The many secrets we bury

Last week, on the 10th of September, Daily Trust Newspaper marked world suicide prevention day by displaying a graphical representation of the burden of Suicide in Nigeria.

As I read the report, a distant memory, long buried crept into my subconscious and nagged my mind throughout the day.

264 Nigerians commit suicide in four years

Arresting rising cases of suicide

Many years ago, as a youth corps member, a friend asked me to accompany her to pay a condolence visit in her uncle’s house.

One of his daughters (her cousin), a young girl of 15 years had died suddenly of food poisoning.

The house was filled with people wiping away tears and saying beautiful things about the deceased teenager.

From her pictures and the stories, they told, I imagined an outspoken, beautiful and intelligent young girl who seemed to be the life of the party.

Her parents doted on her and bragged about her academic achievements.

Her mother was seated in the living room surrounded by her sisters when we entered.

She was inconsolable in her grief as she shed silent tears of sorrow and despair.

Her eyes were blood-shot and her lips quivered whenever a new batch of people came in to the room to pay their respects.

On our way out, we stopped to greet her older siblings who were seated in the veranda, equally looking grim.

Their father who was surrounded by a sea of Kaftans and Babbanrigas was outside attending to the numerous relatives and well-wishers trooping in to offer words of solace.

The whole scenario reeked of despair and I could not wait to return home.

Later, my friend told me about the abrupt manner of her cousin’s death, the way she was said to have woken up in the night retching and clutching her abdomen in pain.

Her older sister who slept with her had woken up her parents when her cries of anguish became unbearable.

She continued to throw up in the car as they rushed her to the hospital and by the time they arrived, she had fallen into deep coma with foam coming out of her mouth.

A few hours later, she was pronounced dead.

The death of a young child is every parents’ nightmare.

Months turned into years and the memory of that visit was buried along with many other unpleasant memories, in a corner of what I imagine to be, a large wooden box at the base of my brain.

Forgotten, never to be remembered.

That is, until, a young woman walked into my consulting room about two years later.

The woman, whom I will call Safiya, seemed vaguely familiar but I could not seem to place her face.

She was a newly married 26-year-old who had some unusual symptoms that were previously characterised as somatization.

She appeared sad and so I asked about symptoms relating to depression.

Safiya answered ‘yes’ to most questions but remained evasive whenever personal questions were asked.

I decided to let her be and placed her on some drugs with an appointment for the following month.

Gradually, Safiya’s symptoms of depression began to fade, but she still experienced nightmares occasionally.

On one of her visits, as she opened up to me about her family, the memory that had been gnawing at the wooden box in my head suddenly popped out and it hit me!

She was the older sister of the teenage girl who had died of food poisoning years ago!

When I told her about the memory, she immediately burst into tears.

I was terrified that I had reminded her of the death of her sister and was mentally kicking myself in the head when she started to talk.

It was as if a dam had broken as Safiya started to unburden herself to me.

Her sister had not died of food poisoning.

She was an SS2 student in a boarding school in Abuja when she got pregnant.

Her boyfriend who was in SS3 had promised her that nothing would happen.

That it was harmless fun and everyone else was ‘doing it’.

He promised to use protection and she did not know any better.

When she did not see her period during the holidays, she knew she was in trouble.

She had confided in her older sister Safiya, whom she shared a room with at home.

They had analysed all the possible outcomes and surmised that they could not handle the situation on their own.

They were naïve young girls who had grown up in a strict, sheltered and religious household and were therefore ill equipped to answer the situation.

How would her father, who loved her so dearly, take the news of a bastard child?

How could she disappoint her teachers, friends and parents?

She, who was the assistant head girl with a glowing academic record;

How could she ever live with herself? she had cried herself to sleep for days with only her sister Safiya, barely an adult herself, to console her.

Safiya had woken up to her sister’s cry at night. She was clutching her tummy and writhing in pain.

An empty bottle of ‘ota pia pia’, the popular pesticide, lay on bedside drawer.

In between her cries of pain, she had begged Safiya to keep her secrets and dispose of the bottle.

This Safiya did, before alerting their parents.

Her story shook me to the core and I suddenly understood why Safiya was depressed.

Her guilt and the burden of the secret she bore, would never let her be.

I tried to counsel her as best as I could before referring her to the psychiatrist for further management.

Suicide very well exists in Nigeria.

However, due to it being a taboo both religiously and culturally, it continues to exist as the elephant in the room, whom no one wants to acknowledge.

Most health care workers will tell you for free that suicide is grossly underreported.

Hardly a week goes by that a case of attempted suicide is not brought into the A&E.

They are usually young people between the ages of 15-25years, unable to cope with life’s many stressors.

It is quite distressing. And these are the cases we know. The ‘attempted suicide’ cases. The ones who survive.

What about the ones we don’t know?

What about the numerous individuals who just disappear without a trace?

What about the people who die suddenly and suspiciously?

In a country where conducting autopsies is not the norm, how then can we actually know the true numbers of suicide in Nigeria?

And even when we know the actual cause of death, we cover it up and tell the world that all is well.

We are afraid of being stigmatised and labelled as being associated with one who is ‘faithless’.

Indeed, it is a bitter pill to swallow.

Reading Daily Trust’s front-page report on suicide reminded me vividly of Safiya’s story and so I reached out to her.

She now lived abroad with her husband and kids.

The change of environment was a blessing to her as her nightmares and depressive symptoms had reduced significantly.

She still kept her sister’s secret and vowed to do so until her death.

She was determined that her parents would never know the real cause of her sister’s death.

Later, I would marvel at her decision and remember the way her father looked as he accepted people’s prayer for the deceased.

At the end, it is better this way.

Some secrets are better left buried.

**Names and settings changed for ethical purposes.