My many suicide attempts did not bear fruit

Many times, we look at people who have committed suicide and think, “How could they?” But, when it comes to such life and death matters, there’s no “they”.

I’ve been there. Almost done that. Anyone can have suicidal thoughts. Those who commit suicide are ordinary people. They are our work colleagues. The person seated beside us in a matatu. A staunch Christian. 

Asunta Wagura, back in 1988. It is six months after I was rudely told I have AIDS, and expelled from college. I was issued with a death sentence, told that I would die within six months.

The college’s principal did not beat around the brush. “Asunta I’m sorry you have AIDS. For this reason, we can’t keep you in this institution. You’re now a risk to the rest of the students. That’s why we called your mother to come for you.”

Her tone was calm and without alarm as she asked if I had any question. Of course I had trillions of questions racing through my dazed mind. But where would I start? Where would I start when my lamp had been snuffed out with a wet blanket?

DEATH AT DUSK

Since then, my life’s been a rollercoaster. I wonder where God’s at. Does He even exist? Is He there? Can He feel me? I rage at him, loudly and silently. Even when it’s silent, it’s so loud I wouldn’t hear a jumbo jet if it took off above my head. 

There are no answers. Just this annoying silence. I’m annoyed with God for allowing this to happen to me just when I was getting filled with new hope.

I’m cutting all ties with Him. My resolution number one is never to pray or tell God anything anymore.

I go roaming in the evening after reaching home. Since I’ve parted with God’s grace, I know what will befall me in the CBD. Evil. I roam the streets hoping robbers will kill me. I want to die so bad, it hurts.

It’s the dead of the night. I daringly walk all those streets considered dangerous. But nothing happens. By 5am, I’m exhausted. I wait for matatus carrying market women who are normally out of their homes at the crack of dawn. 

It’s interesting what kind of people a matatu carries. An eclectic mix of passengers from diverse demographics. From women bursting at the seams with hope, to a young hopeless woman actively looking for death, to the “in-betweens”. 

BILLBOARD SPEAKS DOOM

All way from town to Kayole, I’m raging at God. “Why didn’t you let robbers to kill me? You’re so unfair. Must I die of AIDS?” 

I look out. Right there at the Hamza stage, on Nairobi’s Jogoo Road, is a huge billboard with a picture of an emaciated man. He’s barely hanging on to dear life. On one side of the billboard is a picture of an assortment of drugs.

I don’t know about my fellow passengers, but I can’t ignore the message, “Bado Haina Tiba”. AIDS still has no cure. Is this what I will look like? The only escape is suicide.

SUICIDE SAFARIS

I try another strategy. After realising my six months grace period is running out, I take to boarding long-distance matatus and buses. My reasoning is, since these are long-distance trips, there are higher chances of the vehicle I am in being involved in an accident.

I sit in front, praying that when the accident happens, the impact will kill me. No vehicle I board gets even a slow puncture. Meanwhile, my suicide safaris drain all my savings. What’s worse, I have given out all my clothes and other belongings.

I don’t even bother to comb my hair or brush my teeth anymore. I’m dying. I don’t need to look good. You spruce yourself up because you expect to live; not when you expect to die.

It is true what they say: tell God your plans if you want Him to laugh. Twenty seven years later, He’s still having the final belly laugh.