralised because I was still messy and erratic, but with a Ksh288,000 annual price tag to keep me stable. I sunk further into depression, culminating in a failed suicide attempt.
At the peak of my treatment, I was on a cocktail of seven different pills in the class of antipsychotics, antidepressants, and anti-anxiety medication. They gave me sleep jerks at night and vivid nightmares — eventually, I developed a dependency on the lulling effects of the anti-anxiety pills to help me sleep. The tipping point came after a violent altercation with my cousin, which landed her in hospital and me in the refurbished blue container recounting my life story, and eventually, finding a turning point.
The psycho-stimulants prescribed by the doctor were a relief. I could finally consistently complete my tasks and rein in errant thoughts, but the new ADHD diagnosis was exhausting. I imagined having to explain myself again to my friends about my condition over and over like I’d done for the past two years, and I was hardly prepared for the emotional or mental labour.
ADHD is a condition of limited self-regulation rather than a deficit of attention. A person with ADHD is able to concentrate for long periods of time in a state known as hyperfocus, that is when they are interested. ADHD exists on a spectrum and some people have it worse than others. We all have moments of ‘zoning out’ and procrastination, but for the ADHD individual, their symptoms fall on the extreme end of the scale and can be crippling.
Dopamine is a neurotransmitter that is responsible for a range of functions in the human body including emotional regulation, and motivation to guide your brain to accomplish specific tasks in order to get the desired reward. To use an analogy a psychologist gave – our brains are engines. Different parts initiate and receive tasks, others execute them and help manage one’s routine. Dopamine is the fuel between these areas, but ADHD brains have a deficit of dopamine. The result is that coordination is missing.
ADHD is a highly comorbid condition, meaning it exists with other mental conditions such as anxiety and depression. The emotional dysregulation and hyperfocus often leads to misdiagnosis as bipolar disorder, borderline personality disorder or other affective disorders – like it happened in my case.
The DSM V – a diagnostic criteria by the American Psychiatric Association used to identify mental illnesses, leaves out a key factor of ADHD diagnosis – emotional dysregulation – from its list of symptoms, further increasing the likelihood of misdiagnosis.
While ADHD in children is extensively studied and treated, very little academic literature covers adult ADHD, and in particular ADHD in women, which is complicated by changing estrogen levels that affect the availability of dopamine in the brain at different points in the menstrual cycle. The link between estrogen and ADHD means that at different times of the month, the symptoms get worse and might require a recalibration of medication and more money to cover the cost of drugs.
By the time an adult is given an ADHD diagnosis, their lives are littered with failure because of trying to conform in a neurotypical world, with shame, guilt, broken relationships, and a calcified negative view of themselves as lazy, inconsistent, rude, violent, stupid…the list goes on and on.
As I discovered, conventional therapy is often expensive and limited to brief sessions with the psychiatrist and counselor once a month. Adults with ADHD need extensive help, an almost round the clock treatment in the form of non-judgemental accountability partners to help them form a routine, map out their life and follow through on decisions. In the case of an adult diagnosis, and given the individual demands of everyone else’s lives, such accommodations seem like ridiculous requests and one continues to live with their dysphoria.
ADHD and its treatment is very misunderstood. There are stereotypes such as “We are all a little ADD”, and there’s scepticism over whether or not it’s a real illness. Misleading media coverage about the alleged performance-enhancing abilities of the drugs used in treatment also hinder objective discourse about the reality of living with ADHD. The victims are the adults who continue to suffer, very often without knowing what their condition really is, at the workplace, in school or in their homes.
My life hasn’t completely changed, but it’s a lot better than it was. I have interacted with other adults who also live with ADHD and formed a small support group of sorts. I got back on track with my studies and graduated. Living with ADHD forced me to be extremely honest with myself about what I can and cannot do, who I can be and who I am not. There can be no illusions about my strengths, weaknesses and ability to commit to tasks, in order to avoid that vicious cycle of depression and anxiety.
As for the medication, it is not a panacea. I needed to be honest with myself about this too. It was easy to use the drugs as a crutch and avoid putting in place mechanisms to regulate my behaviour – and then blame mishaps on ‘being off the meds’.
What do I look forward to? More research. Particularly on ADHD and women and how environmental factors, socialisation and biology exaggerates or diminishes how the symptoms manifest. I keep a journal and note down observations on days where something strikes me as odd, and use that to inform my treatment. It’s the beginning of my own personal research, and I hope it can help someone else someday.
To conclude, ADHD is neither a gift nor a disability. We can have no illusions about that. It can make you prone to certain harmful behaviours and may give you some advantages over neurotypical brains, but the labels of gift or disability may prevent us from being objective about its management. But with a little more knowledge, and a lot more empathy, we can create a society where lives are not littered with failures that could have been avoided.
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