Thought Picnic: Success, Suffering, and the System That Fails Both

The Illusion of Success

Sometimes, success appears to be a façade amid emotional turmoil, the vulnerabilities that are part of life's struggle that no one else sees. There is an assumption that if you have the means and cachet to buy anything, then you are suitably supplied to purchase your salvation.

Society simply does not recognise the struggle of the successful as legitimate. There is little sympathy for those who appear to have everything, and this dismissal creates a terrible sense of isolation in which high-achievers quickly learn that their struggles will not be taken seriously.

Misunderstanding Resilience

There is also a misguided understanding of resilience. Indeed, many of us do exhibit herculean feats of resilience against adversity, fighting storms of life that threaten to overwhelm us, but something inside refuses to give. Belief, faith, grit, or sheer guts: we are bowed but not broken, attacked but never defeated. We become the narrative of possibilities that once seemed insurmountable.

Yet this very resilience can become a trap. High-achievers are often driven by perfectionism, a relentless internal standard that demands excellence in all things. Mental illness does not respond to willpower or determination in the way that professional challenges do.

You cannot work harder to overcome depression. You cannot manoeuvre your way out of bipolar disorder. For someone whose identity is built on achievement and competence, seeking help feels like failure, an admission that you are not as capable as you believed yourself to be.

Recent Tragedies

Two stories in recent times have got me thinking that many mental health struggles are barely addressed or are given the stiff-upper-lip treatment of “you'll pull through as you always do”. We give just enough space not to interfere, and then the news drops: those stalwarts of stoicism, or what appeared to be that, have taken their own lives.

Robert Carradine, 71, died by hanging last week; he had been diagnosed with bipolar disorder. I am in South Africa, and I have just read the news that Ian von Memerty, 61, who was Zimbabwe-born and a South African entertainer who hosted some popular television shows, had died by his own hand in Johannesburg. He had long written about the desire to take his own life.

The Reality Behind Success

None of this brings any comfort because these are successful men who had tasted the kinds of worldly success that many could not even dare to dream of, and yet it is their demons that have driven them beyond the edge of despair to suicide. The fact that these men are quite close to my age range also indicates that you probably do not grow out of the things that ail you.

Success often brings its own form of isolation. As you rise in your field, the pool of people who can truly understand your experience shrinks. Your old friends may feel the distance growing. Your new peers may be competitors rather than confidants.

The high-achiever becomes trapped in a gilded cage, surrounded by admirers but profoundly alone. This loneliness compounds mental health struggles, leaving fewer people to turn to, fewer spaces where vulnerability is possible, and fewer relationships where you are seen as a whole person rather than as your achievements.

There are also practical fears that make seeking help feel dangerous. Will your employer question your ability to perform? Will clients lose confidence in you? Will colleagues see you differently?

Despite progress in mental health awareness, significant stigma remains in professional environments. For high-achievers whose identities are deeply intertwined with their professional success, the risk feels existential.

When the System Fails You

Moreover, even when they overcome these barriers and seek help, they often find the available support inadequate for their specific needs. Therapists may struggle to understand the unique pressures of high achievement: the constant scrutiny, the isolation that comes with leadership, the weight of others' expectations.

The two times I have used therapy, because I presented none of the symptoms of depression, suicide, or a mental health crisis, it was felt I was trying to abuse the service. Yet, I had a compelling narrative. I was recovering from cancer, mounting debt meant I was about to lose my home, and my status was rock bottom.

Surely, with such a catastrophic change in life, I was a candidate for therapy. I guess because I had a modicum of coping mechanisms and I was too articulate for my situation, only shocking assertiveness could pierce into the needed support framework.

The scheduling demands of high-achievement careers often conflict with traditional therapy models, yet their chaotic schedules are often part of what is driving their mental health crisis.

Bridging the Gap

It is impossible to tell how much help, consideration, or support Carradine and von Memerty got through their struggles. For their survivors, bridging the gap between the sorrow they feel and appreciating the release that death brought to the suffering of their beloved ones is something you cannot begin to fathom.

