Whenever someone flippantly says to me “You work with the crazy people” or “They should all be locked up, I don’t care whether it’s prison or hospital,” it is personal. They are talking about Malova, about who I could have become. They are talking about many people who are unable to bear the rejection of racism, poverty, sexism and other forms of hate, day in and day out, and have been driven to “illness”, whether it’s depression or anxiety or psychosis. And with no accountability by the society that drove them to that state.

Going Home

I can still see Malova’s wide grin and his oversized brown trousers sagging over his favourite dusty shoes as his outstretched arm pierces the hot air to happily deliver this token of affection to me. But his skinny frame no longer greets me with an ice-cold bottle of fizzy Coca-Cola when I travel home to Kenya. He is no longer here to share these moments with me, and yet I still feel very loved by him, by my father and by my mother, who are now all gone.

Till this day, Malova is my warm, caring shadow, quashing my demons with his endless teachings and ensuring I never stop questioning how we care for and treat people living with poor mental health. His life has added a depth to my work that would not exist – in a career path I would not have chosen – if he had not been a caring compass in my life. Because of him, I now scribble and scribble some more and refuse to hide my work.

I returned to Nairobi last year, and while I was there, I decided to go back to see our childhood home. Everything had shrunk. The lane leading up to the house, once steep and winding, was but a barely noticeable slope. The smooth tarmac hid that the path was once covered in murram and potholes where puddles formed. The creaking tree I thought would fall on the house still towered above it, though it no longer looked so mighty and threatening. The corner where I used to make mud pies and pots was still as dusty and as inviting as ever. The house was still the same, though much, much smaller than it was in my memory. The garden, too, had shrunk. To the people who live there now, it is probably just a house – a roof over their heads – but for me, it will always be a shrine of memory.

* some names have been changed to protect privacy