Life. Seasoned with perspective.
Life gets heavy sometimes — but you’re not weird, broken, or alone. From childhood flashbacks to real moments, this week’s piece reminds us that it’s okay to not be okay — and that there’s always a way through.
Look, I wasn’t brought up privileged. But I wasn’t raised in lack either. This is a story of curveballs — and how we must learn to live through both abundance and scarcity.
From family photos and stories, I gather that we were doing quite well, by the standards of the time. My father was a headmaster of reputable schools, my mother a teacher. We had a good home and even cars: a VW Beetle, then a Peugeot 404 (KMH 187), and eventually, a 504 (seven-aside matatu). Farming sustained us. Life was stable.
But life also happened. As the lastborn, I missed most of the “well-to-do” days. We hit hard times. My mother, the late Mabel Kadali, (may she rest in peace), fought to give us the best. She got me into a national school, but sadly didn’t live long enough to see her efforts bear fruit.
Lately, our news has been filled with stories of mental health struggles, especially among young people, that end in tragedy. The economy is unkind. Leadership is failing. Society is harsh. The pressure is immense — and often invisible.
Just recently, I lost one of my students. A brilliant mind. Sharp in class, engaged, thoughtful. No one could tell he was struggling until he allegedly jumped from the rooftop of a building in the middle of the night. It was a crushing end to a life that held so much promise.
That’s not my only encounter. Early in my career, I joined a leading media house. One of the managers there was unpredictable — at times, he came at me like a storm; at others, he was warm and kind. It didn’t make sense. Later, I learned he was bipolar. He had tried to end his life multiple times. Eventually, he succeeded.
Let’s pause.
Why do we suffer in silence, even when we are breaking inside?
I recently spoke to a well-known media personality, a household name, who’s been candid about his mental health battles. He lost his family in the process but clawed his way back and now speaks up — loudly. He told me: “Speaking saved me.”
For many men, especially, this is tough. We’re taught to bottle it up. Be strong. Be unshaken. We carry pressure silently because we fear appearing weak. But this silence? It kills. Let me be honest — I’ve had my own battles. Some I’m still fighting. It’s a work in progress.
Now let me take a small detour.
One afternoon, about two years ago, I was driving along Uhuru Highway with two of my children when traffic stalled. A young girl — maybe seven, just like my daughter Naini — appeared by the window, holding a bowl with a few coins and looking up with quiet hope. I froze. The traffic moved, and before I could decide what to do, I had to drive on. The moment stayed with me — the weight of it, and the questions it left behind. But Naini had questions of her own.
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Photo Courtesy DW
“Why is she asking for money?”
“Where are her parents?”
I scrambled to explain. To shield her from the weight of it all. But I also wondered — how do we protect our children from the emotional toll of a world we can’t control? How do we help them grow in empathy without overwhelming them?
That moment stayed with me.
In most tragic mental health cases, the common line is: “We never saw it coming.”
So here’s another question:
How do we start seeing what isn’t always visible?
We need to be present. Really present. With our children. With our students. With our friends. And especially with ourselves. We must unlearn the habit of dismissing emotional pain. It doesn’t have to be dramatic to be valid. The quietest people often carry the loudest pain.
Healing starts with acknowledgement. It begins when we say, “I’m not okay,” and allow others to do the same. It begins when we normalise therapy, when we check in — not just with “How are you?” but “How are you, really?”
As a lecturer, a parent, a friend, and a man trying to figure things out, I know we won’t always get it right. But we have to try. Because everyone, at some point, carries something heavy. And sometimes, the smallest gesture — a call, a conversation, a genuine check-in — can be the thing that keeps someone here.
So here’s to more honesty.
More listening.
More healing.
And fewer silent goodbyes.
About the author:
Kibisu Mulanda is a media executive and strategic communicator with over 20 years’ experience in television, NGO storytelling, and youth-focused content. He is the Acting Head of Switch Media Ltd and teaches media at the Kenya Institute of Mass Communication (KIMC). A Certified SIYB Trainer, he blends storytelling with strategy to drive social impact.
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