In the depths of despair: How brilliant artists fall off the cliff

Rapper Chris Kantai, also known as Kantadda. He died on February 27, 2019. PHOTO | COURTESY

What you need to know:

  • In the wave of tributes was a scattering of voices that sought to know how it has all come down to this.
  • Kantai’s case — his rise and fall — while sad, is not entirely unfamiliar.
  • For the artistic-talented, factors come into play and could easily lead to destruction: Individual choices, the pressure to perform and maintain a certain image, sudden fall from grace have been a bane in the lives of entertainers.

Chris Kantai, one of Kenya’s most celebrated hip-hop artistes, died on Wednesday.

In the wake of Kantai’s death followed an outpouring of sadness and grief, and also tributes by fans and fellow artistes. Abraham Bamboo, a contemporary of Kantai in the early and mid-2000s, wrote a glowing message on his Facebook page, noting that his hit song Compe was recorded the same day as Kantai’s own hit Chris Kantadda.

TV personality Eve D’Souza wrote a message, while rapper Nonini released a short video.

Mr Samuel Kantai, a cousin of Chris Kantai, released a short statement from the family: “Chris had been suffering from ulcers for a long time, and also suffered from hernia. When he was taken ill on Monday night, it (hernia) had ruptured.”

Chris Kantai grew up in Ngong but left for the US after high school when he was about 17. He lived in the US for over half a decade. Kantai turned 40 in December 2018.

While Samuel admitted that Chris had battled alcoholism in the past, he had gone clean in recent days. “The doctor who examined Chris verified that indeed he had been clean.”

As expected, the Internet came up with its flowers and emojis. But lost in the wave of tributes was a scattering of voices that sought to know how it has all come down to this. Where had his contemporaries and friends been?

And more: why was there little or no talk about cases of entertainers felled, derailed by drink and drugs? Among the few celebrities who attempted to address the issue was hip-hop artiste Kaligraph Jones. He wondered why few celebrated Kantai’s attempt to get back into the industry, choosing instead to focus only on his past.

Kantai’s case — his rise and fall — while sad, is not entirely unfamiliar. For the artistic-talented, factors come into play and could easily lead to destruction: Individual choices, the pressure to perform and maintain a certain image, sudden fall from grace have been a bane in the lives of entertainers.

Kenyan rapper Bamzigi, a founding member of the group Necessary Noize, fell into disgrace after discovering cocaine and later, heroin. “It was one of the things you say you want to do once,” he explained in a TV interview.

The musician had a plum job as a radio presenter, with money enough to keep his drug habit going. It was not until he had to beg for Sh200 from a fan that he knew he was coming undone, and he entered a rehab centre.

“You have to make a choice,” said rapper Jimmy Wathigo, popularly known as Jimw@t who, like Bamzigi, took leave from music to deal with alcohol and substance addiction. He says that support systems play an important role.

THE FORGOTTEN SCRIBE

He walks fast all the time. He talks to himself, to unseen people, stopping now and then to pick a piece of newspaper on the ground; anything that might carry literary content. The sandals he is wearing are old, his toe nails hard. He is reedy and the shirt he is wearing hangs off his shoulders.

Once in a while he approaches people he is familiar with, other times complete strangers, to ask for change.

“Just twenty (shillings)” he says.

There is a certain desperation in the man’s eyes. “I need a smoke, man.”

Or: “I got to eat, man.”

Getting the coins he so badly needs has become hard; people in Wangige market in Kabete sub-county where the man spends most of his time have become weary of the routine.

And others who knew the man in the past, in the days he was lucid and working, talk in whispers, and some laugh. Anthony Matathia is a statistic, an addition to an ever growing list of people in the arts, the letters, felled by addiction.

Matathia will turn 40 this year, but in his current state, with a rapidly receding hairline, looks like an old man.

Charles Matathia, a scriptwriter who co-wrote the movie "Nairobi Half-Life". PHOTO | WILLIAM RUTHI

Other than those in the performing arts, the name Anthony Charles Matathia might not mean a whole lot, or anything at all. Yet less than a decade ago, he was one of the most sought-after scriptwriters in the country; an aspiring author and an inspiration to young people in his hometown.

He co-wrote the script for the wildly-successful 2012 Kenyan film, Nairobi Half Life, which would go on to win a shelf-rack of local and international awards. The Starehe Boys Centre alumnus was blitzing his way to the top. Even seasoned names in the film circles acknowledged that Matathia’s was the kind of talent that rarely happens.

And then he dissolved into the night. Once a casual drinker and smoker, his life careened off.

The scripts film makers had in mind for him, and the ones he wrote for future adaptations, the ones he talked about non-stop, attracted mould.

For whatever reason, a man who had the world in his grip looked the other way. Later, people who knew him would try to look for answers: How does someone so gifted fritter away his future, his present?

“I knew ‘Potash’ (Matathia’s nickname) and it’s just unfortunate that his life turned out this way,” says writer and activist Kingwa Kamencu.

Matathia would serve time in a rehab centre in Mombasa, but, according to friends fled the institution before his full term there.

“The way I understand it, his case was misdiagnosed,” says Tim Mbugua, a close friend and medic and counsellor, who has taken Matathia in as would a big brother. “The addiction he had could have been treated, but instead he was classified as manic-depressive.”

With his fall from grace followed the departure of friends. While writing his story, I encountered a lot of “aw shucks” and, “yes, we have heard of his troubles” from Matathia’s old circles. But communication went cold, even after I mentioned that Matathia has been working on some scripts.

An old friend of the writer from their days at Starehe once saw him walking down the road, and upon identifying it was Matathia, has been helping him, recently buying him clothes.

“Neglect from family and friends deepens the depression,” says Mbugua, the doctor.

TALES FROM OLD

There is a narrative, a polarising, romantic one that advances that there is a link between creativity and mental instability (mania, depression, anxiety) and the tendency to drift towards addiction — more often to drugs or alcohol. It is a theme explored in medicine, and in films.

“I don’t know, but it would appear that most creative people are predisposed to addiction and self-destruction,” says a local film-maker who sought anonymity.

When I met Matathia, he carried two scripts in his hand, and when he talked about them, a light shimmered in his eyes, replacing the glazed look that had been there.

It occurred to me that his were demons that had learnt to swim and in turn, couldn’t be drowned.

But it was of course a lie.

“He will get through it, and we’ll be by his side,” Mbugua the friend told me.

When he still had the beat, the legitimacy of Kantai’s art was unquestioned; songs like Happy, which he did with the Norwegian-based Kenyan female rapper STL, and ‘Ashes’ flow with urgency and meaning. But there existed, for a time, a deep gulch between 2007 and 2014 when little was heard from Kantai.

What happened? Little is known, other than the addiction to drink. “What if all these people (artists) looked out for each other?” someone asked online, among the tributes and late flowers.

Another one wrote: “I have seen (a former top musician, name withheld) and she seems to not be in a good place. Wish something can be done before we lose someone else.”