A few years back, I went to Mombasa for a much-needed R&R. At the time, I had no idea the direction my life was taking. I had just graduated from campus with honours, my parents were proud, I was proud. The ‘what next’ part was scary, though. Mombasa seemed like the place to do some soul searching.
While I was there, I bumped into an old friend from primary school. He seemed to be doing well for himself. He said he was a engineer, which suited him. From what I remembered of him, he had that curious mind and liked knowing how things worked. He drove a good car and overall seemed well put together. Did I mention that he was visually appealing as well? No? Well, he was. We went to Mama Ngina Drive, ate some good coastal snacks and coconut water while watching the ferries come and catching up. As we were leaving, he got a call from a colleague about some documents he needed to send over, and when he asked if we could pass by his place before dropping me off at my Airbnb in Nyali, I agreed.
I wish I hadn’t.
When he opened his door, the first thing that hit me was a stench. The smell of rotting fish, an unflushed loo and something else I couldn’t pinpoint. He asked me to make myself at home and proceeded to his bedroom to look for the documents. All the while, I stood in shock, wondering how this well put together human being could live this way. There was a white wet towel on the sofa, with black stains. Mould had started growing on it, and I sincerely hoped he hadn’t used that towel in the morning. I looked around. The kitchen looked like it had not been cleaned in a year, used utensils on the counter, flies and cockroaches were having a field day. The sink was full of dirty dishes, in dirty water and some if it was leaking to the floor below. I opened the fridge, and everything in there was smelled rotten, save for some soda which had not been opened yet. I can’t begin to explain the mess in the bathroom. That, traumatized me for a week. Cleaning that would have needed a whole lorry of bleach, and a miracle. I didn’t bother looking into the bedroom.
When he came out, I was still looking around, hands in my pockets so I don’t accidentally touch something that would give me an infection later. He looked at me looking at his place, and murmured a curt, ‘lets go’. We go to the car, and drove in silence across the bridge to Nyali. We stopped outside my Airbnb and when I turned to him, It was like he knew what I was going to ask. he said, ‘don’t’ before I had the chance to speak. I said a small thank you and alighted. Once I was out, he sped away. I haven’t spoken to him since.
I remembered the incident today when I was scrolling through my Twitter feed and saw this post. I asked myself whether I could have reacted differently, or if, given time, I could have done something to help. Honestly, I don’t have an answer to that. All I know is that I hate clutter, I hate dirt and I clean and organize to the point of obsession sometimes.
We know, that mental health issues manifest themselves in different ways. It is a topic that has been discussed extensively. Talk to someone, they say. But remember, we keep these dark thoughts to ourselves because we think no one would understand.
So how do we start?
As I write this, I can’t help but wonder whether these people are in relationships, how their significant others cope in these living situations. I have also thought about whether I could love someone that much, to look beyond the illness, live in such an environment, all in the name of support. Would I be true to myself? I get mad when my boyfriend accidentally comes into the house with shoes on. We have this understanding that my house is like Moses’ burning bush- Holy ground.
Could I ever compromise? Where would I compromise?
I don’t think I could, or even want to. And then again, what does that say about me?
