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by David Ogot snr.

SATURDAY NATION Saturday Magazine October 13-19 2001

Alcohol does not cause alcoholism. To date, doctors, scientists and even psychologists are not sure of the precise cause of the scourge. So they have coined the grand sounding ‘X-Factor’

As a bright young kid from one of Kenya’s more prominent families, and three books to my name by the time I was barely out of high school, the sky was the limit. Until I discovered too late that I was a child of the ‘X-Factor’

I am an alcoholic. This is the story of my descent, my crushed dreams and of my fight to climb out of the deep, dark, bottomless bottle.

That First Taste

The one way to find out whether you have the X-Factor is to start drinking in the first place. By the time you do realise that you have a problem, it is too late.

I had my first taste of beer in 1974 when in Form One at the then prestigious Lenana School. Out of curiosity, I stole a bottle of Pilsner Lager from my father’s cabinet (sorry Dad). "Why the heck do adults drink bottles and bottles of this vile tasting staff?" was the question that came to my mind after that first gulp.

But by Form Two, the serious social life started. Taking girls out to the movies and buying them popcorn was not enough. You had to impress your girlfriends by taking them to the bar downstairs and showing off over who could drink the most beer. It was the macho thing.

I slowly acquired a taste for the ‘vile stuff’, but drinking on the odd occasion was still not a problem. I was still just a social drinker - if a drink was available, fine, if not there were other things to do.

But with time, the frequency and quantities, increase. That is what medically called ‘tolerance’, which put simply, is that you need larger quantities to feel the same effect.

A massive increase in tolerance was the first warning sign that I was in danger of becoming an alcoholic.

By the time I reached form Four, I was drinking heavily and starting to suffer the consequences. I was neglecting my education, and just scraped through my O-level exams by the seat of my pants.

I did not do well enough to be readmitted to Lenana for my A-Levels, and transferred to a day school where my drinking got worse. My final results were nothing to write home about but somehow, I had inherited the writing genes from my mother and within a short time after completing high school, I had written and got published, three short novels.

Descent Into the Pits

With the proceeds, I embarked with a vengeance into what we called DDS (Daily Drinking Services) My DDSs were to continue for three more years until I managed to secure admission to a college in India on the strength of my novels and other writings. By this time I had met a wonderful lady, in 1979, who I was later to marry. How she has tolerated me all these years beats me and I heartily recommend her for Sainthood.

In India, time and boredom was in plenty and liquor was cheap. A look through the roll of Kenyans who have enlisted in Indian universities over the years might reveal an alarming rate of alcoholism and drug abuse.

After four and a half years of riotous living, I came back home without a degree to my name, but very lucky to be alive after one suicide attempt during a drunken binge. By this time my parents and my relatives were sure I had a drinking problem, though I did not agree with them at all. Denial is a staple of alcoholics.

Finally I was cornered and persuaded to seek help from this great preacher in Nyanza who had done wonders helping people. What I ended up with was a sorcerer-type who deluged me with strange incantations and kneeling in prayer into the wee hours of the night. But what really took the cake when two graves were dug linked by an interconnecting tunnel. I was supposed to lie in one grave and then crawl through the tunnel to the other grave. By the time I climbed out I was supposed to have left the ‘alcohol devil’ in the first grave. I ran like a bat out of hell, found my way to Nairobi and resumed drinking with a vengeance.

Somehow, in 1989, I managed to secure a job as a staff writer with the Kenya Times, but was still drinking heavily and was already a veteran of extended binges, police cells and crazy incidents too numerous to recount. I was also the father of three lovely children. In 1992 after the birth of our fourth child, we finally moved from my parents place, where we had been staying in the guest wing, to our own place.

I had numerous rows with my parents, not just over my drinking, but also because I was constantly blamed for things that regularly disappeared from the main house. I denied the accusations vehemently, but the truth is that I was pilfering any items of value I could get my hands on which I sold to finance my drinking.

Relatives and friends by this time avoided me whenever they could as I would turn up at their offices or houses at inopportune times and would not leave until I managed to borrow some money. It was about the time I moved out to my own place that I lost my job as staff writer with the Kenya times, the longest job I ever held down for a grand total of two years. But I still had to drink and turned to the back streets of Nairobi where changaa (illicit gin) was widely available.

I soon found my element in the chang'aa dens. The stuff was affordable, and I fitted nicely in a crowd where no one looked down on me. Surprisingly, I found quite a large number of people who had come from the same background as me and others who still held well-paying jobs. I wasn't in bad company. But changaa turned out to be a big mistake. I started going on month-long binges and completely stopped caring about my personal appearance. How did I afford to drink, even changaa when I had no coin to my name? Apart from having become an expert scrounger a visit to a friend’s office would see him desperately throw money at me just to get rid of me.

There is the old cliché that ‘misery loves company'. I can attest to it. Whenever I couldn’t afford another beer and decided to head on home, drinking companions would suddenly remember few holes stashed in stinking socks or a couple of bottles left over from the previous day's 'stock'. Of course I would feel bound to reciprocate when able, and the cycle would continue.

