It all started with a sip of Muratina: How drug, alcohol addiction robbed me 30 years of my life
If at all appearance can tell part of our story, then Wambugu Wakahora’s does. The man walks with measured steps, his gait as straight as an arrow. His head and face are clean shaven, save for a short neat moustache. His shirt and trouser are perfectly pressed, his black shoes polished to perfection. Even more than a decade after leaving the police service, it is obvious that old habits die hard.
We meet Wambugu on a sunny afternoon about 180 kilometres north of the capital in Nyahururu, the town with the highest elevation in Kenya. Despite his military -like demeanour, his laugh is soft, his tone welcoming, which does well to hide the ghosts of his past. The father of five is a recovering alcoholic whose 33-year battle with alcohol led to the lowest and darkest phases of his life, but eventually to his current career in counselling psychology.
As we settle beneath the shade of some cypress trees, Wambugu begins the narration of his close to six decades of life.
Here’s his story
“I am a third born in a family of five children. I was raised in Nairobi. My childhood was nothing out of the ordinary, or at least it was until I was in class four. During the holidays, our parents would take us upcountry in Nyahururu to see our grandparents. It is here that I had my first drink of alcohol. I was nine years old.
Wambugu Wakahora, counselling psychologist and recovering alcoholic, during an interview with the Nation in Ndururumo High School, Laikipia County, on March 29, 2023.
My grandfather used to brew traditional beer, muratina, which he would share with his peers. During one of our visits over the December holidays, I decided to take some, and since the brew has a sweet flavour, it was palatable even to a child. My father, who served in the military at the time, would also take my grandfather, his father, alcohol, which I would also steal and drink. And so what started as one innocent drink soon became a habit. Every time we closed school and travelled upcountry, I would make sure I stole some alcohol to satisfy my childish urges.
One of our neighbours also used to brew busaa, another type of traditional alcohol. During my later primary school years, I and other boys from the village would steal and drink the beer. When we could not manage to do that, I would use money given to me by my parents for offering in church to buy alcohol through a casual labourer employed at my grandfather’s farm who also used to drink alcohol. I would also lie to get relatives to give me money.
When I sat for my Certificate of Primary Education, I performed terribly, and my dad ordered me to repeat a year. But even at the end of that year, I hardly improved. My parents found me a school in the now Laikipia County, where I got into the next phase of my delinquent ways. Unlike earlier when I could only manage to drink when I travelled upcountry, I was now in a place where I could drink whenever I wanted as long as I had money, despite being in a boarding school. I would sneak out and buy alcohol and cigarettes, as well as bhang, which I was introduced to while in form two.
To sustain my developing addiction, I would steal farm produce at home and sell it so that I could have enough money to get me through the term once schools reopened. As I was a talented footballer, the school administration did not want to permanently kick me out whenever I would get caught breaking school rules. When I sat for my A-levels exams, I failed, and once again, repeated a year, to little improvement, before proceeding to my O-levels.
Looking back, I realise how lucky I was that I survived my high school years. As I was appointed the games captain while in school and was friends with other student leaders, we had special access to facilities within the school. When we did not have money to buy alcohol outside the school, we would sneak into the chemistry laboratory and steal ethanol.
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Without focus or career aspirations and with poor grades after six years of high school, I moved back home upcountry. My father had a farm produce retail business which I took over, he hoped that I would make something of my life, however, I just ended up draining the store, and two months in, the business collapsed. Without money or any activity to keep me occupied, I started to become a nuisance to my family since I would steal from them.
Wambugu Wakahora in this photo taken in 1991 in Kapenguria, West Pokot, shortly after his graduation from the Kenya Police Training, Kiganjo.
A police recruitment opening came up, and given his line of work, my father got me a spot, but this was terrible news to me. I started imagining how life would be once I joined the police college where I could not indulge my desires as I pleased. There was a little voice in my head constantly urging me to run away from it all, but I did not. The evening before I was due to report at the college in Kiganjo, Nyeri, I bought chang’aa, which I drank until I blacked out. I knew my life would change the following day.
The first few weeks at the college were a nightmare. I suffered severe withdrawal symptoms and contemplated running away, but my plans never actualised. I managed to somehow cope, and for a few months, I was sober, until my pass out came. I was posted in Nakuru regional headquarters awaiting deployment, and at the end of the month I received my first salary of Sh1, 900. The year was 1991, and that was a lot of money, especially to a young man like me. I immediately withdrew the entire amount and went to a club, feeling like I had won the jackpot, and with some good measure of pride as I was now a policeman. What I failed to grasp was that in the dingy and murky waters of alcoholism, your job description did not matter because at the end of the day, a drunkard was just that. A drunkard. All my money was gone in that one day.
I later got a transfer to Kapenguria in West Pokot, and the first thing I did was to open a loan tab at the police canteen as I had no money. This led me into a cycle where I would be constantly in debt since I drank most of my salary. Later, I returned to Kiganjo Police College, and after more training, I became an instructor and thereafter was transferred to Spring Valley Station in Nairobi.
