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Published in 'Disasters' Magazine Volume 3 - March 2004 in the 'Drug Bust' Column by David Ogot

Can you remember why you started drinking alcohol, the first taste, the first drink, was it beer, wine, spirits, traditional or illicit brew? Go back in time if you can, to the very first feeling you had after tasting an alcoholic beverage, did you wretch, puke, feel nauseous, euphoric or just plain sick?

Did you start because all your friends were urging you to, or because it made you feel more like an adult? Maybe you were just curious to see what it felt like. To find out why people all around you seemed to drink. Or more likely it was on a dare or condition if you wanted to belong to a certain group. A group of your peers you felt you just had to be part of, for you would simply die if you did not belong.

Well for whatever reason you first tasted an alcoholic beverage and whether you are still drinking today, or you did not like the experience, of one thing I am sure. Nobody told you alcohol was a drug. A mood-altering drug capable of causing addiction and one became a full-blown alcoholic.

I am sure that no one told you that there was no difference between beer, wine, whisky, gin brandy, sherry, champagne or traditional brews like mnazi, muratina, busaa or even illicit spirits such as chang'aa. Nobody even mentioned that apart from the strength and taste, the active ingredient in all these alcoholic beverages, which altered the drinker's mood, and was the main reason people drank in the first place, was ethanol.

No. I am positive none of all this was talked about. In short nobody told you what alcohol was and the side effects. In all probability, you like me claimed you knew all about alcohol, this wealth of information, having been gleaned from movies, television, advertisements and your friends.

All I knew by the time I went to form one way back in another century, in fact another millennium, in 1974, was that if you wanted girls to pay attention to you, well then you had to even if you were not, at least look tough. And the easiest way to appear tough, daring and all grown-up and mature, not to mention sophisticated and worldly, was to smoke cigarettes and drink alcohol. At any rate this was how it always looked ion the movies. With our favourite heroes like Clint Eastwood and the late John 'The Duke' Wayne riding or driving into the sunset with the girl after having vanquished the bad guy.

These guys always had a cigarette dangling from the corner of their mouths and drank copious amounts of whisky neat, more often than not straight from the bottle before emphatically wiping their mouths with the back of their hands and giving a satisfied smack of the lips, this whole ritual always accompanied by a statement like "just what a man needs." Or after observing a stranger go through the motions, "now we can talk. My daddy always told me don't trust a man who doesn't drink for it shows a hidden weakness!"

Then there were the omni-present beer ads, with all the happy faces doing fun looking things and always with a beer. Successful looking young guys in the cigarette adverts implying that if you too smoked, your path to equal success would be 'smooth all the way.'

Caught up in this madly swirling vortex of myth and fallacies crowned with the heady mixture of adolescence, I began in Lenana High School as some friends and I began experimenting. We were in the process of becoming adults, but we wanted to look and feel like adults. But most of all we wanted to look tough.

I wanted to look tough to impress girls and thus get a string of girlfriend's. And so it began. I stole a beer from my father's drink cabinet and tried to drink it. That was my first taste, and what a disgusting revolting experience it was. Made me feel 'yuck!' No way was I going to drink this vile stuff. If this was what it took to impress girls, then I would stick to cigarettes. They would have to make do with half-tough.

But by the time we closed school at the end of form one, I forced myself to drink beer over the holidays, all the while vomiting, getting headaches until by the time we went back and now in form two, I could keep down at least two beers.

Meanwhile, I found that I could talk to girls without getting tongue-tied and not only that, but I had began to enjoy the taste too. This was the beginning then of my free-fall to alcoholism. I had jumped out of the plane with unknown to me, a faulty parachute, a parachute called ignorance. Although I was rushing towards the ground at breakneck speed, I was too caught up in the exhilaration nestled, as I was in the false bliss that my chute would protect me.

I could not know that I was an alcoholic, that due to my body chemistry and the way ethanol reacted in my brain, my first drink had launched me well and truly to my fateful appointment with disaster - fully fledged alcoholism. However on one point I must be extremely candid, ALCOHOL DOES NOT CAUSE ALCOHOLISM! For if it did everyone who drank alcohol would then become an alcoholic.

So there I was a second former smoking cigarettes and drinking alcohol. But now in a strange twist I who earlier on could not stand the taste of the stuff now began to develop an extremely high tolerance for it. Tolerance is simply the amount of alcohol one is able to drink, without any apparent ill effect and can be any amount from one glass of beer to one bottle of whisky. Everyone has a tolerance level ranging from zero to even more than a bottle of distilled spirits.

However an increasingly high tolerance to alcohol should be considered a red-flag warning for alcohol dependence or alcoholism. It should signal caution with one's use of alcohol. But to a young teenager like me, this only served to prove my 'toughness'. All of us who drank were considered tough, read daring, but I was fast gaining a reputation as the 'toughest of the tough.'

During that time, as now, most of us and more so the young subscribed to the fallacy that the more alcohol you could consume, and still function, the more of a man or 'fun-girl/woman' you were. We admired heavy drinkers then, and still do today.

