I look around and think to myself, this would not be a bad place to live in. the lawn is exceptionally manicured to a carpet-like green that makes me want to just lie and roll around in the grass. A medium-sized swimming pool runs across the back of the huge mansion; the sun is up but no-one is swimming yet. Roses and trimmed hedges line the drive-way from the gate to where I’m seated like soldiers in a parade. Beyond the stone-wall is the dark-green of cypress and pine swaying in the light breeze.
‘I seriously wouldn’t mind living here,’ I think to myself once more. Upon closer scrutiny however, you realize that this is no ordinary rich-man’s compound. The guard at the gate seems to be clinging to the German-shepherd lying at his feet a bit too tightly. The stone-wall has electric fencing atop and razor-sharp wire crisscrosses the electricity lines.
I am seated in the lounge of one of Nairobi’s most exclusive drug and alcohol rehabilitation centers. So exclusive that admission is only by referral and the fee is astronomical. For the patients in here none of the surrounding beauty matters. Most have hit the bottom more than once and many are still struggling through the tedious journey to recovery.
I finally get to meet one of the patients. She is dressed in blue-jeans and a white t-shirt with Che-guevara’s portrait on the front. Looking quite good, I must admit. It’s hard to imagine her doing drugs.
I let her into my thoughts and she sighs in reply. “You should have seen me two months ago.” I try to picture her two months before our conversation and I simply can’t. “Tell me more,” I prod on.
Her name is Louisa, 24, and this is her second stint in a rehab. Hers is a story only similar to the lives of Hollywood celebrities. She tasted alcohol for the first time at the tender age of thirteen. She laughs as she recalls how she threw-up after downing a shot of whisky from her dad’s cabinet.
“The stuff tasted so bad, I vowed never to let any past my lips again.” Little did she know that this was the first step into the darkest chapter of her young life? On joining high school, she got into a clique of city girls which she says was the coolest ‘Gang’ ever. Drinking became a norm for her. They would sneak alcohol into school, bribe watchmen to bring in drinks for them. “Some girls even had sex with the watchmen to get the alcohol,” she says.
“I was always alone at home during the holidays. Mom and Dad were always working and Dad always had some hard-stuff in his study.” She says. Since she comes from a privileged back-ground and being an only kid, money was never an issue.
“I really enjoyed the partying in high-school.” She admits with a far-away look. “It got worse when I went to college. “Alcohol was just not doing it anymore,” she continues. She moved to marijuana and it was all downhill from then on.
Within a year, her drug-habit was so bad, she can’t remember a day she was sober. “I even had one of those alcohol flasks which I carried in my bag. She had managed to hide her habit from her parents thus far but it was no longer possible. She passed out on her doorstep one Sunday morning and got busted.
“I got a lecture of the century. My mom telling me how useless I was. Dad saying how disappointed he was with me. They even resolved to cut-back on my allowance.” But there was no stopping her. She started stealing from the parents by lying about hiked fees and non-existent educational trips.
Her wake-up call came when she woke up on an empty parking-lot in westlands, half-naked, used condoms dropped around her and no memory of how she ended up there. She had been drugged at a nearby club and raped by strangers. Her first rehab visit was inevitable after this. Three months and she was out, good as new.
“I remained sober for almost one year until,” tears well up in her eyes, “until my dad died.” It wasn’t long before she went back to alcohol, bhang and even harder stuff which she hesitates to name. Her mom threw her out when she found out. She stopped schooling and was out on the street exchanging sexual favors for her next fix. She moved to Mombasa, still in the streets and got to her lowest.
One day, two months ago, my mom came looking for me in Mombasa. “I was willing to do anything to change my life. I was desperate.” She says. “I ended up back here, I hope this is my last visit.” At this point a nurse comes over and says that counseling is about to start. Louisa bids her farewell and I wish all the best.
“Most addicts are always running away from something. For some it is low self-esteem, abusive relationships, loneliness and for others it’s simply boredom” Says a doctor at the institution.
“The journey of an addict always starts at the lowest level, alcohol. Most never leave this group. When alcohol can no longer satisfy them, they move on to marijuana, cocaine, heroin, crack and the whole range of hard-drugs,” he says. “This is the stage when they get: mental disorders; go to rehabs or die.” He continues.
He tells me that the rates of drug-usage in Kenya have been alarming of late, with addicts from very young ages. Most are from very rich backgrounds and they eventually end up in rehabs. The ones from poor back-grounds only make news when some Chang’aa disaster happens and when women demonstrate.
“What’s the solution?” I ask cynically. “We have to teach self-esteem to our kids and let them see the value of their lives. And then we need to get help for those who are already hooked.” He answers.
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