Look, I was not brought up privileged. But I was not raised in lack either.
From family photographs and the stories, I have heard, we were doing reasonably well by the standards of the time. My father was a headmaster in reputable schools. My mother was a teacher. We had a good home, cars and a farm that helped sustain the family.
There was stability.
Then life happened.
As the lastborn, I missed most of those better days. Things became difficult. My mother, the late Mabel Kadali, worked hard to give me opportunities she wanted me to have. She got me into a national school, but sadly, she did not live long enough to see where that journey would take me.
Perhaps that is one of life's lessons. We can look at someone from the outside and imagine we understand their story, while having no idea what they are carrying.
Recently, I lost one of my students.
He was bright, engaged and thoughtful. In class, he gave no obvious indication of the battle he was fighting. Then one night, his life ended by suicide.
It was devastating.
And it was not my first encounter with such a loss.
Early in my career, I worked with a senior manager whose behaviour could change dramatically. At times he was difficult and unpredictable. At other times he was warm, generous and kind. I later learnt that he was living with bipolar disorder and had struggled with his mental health for years. Eventually, he also died by suicide.
Both experiences left me with the same uncomfortable question:
How much pain do we miss because we are only looking for visible signs?
We often say, “We never saw it coming.”
But perhaps that is the problem. We have become too comfortable with the version of people they present to us.
I recently spoke to a well-known media personality who has openly shared his own mental health struggles. His journey cost him deeply, including his family, but he found a way to rebuild his life. Today, he speaks openly about what he went through.
One thing he told me stayed with me:
“Speaking saved me.”
Maybe that is where we need to start.
We live in difficult times. The economy is unforgiving. Young people are trying to build careers in an uncertain job market. Relationships are complicated. Social media constantly reminds us of what everyone else appears to be achieving.
And yet we are expected to smile and say, “I’m fine.”
Men, in particular, are often taught to carry pain quietly. Be strong. Provide. Do not complain. Do not cry. Do not admit that you are struggling.
But pain does not disappear because we refuse to name it.
I know this because I have had my own battles. Some I have overcome. Others I am still working through. I have learnt that being okay is not a permanent state. Sometimes it is simply the place we are trying to get back to.
That brings me to a moment that happened about two years ago.
I was driving along Uhuru Highway with two of my children when traffic came to a standstill. A young girl, perhaps seven years old, appeared at the window holding a bowl with a few coins in it.
I froze.
The traffic started moving before I could decide what to do.
My daughter Naini had questions.
“Why is she asking for money?”
“Where are her parents?”
I tried to answer without exposing her to more than she could carry. But the encounter stayed with me.
It made me wonder how we prepare our children for a world that can be difficult without making them afraid of it.
Perhaps the answer is not to shield them from everything. Perhaps we teach them empathy, while also teaching them that it is okay to ask for help when the world becomes too heavy.
The same applies to us.
We need to become more present. With our children. Our friends. Our colleagues. Our students. And with ourselves.
We need to stop treating emotional pain as something that only counts when it becomes dramatic.
Sometimes the person who needs help is the one still showing up for work.
Sometimes it is the friend still making jokes in the WhatsApp group.
Sometimes it is the colleague who says, “I’m good,” a little too quickly.
So perhaps the next time you ask someone, “How are you?” do not be in such a hurry to leave after they say, “I’m fine.”
Ask again.
“How are you, really?”
And when someone asks you that question, perhaps you do not always have to say you are fine.
You can say, “I am struggling.”
You can say, “I need someone to talk to.”
You can simply say, “Today is not a good day.”
There is no shame in that.
Because sometimes a conversation will not solve everything. But it can remind someone that they are seen, that they matter and that they do not have to carry everything alone.
Perhaps that is what we need more of.
Not perfect answers.
Just people willing to notice, listen and stay.
Because sometimes, the difference between someone feeling completely alone and knowing there is a way through is simply one person asking, and meaning it:
How are you, really?