It is at this time that I met my wife, and we even did a church wedding in 1995. Being a married man did nothing much to change my behaviour. I would have numerous arguments with my wife because of my drinking, and would stop for two or three weeks then I would relapse. I was in denial that I had a problem, and all the while, I would blame my troubles on everyone else but myself. Eventually, my wife got tired and left four years into our marriage with our two children.
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After that my drinking worsened and I began to miss work regularly. Eventually, I was transferred to a remote station in Wajir in 2004 due to my indiscipline. I managed to stay put for only two weeks, you see, I could not access alcohol, and the withdrawal symptoms were too much to bear. I requested sick leave and was supposed to return to my station after four days, but I never did. I was hopping between places in Nairobi and Nyahururu. I decided to remarry, and my second wife and I got three children. One day at the beginning of 2007, there was a theft where I lived at the time and I was a suspect. Then, I had taken to hanging out with a delinquent group. I was arrested and taken to a police station in Rumuruti town in Laikipia County, where my colleagues realised there was a warrant of arrest for me for deserting my work station for more than three years. All this time I had been drawing a salary. I was ordered to report to Wajir, and after one week in a cell, I was released and dismissed from the police service.
With no source of income, I travelled back home, only for my wife to die that same month following illness. As I was in no state to look after our children, her family took them in. Shortly afterwards, I fell into depression. In the three years that followed, I sank even lower than I ever imagined I could. I became homeless, peddling bhang and stealing from people’s farms. Despite my siblings’ many interventions, I kept digging the hole I was in deeper and deeper. I became so dirty, I was infested with jiggers and could barely afford a glass of chang’aa, which cost a mere Sh30.
Before this, I received a cheque of Sh120,000 from the Kenya National Police Sacco where I was a member. In just two weeks, all the money was gone, most of it stolen as I would drink and pass out in bars. By then, I was having suicidal thoughts since I did not see any point in living anymore. Close to the end of 2009, I decided to return home and try to reconcile with my parents, whom I had had a falling out with. I requested my uncle to be a mediator, and after a lot of pleading, they finally allowed me back home.
In 2010, there was a family gathering and my cousins came to visit. When they saw the state I was in, they proposed to take me to a rehabilitation centre in Embu. I agreed, though with some doubts, but that was the start of my long journey to recovery. I still remember the day I checked into rehab - January 23, 2010. I have never taken alcohol since. For the first time, I found myself within a group of people who understood me and what I was going through. I got to accept that I was sick and that I needed help, and got on the slow and challenging journey of changing my errant ways. For nights on end I could not sleep. I would have hallucinations, night sweats and chills and a blinding need for a drink, but I persevered.
After three months in rehab, I was given a two-week break to visit my family. The temptation to get back to drinking was there, but I overcame it. After I returned to rehab, I started making amends with my first family, and my wife and children came to visit me. I also enrolled for a certificate course in psychological counselling and later for a higher diploma in the same. Six years after I had checked into the rehab, I finally left and went back home to Nyahururu where I got a job as an addiction counsellor at another rehabilitation centre. In the six years I spent in Embu, I had managed to deal with my addiction, reconcile with my family and go back to school. However, my journey is not yet over as recovery is a continuous process. Despite being 13 years sober now, I am aware that just one drink is all it takes for an addict to fall off the wagon.
His life today…
Wambugu is a practicing counselling psychologist registered with the Kenya Counselling and Psychological Association. He is the organisation’s chair in Laikipia County. On weekdays, he works as the patron and counsellor at Ndururumo High School, Nyahururu, and during his free time, works as an addiction counsellor and trainer for other counsellors. He and his first wife reconciled and got back together. He is also in touch with all his children.
He says his biggest joy is when he is able to help other addicts get back their lives, and through his outreach and support groups for alcoholics, he has been able to help at least 20 people who have been sober for at least three years. Together with other counsellors and interested parties, they organise forums for youth engagement within the locality, as well as for relatives of addicts.
Wambugu observes that it is integral to an addict’s recovery for the family to be supportive, and to understand that the addict is suffering from a sickness like any other and needs understanding, rather than condemnation. He also adds that effective recovery and rehabilitation requires family engagement, as more often than not, alcoholism is a sign of underlying issues that have not been dealt with.
Also read: Why drug abuse is on the rise among teens
He also adds that it is important for an addict in recovery to have a support group where they can express themselves without fear, as they are in a vulnerable position especially during initial months. They also need to have a sponsor who has been at least three years sober. This is a person they can reach out to when they are feeling most stressed and likely to relapse.
“I have been sober for over a decade, but I will forever identify as a recovering alcoholic. There is no place for pride in recovery because it only takes that one moment of weakness to take you back.” BY DAILY NATION
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