Where drinking had previously not been a problem, and I could take it or leave it, now arose a situation where I looked forward to drinking occasions.

During the holidays, I now chose which occasion to go to using criteria such as how much booze was available. If however the grog wasn't enough, or did not flow freely or worse still ran out, I would term that a lousy 'hang' or party.

Yet even that was not the end all be all of my love affair with drink for while previously managing to sail through a whole term without thirsting for alcohol, without even giving it a second thought, had been a breeze, I now found myself devising ways to drink during the term.

Chang'aa which to us had previously been a no-no, suddenly became a viable option. Yet this was the very same drink, which we had always vowed we would never drink as we considered it a dirty, demeaning, vile concoction.

This illicit brew we felt was the sole preserve for alcoholics, those depraved, morally weak people. Men and women of no substance and so totally lacking in will power that the only emotion they deserved from society was to be despised.

Our justification now for making this our drink of choice, was we felt practical. Beer bottles were cumbersome and noisy. Economically, beer was not only expensive but less potent, while cham as chang'aa is known in the parlance was not only cheap but had a strong 'kick'. We even managed to throw in a patriotic angle, namely that by drinking this beverage brewed and sold by poor Kenyan women who could then educate their children, we were not only sponsoring the next crop of future leaders, but building the economy. 'Build Kenya buy Kenya' became our motto.

And what of cham being the drink of alcoholics? Did that then not make us as good as alcoholics? Not a chance. We rationalised this away too for apart from drinking this stuff; we did not fit the other criteria that qualified one to be labeled an alcoholic. Ha, the ironies of life. If only I had known then what I know now.

Stealing from my parents during the holidays to get money for this hooch now became the norm, while escapade followed escapade as the drinking escalated. Bright ideas were strewn around like a blizzard of confetti at a mad mans wedding.

On such brainstorm was home brewing. Our very own winery. The other thing I remember most about these ideas was the time-lapse between thought and implementation could usually be measured in nano-seconds.

No sooner had we thought about wine, for example, than yeast and sugar were procured while somebody came with several plastic 20 liter jerry-cans with an alacrity that would have stood us in good stead in the classroom.

The other main ingredient came in the form of discarded pineapple peelings retrieved from the dining room dustbins. These were then meticulously washed and chopped into small pieces and stuffed into the jerry cans.

From there it was trial and error and when we thought our elixir was ready we recruited, or rather conscripted 'tasters' (we preferred this term to guinea pigs) from the ranks of the first-formers.

Finally with deteriorating grades and having notched up tens of scrapes with the school authorities, I sat for my O-levels, being just serious enough to pass. One miscalculation however in my well-laid strategy however led to a setback when I failed to take into account the consequences of failing in mathematics. The result was you automatically dropped one division, not that the school administration had shown any inclination to have me back for A-levels regardless of what I scored.

So it was off to day school, which to me and my every-cloud-has-a-silver-lining mentality, simply meant that access to pombe (alcohol) would now cease to be an issue. Humming the tune of the nursery rhyme 'ten green bottles' I headed off to my new school, H.H. The Aga Khan High.

Here I instantly proved the old adage of 'birds of a feather, flock together,' by finding six other souls after my own heart, three of which were Asians and we formed the grandiosely titled 'magnificent seven'. Even after all these years our big-screen heroes in the form of Clint Eastwood and the late Yul Brynner and others were still rattling around in our skulls.

We all drank, we all smoked, well one guy did not initially but we soon took care of that and in no time he was puffing away merrily. Meanwhile in the classroom we were what were described as backbenchers, always occupying the last row of any class we sat in from where we could carry on with any mischief with slight chances of being caught.

By now our consumption of pombe was extremely high with the weekends being a must drink time while weekdays were no longer off-limits.

Around this time, 1978, the ubiquitous mini-pack as it is known today, did not exist. Nobody was insane enough yet to allow alcohol to be sold in tiny plastic paper sachets for as little as ten shillings. This was still long before the time when alcohol was cheaper than sweets and even kids could purchase alcohol.

What served at that time were the miniatures like the small bottles sold in aircraft on commercial flights. These were not sold singly, however but in boxes of four assorted spirits basically one each of whisky, gin, rum and vodka, which we promptly christened 'survival kits'.

Being accomplished shop-lifters by this time, a skill which was initially used to keep up a supply of cigarettes regular heists for the 'kits' now became a necessity to keep up a steady supply of alcohol.

Going to girls schools after we had skived from classes was all part of our living up to our image of happy-go-lucky, devil-may-care, tough guys and as we had earlier on discovered many girls were enamoured of this attitude.

Getting out of school was no problem as we usually exited from the library windows after 'parachuting' to the ground below. One would wonder how we got away with such blatant behavior, but it was exactly because we were not flaunting our mischief in front of the teachers that we managed most of the time to look like responsible students.

