“The young chap more often than not you liked discussing with passed away,” a waiter in the pastry of EPA’s neighborhood rushed towards me no sooner I set foot there. He seemed eager to break the bad news.
“Which one?” I narrowed down my eyes to rummage through the storeroom of my memory.
“The one that hovers around our veranda and at times take a tea. Drawing a chair, he used to peruse the newspapers and magazines like Newsweek for hours on end.”
“Do you mean the one with a tiny swelling on his head? Are you referring to the one who puts on old suits?”
“Yes. Not a few who acquainted with him here say behind his back ‘he is a man of letters who has gone off his rockers,’ ” the waiter made a circle with his hands to show the chap is known to many.
“What happened to him?”
“Nothing is known! He was found dead in his bed,”
“As I was on a field trip, I didn’t meet him for almost a month. He is cut in the flower of manhood,” I crossed my face and added “yes, he was well versed in Theology. He was a lecturer in different Theology colleges before his mental sickness.”
The disturbing news conjured up in my mind the poem by John Liptrot Hatton. It is about the ephemeralness of our brief existence.
Busy, curious, thirsty fly!
Drink with me and drink as I:
Freely welcome to my cup,
Could’st thou sip, and sip it up:
Make the most of life you may,
Life is short and wears away.
Both alike are mine and thine
Hastening quick to their decline:
Thine’s a summer, mine’s no more,
Though repeated to three score.
Three score summers, when they’re gone,
Will appear as short as one!
A spectacled old man who was sat on a chair on the next row of tables laid in the pastry said “I know the chap you are referring to. Once we quarreled as he was adamant on certain issues. He was talking over me as if my views bear no weight. He was a bit arrogant and looks down on others even those who settle his bills out of sympathy.”
“I know what you mean Sir. The problem surfaced for you were not aware of the mental health of the chap.”
“What do you mean by that?” the man frowned.
“Do you have knowledge about delusional people or individuals that falsely believe they are in the shoe of better off people or somebody great? As to my understanding this behavior is symptom enough for mental sickness,”
“Is that so? God forgive my sin,” he showed sympathy.
“In our case, that chap was assuming himself a descendent of the royal family Haile Selassie I.”
“I see! Was that a symptom of the sick in the domain of mental illness? More specifically is that convincing self ‘I am great’?”
“Sure thing Sir! Unless the public is well sensitized about such realities during discussions conflicts and clashes could arise easily anywhere. Even there are reports physical harms wrongly inflicted on the mentally ill for want of sensitization works.”
“To my disgust, the chap once claimed ‘I am the ghost writer of the speech that Joe Bidden made last night,’” the man laughed with a diffused feeling of sorrow.
“He could also say ‘though not explicitly expressed I am the coauthor of the book in your hand,’”
“I did witness that!”
“But except such departures from the normal course, there is nothing one could nitpick at the way he addressed theological, philosophical, psychological and political issues,” I enumerated the virtues with my fingers.
“I second you. Often, I was stunned how he probed into the heart of news be it international or local.”
“He could have made the best local newspaper and magazine reviewer of the papers in Amharic and English.”
“I noticed he was fluent in three languages. I did hear him saying ‘I am from Illubabour’,” the man said
“Where was he living?”
“As he told me a church uptown had let him a lodge. He used to say, ‘I have to worry about my daily bread, a worrisome thing which God never failed to address as he promised referring to birds on the sky.’”
“I used to financially help him when he behaved,” the spectacled man pointed to his pocket.
“Those who understood his condition extended help to him brushing aside the minor problem he poses when his mental illness pokes its face into discussions.”
“May his soul rest in peace!”
“Amen!”
“But how come you know about delusional illness?”
“Two decades and a half back I read on a private newspaper an article entitled ‘Is he a genius or a crack?’”
“The article was about a man living with mental illness.”
“Does he resemble the chap we are referring to?”
“Yes, in so many ways.”
“What was his problem?”
“He was a noted poet who popped up on the literary scene during the post war era. That is after the war waged to uproot fascists. Even the noted historian Richard Pankhurst had acknowledged this poet whose poems were reflective of that era.”
