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Do you still bear the scars of your father’s alcoholism?
There is so much suffering, told and untold, related to alcoholism in our homes.
I happened to come across a skit by a Kenyan comedian who goes by the name ‘Dada Sarah’. The comedy sketch depicted a mother and her children in the kitchen about to prepare supper when they overhear the man of the house returning home after a drinking spree. In a loud voice spoiling for a fight, he declares over and over that the homestead is his, “huku ni kwangu…” In sheer terror, the mother instructs her children to quickly pack their school uniforms and they all flee into the night before the man enters the house.
It was supposed to be a humorous clip taking viewers back to their rural childhood when their fathers reigned terror on them after returning home from the local bar, having had one too many, but no one was laughing...
Rather than tickle, the skit reopened old wounds and unleashed buried traumas, going by the numerous comments reacting to the clip. One Kenyan after another retold their story of the agony that comes with having a drunkard for a parent. Many talked of fractured childhoods marked by great sadness and unhappiness, never knowing when their father would unleash his demons on them and their mothers after one of his habitual drinking sprees.
They talked of unjustified beatings, uncalled for cruelty and habitual physical abuse especially directed towards their mothers. They talked of unpaid school fees and perpetual shame for those whose fathers were known as the village drunk. Many, many years later, long after leaving home and therefore escaping their drunk fathers’ habitual abuse, these Kenyans still nurse wounds inflicted by a parent’s alcoholism.
The other day, a clip made by two young American men on vacation here was posted in a WhatsApp group I am in. They were joking about what it was like going ‘partying’ with a Kenyan, at the end of it joking that if you intend to go out drinking with a Kenyan, you should have an extra kidney on standby because we drink as if there’s no tomorrow, yet the next day, we turn up at work as if we had been drinking water, meanwhile, the foreigner we went out with is admitted to the ICU. There was a lot of laughing in the comments and backslapping amongst the Kenyans in the comments who could relate, and though I chuckled to myself because the presentation was so humorous, I know that for many, it was no laughing matter.
In the cause of my career, I have written a number of features related to alcoholism, where I interviewed recovering alcoholics and their families. I have also edited many more such features, and I can tell you for a fact that it is no laughing matter. There is so much suffering, told and untold, related to alcoholism in our homes. Forget the stories, you probably know individuals whose lives have been turned upside down by the epidemic of excessive alcohol consumption, marriages on the rocks or that have come to an end due to a spouse’s struggle with alcoholism, children whose education has come to a standstill after an addicted parent loses their job or ability to provide and care for them.
And let’s not forget the long-running emotional and psychological scars borne by men and women whose partners were unable to extricate themselves from the snare of alcohol. It is easy to laugh about it all, especially if you’re a casual drinker with no alcohol dependency issues and would feel no loss should alcohol be banned for good. But for those affected by alcoholism, it is akin to a death sentence, an everyday horror show that will leave eternal scars.
What’s your story?