Perhaps the most fundamental challenge is the myth of self-sufficiency that high-achievers internalise. They have succeeded through determination, intelligence, and hard work. This creates a belief that they should be able to handle anything, including their own mental health.

Cultural narratives about success emphasise individual agency and resilience, celebrating the self-made person who refused to give up or give in. These narratives leave little room for vulnerability, little space for acknowledging that sometimes, despite all your strength and capability, you need help.

A Personal Reflection

Even with my encounters with suicidal ideation, which I have written about as recently as a month ago, my only prayer still is never to be presented with no other option but to end it all. This is not said from any position of strength, ability, or capacity; rather, it is a recognition of human frailty and vulnerability. We are faced daily with a spectrum of mortality, but for the grace of God, there go we.

Addressing these challenges requires a fundamental shift in how we think about success and mental health. We need to recognise that achievement does not immunise against suffering, that success can indeed be part of what drives mental health crises rather than protecting against them. Until we can create space for high-achievers to be vulnerable, to admit to struggling, to seek help without fear of judgement or professional consequences, we will continue to lose talented, accomplished people to the silent epidemic of mental illness.

The deaths of people like Robert Carradine and Ian von Memerty should serve as a stark reminder that success is no protection against despair. The answer is that success and suffering are not opposites. They can, and often do, coexist. Recognising this uncomfortable truth is the first step towards ensuring that achievement does not become a prison from which the only escape seems to be death.

May their once-bothered souls rest in eternal peace.

Blog - Suicide When Academia Forgets Its Humanity (January 2026)

Blog - Thought Picnic: I think I need therapy (March 2011)

A Google NotebookLM AI Audio Overview Discussion of this blog

Suicide When Academia Forgets Its Humanity

A Life Lost to Bureaucracy

I just read of a young medical student at the University of Birmingham who took his own life after failing a resit examination. By email, he was advised that he would have to exit the course.

What seemed like a simple administrative activity delivered by email by the University of Birmingham was, in fact, the end of the road for this young soul. He saw no other options left.

The Failure of Pastoral Care

It could not have been too difficult to invite this young man into a student affairs office or a dean's office to ascertain why he struggled to pass one resit examination when his other results met the mark.

Having invested life and purpose in a medical degree programme, surely, despite whatever rules were in place, no one, especially in an academic environment, should be oblivious to the considerable mental strain of effort not being rewarded with some recognition.

As per the narrative in the news, on that alone, I would suggest the University of Birmingham has been remiss in a core responsibility for student welfare that is quite unforgivable.

The Whisper of Despair

Then, whilst I cannot ascertain the facts of what the triggers for suicide and death by misadventure could be, I know there are times I have harboured suicidal thoughts.

I lived on the seventh floor in a swanky apartment in Amsterdam. As the long tail of cancer wagged ferociously with the loss of health, status, means and wherewithal, from the full-length windows in my living room, a voice whispered: Jump!

It could have ended things suddenly, without having to live through further adversity and privation that has become part of my story. My hesitation came from the desire to tell a better story.

When Platitudes Become Cruelty

In the comments that followed the sad news, there were many statements in the theme of, "Suicide is not the answer."

Reading all that left me quite incensed, and hence this blog, because that only works when counselling those exhibiting suicide ideation. It is unfeelingly cold and wicked to suggest that after the suicide has been committed.

My prayer is that those who appear to have the answer are not met with such overwhelming circumstances that no other option is presented in their predicament except for suicide.

The Fragility of Humanity

The fragility of our humanity is sometimes not understood without a personal encounter of indeterminable consequence. Even my two encounters with life-threatening cancer do not furnish me with the audacity to question the mental state of another when met with a wall of adversity that presents no hope or respite.

In many cases, people do need a different kind of confidante, before whom no wrong would be imputed against them. They are the warm embrace of succour and comfort, shining light into the darkness to see a path in life even when failure has snatched a prospect from reach.

A Lost Opportunity

I recall a saying that has stood with me from an uncle, way back in 1980, he said, "An opportunity once lost can be regained after a temporary setback."