A Glimmer of hope

In time, I came to acknowledge that I had a serious problem. Apart from writing, I was a talented guitarist and stand-up comedian, and was slowly making a name for myself with impromptu performances in local pubs. What started out as idle fun in back street bars was suddenly opening doors and earning me a few coins. The big break came when, on a whim, I entered the Carnivore Star Search talent competition in March, 1983. "And the winner is Nyamabite!" That was my stage name.

Entertainment contracts and promotion offers started coming my way. But whatever I was earning was all going down the drain, literally. Many promising offers passed me by because I was often too drunk to go on stage or would be in a drunken stupor at the wrong end of town while I was supposed to be entertaining bigwigs at some corporate cocktail.

Still I could not bring myself to take that decisive step until 1998 when I saw an advertisement for a film and television training course being established by the Mohammed Amin Foundation. I applied on the off-change that it could offer me my big break. Not even those closest to me thought I had a chance. Competition was fierce as there were six openings, for three male and three female students. I was selected as one of the six. At last I had the incentive to get back on track and made a vow that I would apply myself diligently to the course. Most importantly, no more drinking! For eight glorious sober, smoke free, happy, blissful, peaceful, rewarding, months, I did it. My studies were to end with a ten day all expenses paid trip to Cape Town, South Africa, after which we would come back, have a week’s rest then do our exams and graduate.

Approaching the end of the course, I was now sure that I had the problem locked. I went back to occasional drinking, light by my standards, but would occasionally call in sick because I did not want to attend classes reeking of beer. The college was very strict about things like that because of the extremely expensive equipment we handled.

However, when the announcement for the south African trip was made, there was need for celebration. The alcoholic in me burst forth in all its garish, poisonous colours. I went on an extended binge, had an accident that left me with a fractured arm and missed too much time so they had to let me go. No trip, no exam, no diploma and a small fortune in fees met by generous sponsors gone to waste. All this right at the end, with my goal so close I could taste it.

Back to the bottle. But this time, even my dearest friends said that it was too much. Even my wife was about to give up. She felt if I could mess like this, was there really any hope? My whole family felt ad stressed. Why was I doing this? Was it to punish them? Why couldn’t I just stop? I remembered my mum once having said that if ever I needed help and was ready, to give her a call.

Help Mum!

On May 14 1999, at 6.00 a.m. from a nightclub, I made the call. My wife arrived with a clean set of clothes (I had not been home for about a week) 7.30 a.m. my mum arrived. 8.15 a.m. and checked me into the Chiromo Lane Medical Center.

I was in such a bad state that I could not even leave my room for about three days. I had to undergo a medical detoxification and a battery of tests including checking the condition of my liver, or what was left of it. When I was well enough to leave my room, I had to attend group therapy sessions as well as individual counseling three times a week and one AA (Alcoholics Anonymous) session. I was discharged 23 days later on June 5, at a cost to parents in excess of Shs. 100,000.

I was now 'clean' and even managed to land a job. All was well for six months until December, when, with all the festivities, I felt confident that I had the scourge licked and could take a little drink. Foolish, foolish me. It was the insanity all over again.

I checked into Chiromo Lane again the following year, June 19, 2000, and felt on the July 3 after detox. Again at great expense to my family. Shortly afterwards I was back to drink and it was not until September, after a series of mad incidents that I knew I was either going to end up dead or in jail

I had learnt from friends of AA that a major mistake was going into rehabilitation not for myself but to please my parents, wife, relatives and friends. If I was to succeed, I had to do it for myself for it was my life at stake.

A doctor friend had told me that I had to put some temptation at a distance. He had also mentioned the Asumbi Rehabilitation Center, an institution run by the Catholic Church, In Homa Bay. I decided to get out of town.

On September 30 accompanied by my wife, I boarded a Bus for Homa Bay. I checked in at Asumbi the following day, and found a completely different mode of treatment. There was no medical detox. You were not locked up. You were free to go visit the local market center, which was overflowing with bars. You checked in at Asumbi of your own volition and if you could not maintain the discipline were free to leave. As they told me, if I wanted to stop, it was their problem; if I wanted to drink, it was my problem.

And it was a drug-free regime with emphasis on holistic forms of treatment. There were lessons in life skills, sports and emphasis also on diet, learning to take personal responsibility and spiritual nourishment. I left Asumbi on February 4, 2001. I was glowing with health. I was not drinking, not smoking and looking forward to life anew.

One day At A Time

I have since embarked on a forgotten ten-year-old promise to my publisher who had been clamouring for revised editions of my novels.

I have also managed to complete the script for a documentary on drug and alcohol abuse, but the main project I am working on is a major initiative to help alcoholics and also create awareness about the problem. The plank of the project is a website I am constructing which should be up in a couple of months. It will provide information on alcoholism, links to useful sites, help lines, chatrooms and much more.

I have had two slips since I arrived from Asumbi, the last only a few months ago. Right now I am happy to live one alcohol-free day at a time. Am I cured? There is nothing like a cure. There is nothing like an ex-alcoholic. I am still an alcoholic. The challenge is to make sure I do not take even one sip today and wake up tomorrow determined not to take another sip. If I do not pick that first bottle, I will not have a problem with the 5th, 10th or 100th bottle.

David Ogot is a freelance journalist/producer who has personal experience with alcoholism. He can be reached at goinghomedotcom@yahoo.com