So much so that in fact towards the end of our fifth form two of the magnificent seven, myself included were appointed school prefects. These appointments were to however come to an abrupt and ignominious end just after we started out in form six.

Having discovered that whenever we placed an individual in detention, which were on Saturday mornings, we had to come and supervise these sessions and so in effect we too were effectively also in detention and on a Saturday to boot.

We therefore resorted to accepting inducements or 'fines' in order to exempt one from serving detention. This then was the situation when one of the juniors snitched, and the deputy headmaster arranged a 'sting' operation culminating in our being unceremoniously relived of our posts.

All to soon the A-level exams had rolled around and once again I settled down to do the needful. Two years work in one term. Had managed the much harder feat during my O-levels with over ten subjects, so three subjects at A's would be a no-brainer.

Dead wrong. The results out I had not managed more than a subsidiary pass in all subjects. End of the road, I thought to myself but no big deal. Now I could get on with the real business of life and that was - living life!

Also by this time I had managed to get two novels published and a third was on the way, I therefor nursed my bruised ego with the warm glow of the media reviews of my books with the consolation that at least I was a published author.

Now begun the real Daily Drinking Services (DDS) which set me on a major collision course with my parents. Constant rows with them, brushes with the police, people chasing after me for unpaid bills became the order of the day. How this would have ended had it gone on, I cannot say except that most probably it would have been jail or death.

But then fate in the form of some family friends intervened and suggested to my parents that on the strength of my writing, I could get admission to a college in India with the bonus that as a student I would not be able to buy alcohol.

Thus two-and-a-half years after sitting my A-level exam, I was off to India arriving in Bombay, (now Mumbai) in the sweltering, energy sapping heat of peak - summer. Lo and behold, not only could I buy alcohol with no questions asked, but also it was dirt-cheap.

Four years later with no degree, no passport, with only the clothes on my back, I stepped back onto Kenyan soil. Behind me a trail of misadventure and chaos so mind boggling as to stretch ones imagination to the very limits.

Near tragedy, in the form of a suicide attempt during my third year, when at one point sitting in my room drinking as I waited to go out, my mind cast back to all the pain I had caused the people who loved me the most. Baffled as to why I constantly caused such anguish and finally convinced that there was something inherently wrong with me, I decided to end it once and for all.

Armed with a sharp kitchen knife, I attempted to slash my arms and wrists, but was overcome with searing pain. Further failed attempts to slash my chest and legs led me to find an easier softer way. Quickly I ferreted out all the pills and tablets left over from unfinished doses for various ailments that had accumulated over the years.

These I then washed down with cheap whisky. By the Grace of God I survived, and hear I was back on Kenyan soil. Now came a series of jobs hand in hand with serial sacking, as I blamed everyone in typical alcoholic fashion, left right and center for my woes.

Nobody least of all myself could connect my problems with alcohol. No one wanted to mention the unmentionable the shameful 'A' word - alcoholism. As is the nature of the disease I was in major denial, explaining to all and sundry within ear-shot that I only drank because… If it were not for reason 'Y', I would not drink like this.

With everyone locked in denial and desperately wanting to believe this, which is par for the course with alcoholism, we all sort solutions in the wrong places for the wrong reasons.

But finally, one chilly morning at 5.30 a.m. I made a reverse-charge call to my mum taking up an offer made two years previously by her. Feeling that I drank to much (not that I was alcoholic,) and that I needed help to control my drinking, she had said when at some point I too came to this conclusion, to call her.

That was the turning point, a call made for the wrong reasons, put me on the right track. A call made to be taken somewhere where I would be taught to control my drinking got me eventually through trial and error to the doorstep of Asumbi Treatment Center on October 1, 2000 where I learnt I would never be able to control my drinking.

It was here that I learnt I was an alcoholic and that I could never safely drink alcohol again. What relief. To finally know what was the matter with me. That I was not useless, or depraved or weak-willed - a sinner. I was sick; I had a chronic progressive disease, which though not curable, was treatable.

Last month I celebrated, three years since I landed at Asumbi. Three years in which I have sought through the help of an Organisation 'goinghomedotcom' we started with my wife to pass on the message that alcoholism is a disease and not one's fault.

I am now a recovering alcoholic, living my life one day at a time, grateful for Gods blessings and thankful for every sober day I get. Recovery or staying sober is not easy, trying to undo the conditioning of 27 years of drinking, but I do know the alternatives are worse.

For an alcoholic who cannot or rather will not stop drinking there can only be three possible outcomes, jail, a mental institution or death. This sad fact has been proved by millions of alcoholics all over the world time after tragic time as to be accepted as irrefutable.

If you are living with an alcoholic, shake off your denial take a deep breath and say the 'A' word. Help is available and neither of you should continue suffering. Accept that you did not cause it and you cannot cure it. Get into recovery and get on with your lives - one day at a time.

The writer is a freelance journalist/producer based in Nairobi who has personal experience with alcoholism. He can be reached at goinghomedotcom@yahoo.com Website: www.goinghomekenya.org

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