I'm saddened the young man saw no further opportunities. May Phil Moyo's soul rest in peace, and his family and friends be comforted by the fond memories of his remarkable life.

A Google NotebookLM AI Audio Overview Discussion of this blog

Trains, bloodstains, and brains

A deathly train smash

You are always trying to figure out what persuades people to bring it all to an end. Our sorrowfully sympathetic inclination is then put upon by the public stage they have adopted to bring the screaming crescendo of existence to the deafening silence of an ignominious end on a busy intercity railway line.

You do wonder if this was deliberate, a murder perhaps, or an accident. Only some days before, the transport police published a YouTube video of a near miss at a railway crossing.

A pedestrian in a pique of nonsensical urgency had clambered over the lowered barrier gate, ignoring the flashing lights or the siren to cross and be on their way. Just as a speeding train missed sending him splattering into oblivion.

Easy living interrupted

Over an hour's wait of being detained on our train at Milton Keynes Central railway station, we were told that the remains and quite likely in many places had been removed and we might soon be proceeding to London having enjoyed the train company's generosity of a free bottle of still water.

You cannot be left in any doubt, that the incident of a human being impeding a fast-moving train is almost always irrecoverable. The definiteness of being a goner is as sure as the going is quite gone that we can agree the person is totally gone.

In the aftermath of it

We may never know the name of this victim of seemingly untenable circumstances that defy understanding. That we are caught in this temporary delay for the eternal departure of another should neither be seen as selfish nor selfless, for but the grace of God go we.

There may be regrets as there might be mourning. The emergency services attending another gruesome sight that might haunt or leave them inured, after witnessing similar tragic endings and cleanups.

As we pray for the repose of the soul of the too swiftly despatched, may journey mercies attend us to our destinations.

Life can be a fleeting thing, O that we may have the joy of living to be thankful regardless of what experiences we have had. I arrived safely over 2 hours behind schedule, I am grateful for life, security, safety, and hope.

Being a present ear to listen

They come out of the blue

Sometimes, a stranger approaches you with a conversation about personal things that pertain to life and death. You never know what attracted you to them, but they lose all inhibitions and somehow find trust in the confidence of strangers.

The conversation starts easily as they attempt to gauge what kind of person you are. I have always tried to be courteous, respectful, and listening, with no idea if I can be helpful or not. The initial exchanges set the tone and they soon begin to unburden themselves.

Create new perspectives

One such encounter yesterday had a promising young man ready to take his own life because the relationship with his husband had broken down. It was a difficult issue, and rather than call the Samaritans he chose a random stranger he presumed looked mature and could be understanding of his dilemma.

You can be tempted to tell someone on the verge of suicide not to do it or assert the wrongness of that choice, but I have rarely been persuaded of that tack. Rather, I try to set new perspectives, drawing on my life stories of adversity and loss which at the time looked like there was no way out, the passage of time has made them into stories, told freely with many lessons of life learnt.

We live for a better story

In one last appeal to him, I said, we need to be around and living to get the opportunity to tell a better story beyond the betrayals, the tragedies, the pain, the adversity, the loss and much else. We must ask ourselves, how do we want our stories to end, if told by someone else? It was my hope that something out of our conversation might have gotten through to him to set him on a different course of action.

As it appears, I may never know what he ended up doing, I did not know his name, he was a young black gay man who was married for three years and the promiscuity of his husband had broken him to the extent that he wanted to end it all. When I checked this morning, our conversation had disappeared and with it, every trace of what might have been done in the heat of the moment or the cool of the night. In my heart of hearts, I hope he did not do anything harmful or terminal, I just wonder. May peace rule in his heart, his mind, and his life.

Thought Picnic: I did not know I was clinically depressed

The foundations of woe

The so many ways I have been blessed and fortunate sometimes escapes my recollection and the constant need for expressing gratitude.

Having been brought up in an environment where everything was seen in terms of the supernatural, the spiritual, the paranormal and fates over which we had little control than to be in fearful supplication to deities that hardly be bothered with our pleadings because we had not flagellated ourselves enough to be worthy of a hearing. The psychological damage had the strongest foundations to build upon.