“Where did he go wrong then?”
“He convinced himself about his being a noted scientist. To the surprise of many he often was seen walking reading a book on the road even under a scorching sun.”
“Amazing!”
“He mirrored Alchemists. He was talking about turning sands to ions and the like.”
“He must have dramatized the narration,” the man laughed.
“Sure, he did that. Once when I talked him into confining himself to the wonderland of literature than dwelling on the unbeaten road of science, that may not be his calling, vexed he said, ‘Must I descend from an ivory tower to a boozing circle?’ I laughed till my sides split.”
“Go ahead. Tell me more about such issues,”
A hoary-headed friend of the man came and joined us.
I continued downloading the knowledge I accumulated about mental illness.
“By the way I am a journalist,” I said.
“Yes, as I see you are rich in ideas,” the spectacled man nodded I guess that.
“There is a saying a doctor knows too much about too little.” “That is to say he is well versed in his sphere of specialization,” the hoary-headed man nodded and added “a gynecologist may not have inkling about Quantum Mechanics,”
“Yes. Back to the sayings a journalist knows too little about too much,” I said.
“When he goes out for reporting in all walks of life he picks something,” once more the bearded man cut in.
“Sure thing,” I said and reverted back,
“Two decades back I remember producing a documentary on the Gefersa Recuperating Center for people recovering after undergoing treatment for the mentally sick at Emanuel Hospital.
The documentary was one that afforded a peek into the plight of the people living with mental illness. It as well was one that shed light on the stigmatization they suffered. And it was also on how to delicately treat them. It was a hit in terms of awareness creation,” pausing for a while I continued,
“Staying in the center having library and farming plots discussing with each other those recuperating there got back in shape. They had also a question-and-answer program early at night shortly after an early dinner.
Among inmates, classes were arranged as some are intellectuals.
I found a doctor in educational psychology there. He came from America. There was also a mechanical engineer from Germany. Both experienced mental sickness when told via a phone, ‘your mother/father passed away respectively!’ ”
“Both were living lonely and leading a life packed with anxiety and fear when less careful neighbors told them about the tragedy outright. Both could not cushion the impact. As such they experienced mental sickness.”
“Another female patient was from America. She and her husband were outstanding college students,” I belabored the topic.
“What happened to her?” both said.
“They got married. And their friends and relatives used to say to them ‘expect to give birth to a brilliant child.’ ”
The hoary-headed man cut in and said,
“I did hear this story on a TV documentary. They ended up giving birth to a Down syndrome child.”
“Yes, you did watch the TV show aired in two languages Amharic and English.”
“‘Expect the unexpected’,” the psychologists say the spectacled man swung his hand downward.
“They also say put the top loss,” cut in the bold-headed man.
“A multitude of people sensitized about mental sickness were extending help in large volume to the center following the show. Famous artist like Mohammed Ahmed were on the front line of the support soliciting efforts. Gradually the voluntarism on the sector ebbed out.”
“Sympathy is brief by its nature,” the spectacled man said.
“I know about the paranoia,” said the hoary-headed man and added “A friend of mine was a PHD candidate in Europe. They dumped him for the arguments and clashes he picked here and there not being thick skinned. He still believes his enemies are hot on his heels,”
Pushing his spectacle back, “There is a folkloric expression in Amharic which runs, ‘he who came across a snake once jumps out of his skin when he sees a bark of a tree!”
“I had a collogue who came here crossing the Atlantic unwilling to shoulder racial discrimination. He was detained for four mistakenly hitting a police car owing to driving error. Wary by nature, he had to clashes with his bosses suspecting they could be after him. He believed CIA was sniffing his trail,” I took breath to add
“Anyways if politely handled and if well managed they could prove supper fit in the tasks they are assigned to. I know that from experience. I know such a man around Kazan chis that reads bible day long he helped me out in translating a religious book.
It is lately people stopped relating all mental illness with devil’s possession. Further sensitization works are called for,” I said pulling out money to foot the bill.
BY ALEM HAILU G/KRISTOS
THE ETHIOPIAN HERALD WEDNESDAY 6 DECEMBER 2023