The result was fear, foreboding and premonitions, visions and apparitions of things that defy logical explanation, yet, were as real as they could be to one as the principal agent and victim of that circumstance.

Between critique and criticism

A constant questioning of one’s sanity not helped by the reasoning that was projected on my person as being slow, sometimes unsighted, probably dishonest and hardly reflective. None of this was helped by those who found opportunity and latitude to take sexual favours off me from childhood and the absence of someone in whom to confide in about my fears.

My fears as I would learn were signs of weakness, a feeblemindedness that needed a stricter and harder way of life from the simplicity of ease in my home. A boarding school beckoned and away I was from that presumed safety and left at the whim of tortuous cruelty to which I needed to adapt lest I be bullied more than I had the capacity to endure.

Beyond that, I was a bed-wetter, at a time when it was not considered a psychological issue, but one in which I lack self-control or discipline. The antidote it was to shame and to ridicule me, all of which I absorbed because I was the problem. For the first two years of boarding school, my mattress was given a daily airing in the sun, just as was the case for two other classmates.

The things I saw that none believed

It all came to a head, first at home when I thought the monstrous thing I saw twice in one night was the devil, having been primed earlier in the day with tales of horror. My experience was dismissed as excited exuberance and my life became the recitation of Psalms in a language I could hardly speak over cups of water to drink or buckets of water to take a bath.

From prophets to shamans, I found myself in hovels and grottoes, prognosticators, seers, mediums and sages, saw evils and perils ahead for which we needed to appease gods and God, none of which helped my psychological wellbeing.

I did not know I was depressed

It is only recently that I have been able to reflect on the fact that my late childhood into my teenage years' presented classic symptoms of untreated clinical depression. Irrational fears, sinking feelings and waves of terror that greeted my sighting our house from the beginning of the street that led to it. I could not explain it, but it was there, a burden, a weight, an unease and utter discomfort that I just pressed up against as other unhealthy habits and acts began to characterise my personality.

The times I attended lectures and could not for the life of me appreciate why or what I was in class for. The culmination of which was five wasted years of tertiary education, for what I had in mental capacity was nowhere near able to overcome the psychological stresses I was under, conveniently dismissed as lazy on the one hand and me not pulling my weight.

I just muddled through day after day until a sudden decision by my father to work the demons out of me at his flailing farm led to my running away from home. It probably was my saving grace, because the pressure in my chest lifted, but I could see no future yet.

A new lease of freedom

Then, in my darkest hour, my aunt invited me to stay with them, then, rather than press me into their way of life and belief systems, I was given the latitude to explore, to breathe, to grow, to assert and to thrive. That led to the rebuilding of everything that I had lost, the full force of facing my failures and having at the back of my mind that opportunities once lost can be regained, albeit after a temporary setback.

I have not even touched on the compounding issue of addressing, understanding and accepting my sexuality. That, I have borne as a refrain and undercurrent of my life since as early as seven.

I just coped and not out of ability

Depression presented itself too many ways that maybe the Psalms, the prayers, the rituals and much else helped me survive, even if I doubt I was ever free from its effects. The coping mechanisms were a kind of stiff upper lip stoicism, reserves of resilience I never could account for, or a sense of independence or even inviolability or invulnerability left me exposed to situations where I had a false sense of security.

Schooled on the idea that only the weak needed therapy, it was not until a few months before I was struck down with cancer, I had just survived a bout of shingles that discussing all the feelings and apprehensions I had with a neighbour with a career in medical sciences posited that these were signs of depression.

Things I left undone

I gave it no further thought as I ended up in the hospital and traversed a course of five days from denial that my life was in grave danger to the acceptance that whatever danger was presented, there was a possibility of a future beyond this. It meant that when a prognosis was given that I probably only had five weeks to live if I did not tolerate the treatment, I was more in hope than despair that I would see it through.

The fact that I had left this existential threat almost too late to be attended to might have in another setting drawn excoriation and rebuke, I was fortunate to have sympathetic and determined medical personnel supporting me through the ordeal.

How my personality attacked me

As I began the course of treatment, the way I presented gave the false impression that all I needed for the medical intervention, it took demanding a psychological attention to my situation before I was recommended for therapy and psychiatric counselling. My case was, having suffered a catastrophic loss in health, wealth, well-being, status, comforts and on the verge of losing my house, there was no other indicator needed to describe my need for urgent psychiatric help.

My medication presented other issues and side effects, diarrhoea, insomnia and occasional claustrophobia acute in vivid dreams and once experience that had I not resisted stepping out of my apartment, I would never have returned to that safety and enclosure ever again.

I did not present the classic signs or the way the questions were asked of me suggested I needed no help, yet, I felt just the opportunity to talk to a professional was more than necessary before I lost my mind. The bills were mounting, creditors were threatening and there were no easy solutions in the midst of undergoing chemotherapy, the loss of two close friends and no clear future prospects beyond surviving cancer.

The terror of suicidal thoughts

Then I was terrorised with a crazy thought, I lived on the 7^th floor of an apartment block, my windows were tall and apart from a single bar at the lower end, I could step out. I had visions of stepping out and flying, then knowing I could not fly, a playback recurred of my body splayed out dead on the tarmac below. It haunted me many times, but something kept me from carrying it through.

I had a story and I did not want it to end in that way, there were enough tragedies and misfortunes swirling around than for my life to culminate in that, I never talked about it to anyone. I am just glad that the thoughts never got to the point that they overwhelmed my reasoning. I found times to cry, probably not to regret, I embraced my humanity and vulnerability and comforted myself with thoughts that things will eventually turn for the better.

I found the support that pulled me through

None of this would have been possible without help; medical, psychological, in friends, in neighbours, in lovers, in my faith, in hope, in God. I was not invincible, I never was, I just by fortune beyond what I probably deserve found peace with myself, an acceptance of who I am and an accommodation for the frailties and failures that have become part of the story of the successes and victories in life that I also celebrate.

As I think of life and also think of death; I hope that as long as I live, I continue to love life whilst not living in the fear of death.

Thought Picnic: When suicide was guest at mine

All space gone

I woke in the witching hour and suddenly felt my room was too small for me, so I moved into my living room which leads into my kitchen, a total of over 50 square metres and the walls appeared to close in on me.

As I began to lose my options and my choices, the thought crossed my mind that I should leave my home, but another voice cautioned that if I did step out of my apartment, I would never return, I was being overwhelmed by a sense of claustrophobia that it was stifling.

At that point, I did the only thing I knew to do, to call on my faith to rescue me from this situation as I had called on my faith a few months before, when my doctor gave me the choice of 5 weeks to live or recovery, depending on how I tolerated the treatment.

Alone in my home, I began to say, “Jesus you’re my space, in you I am free.” I did not believe it at first, but I kept at it until I calmed down and with exhaustion I collapsed and rested sleeping on the carpet in my living room that night. My home was my sanctuary, it was my stronghold, I had lived in it for just over 8 years and it was where I yearned to return to when I left hospital after being suddenly hospitalised for 18 days.

Stripped of all

Yet, my home presented other dangers, some that crossed my mind not as suicidal thoughts but as possibilities I could explore to a conclusion and to an end.

Yes, cancer stripped me of everything, from my health to my wealth, from my status to my standing, from my home and my security, it played with my sanity and my confidence, I could not pretend something about life was not happening to me.

To my consultant, I appeared a lucid, eloquent and well-adjusted man, seemingly taking the knocks without appearing knocked about, but I had mastered the stiff upper lip that the quavering lower lip was literally invisible.

The therapy of talking

People who had come through catastrophic loss due to ill-health were usually referred for psychiatric support, counselling and therapy to deal with what I eventually termed the long tail of cancer. I did not appear a typical candidate because I did not present the symptoms of depression, discouragement, despair, despondency or looming death, I had come to acceptance of the fact that life after cancer was going to be difficult and I had to live through it.

Eventually, I had to speak up, in fact, I was close to breaking down when I told my consultant, I needed therapy. The psychologist did an assessment and thought I was fine, but I wasn’t, I needed to talk, talk to someone who could help me unravel the turmoil, the conflicts, the self-doubts and other things I did not understand.

We adopted a freeform discussion format as the risk of losing my home came closer by the month.

I had used the crude catharsis of writing to vent my spleen, speak my thoughts, expiate the hurt and much else, but it was not enough.

Windows to flight

My living room and kitchen had much light, the windows were big and went from one side to the other with very little walls between the panes.

I could open the windows of my 7^th floor apartment and breathe in the air that came from the harbours of IJHaven and ErstHaven in Amsterdam East, sometimes I entertained a thought, a crazy thought, one of possibility in the impossibilities that define us as men. I began to believe I could fly, yet another voice would tell me, it would be my last flight and the end of it would be unsightly.

Yet, I had many reasons to think this way if I dwelt on where I have been, what I have done and things I have experienced. I was saved from the crushing blow of “Why me?” more times than I could care to mention.

Looking for a better story

Deep within me was a story I wanted to tell and each time I wrote a story, many of which make up my blog of over 10 and half years I have desired so earnestly that wherever my story ends, I hope it ends well.

I have never understood suicide, but it crossed my mind as a means to an end, much as I never understood pain until I felt the pain of cancer through 4 strong painkilling drugs that all I could do was laugh myself into delirium to ease the pain.

What it taught me was there is pain there no one can understand, that can never be described, but it is real to the individual and it can drive that person so compellingly that nothing else matters but that moment.

That becomes my daily prayer, never to ever get to a point where I have no other choice but the one to end it all. That is the reality of mental illness and God help us find the help to see beyond the now to a brighter day.

Nigeria: Suicides, bad journalism and mental health

Feeds to the fed-up

Since Google Reader died I have used Feedly as my RSS aggregator which allows me to catch-up with blogs, news stories and events.

I take feeds from six Nigerian newspapers, and I might add a few more as I get used to their material and their reporting slant.

However, this afternoon I was left befuddled as I vacillated between utter disgust and incandescent rage.

Rotten journalism

PM News Nigeria published a piece about suicides being on the rise, and that is already a big problem if our youth are now resorting to taking their lives for whatever reasons around situation, circumstance or state of mind.

Journalism in Nigeria just hit a new low, well beneath the unprofessionalism of yellow journalism, absent proofreading or poor copy.

The news story PM News Nigeria published did not warn of the graphic images they attached to their report; one picture showed a boy on a slab, and as if that was not bad enough, there was another of the boy hanging from a noose. [I will not perpetrate this evil by providing a link to the story.]

This level of insensitivity that subscribes to the macabre and savage depiction is contemptuous, we must repudiate this in the strongest terms; it is odium in the extreme.

Mental illness and suicides

We could relate suicides to mental health or emotional issues, and we do not seem to understand that well in our culture; hence, we are unable to find ways to ameliorate the issue before it comes intractable.

Societal and cultural pressures elevating anxiety or creating depression all bottled up leaves a pressure cooker situation that presents suicide as the only pressure valve outlet.

These issues considering our obtuse religiosity are not just spiritual to be tackled with prayer and holy water. The public needs to be aware of psychological and psychiatric care for everyday problems.

The stigma associated with handling mental health issues looms large, we assume only ‘mad’ people or lunatics see psychiatrists. Education, information and enlightenment is necessary.

Therapy is key

I am of the opinion that we all need therapy at some stage of our lives, we must not confuse therapy with counselling, and qualified professionals should handle these issues.

The other issue with these suicides is whether these are really suicides or murders rigged up as suicides.

The question is whether we have the detection, medical examination or forensic expertise to determine the differences and the wherewithal to pursue these cases to the logical and just conclusion.

Could this be murder?

We cannot just assume suicides are the end of the story, there should be thorough investigations of the circumstances to ascertain the whys and determine the possible local suicide risks that might exhibit the vulnerabilities that presage these tragic events.

I hope PM News Nigeria and other journaling organisations or people will recognise that pandering to the basest instincts of feeding the public with the macabre is irresponsible at best, words fail me in describing the extreme that this represents.

May the souls of the unfortunately departed rest in peace and may their survivors find strength and fortitude to bear their losses.

Thought Picnic: Finding significance in our shared humanity

A multi-cultural person

I always find myself at the point where cultures conflict though it is not as obvious as it is for those of mixed race ethnicity.

However, I am grateful that the conflict is externalised rather than internalised but difference is accentuated in voice and reasoning, I will not give up either to conform because the wonder of being a product of the influence of many cultures is that rather than get pigeon-holed, you don't get placed, categorised or judged too harshly if you refuse to be subsumed into a dominant cultural experience.

The inspiration of circumstance

Why have I started this blog in this way? I just read of a second suicide of a university student in Nigeria that no one could attribute to anything – the stories concerning the two young men who took their lives are sketchy and peripheral and knowing how the dominant cultural expression thinks, it is unlikely that anyone will get to the bottom of why presumably promising, quiet and academically able young men will take their lives.

Now, this is where my difference is, I was born an Englishman, it has a strong imprint, part of my formative years were spent in Nigeria amongst people who were not on my tribe and culture and then my late teens were spent in the potpourri of diversity that you will find in post-secondary education.

Proud of all influences

I only had to speak and my accent betrayed a difference but when my dad said, I have always thought like a Westerner and my brother suggested I was not really one of the rest, though my sense of belonging was challenged the innate ability to adapt and thrive wherever I have lived has stood me in really good stead, I belong where I choose to belong.

Roughly, I have spent a third of my life in England, Nigeria and the Netherlands respectively, all with much that has influenced my outlook to life and the most important one for me is to be more understanding of people, their circumstances, their decisions, their persuasions and their sometimes unfortunate judgements that fuel moralising, sententiousness and intemperate attitudes.

Understanding matters

Again, we may never understand why those young men took their lives but knowing what I know now about many things that I have experienced and observed of our societies, we will need to tackle some taboo subjects to appreciate these issues better.

I remember too many instances where what I needed was just some care and understanding when I faced some psychologically threatening issues but the circumstances real as they were to me were dismissed with frivolity that you internalised turmoil and found some sort of attitude adjustment – solutions are not easy to come by.

Have I ever contemplated suicide? I have and many times, times when you hoped the ground will open up and swallow you than face a situation, the wrath or live through a circumstance because you were badly behaved, you had been violated, you were threatened or you were not performing as expected of you – I read a comment accompanying the news of the suicide – “Everything will fail you, but Jesus never fails. Try him today.”

Walk a yard in my shoes

Such hit-and-run philosophical musings are hardly helpful, as we approach the Christian Easter, we should remember that the Apostle Peter in the most trying times of his followership of Jesus Christ denied his master thrice and his master was not even dead yet, nor must we forget that Judas Iscariot was as much an apostle chosen amongst men who saw all that deeds and heard all the words and still he committed suicide.

We sometimes believe we know all things though many have hardly walked a yard in the shoes of another nor are we the embodiment of the total experiences of the many that we see around us. If we all told our stories to the detail necessary to sympathise or maybe even dare to empathise if we could, we would realise that the second, third or fourth man from us has probably seen more of life than we could ever have the capacity to face that we would faint at a fraction of what they have faced.

Good Samaritan aspiration

I wrote yesterday that I do not want to be a better Christian, I would rather be just a good Samaritan, there is much to that realisation. It is commonly said that we judge others by their actions and ourselves by our good intentions.

The Good Samaritan matched his good intentions with his actions, he dug deep into his humanity putting himself in the state of the wounded stranger and doing all he could do to help that stranger than the more religious people who left the stranger for dead.

I dare say that the more religion we profess, the more likely we would leave people for dead, judge their actions, find reason to castigate them, give foundation to our prejudices and boldly expound on our bigotries.

Let your humanity show through

The core of humanity is a different thing, it is not subject to any belief system it is just the heart connecting to that of another thinking this simple thing – If I were met with the circumstances the other person is in, what will I do and what will I hope others will do for me?

Our society suffering the turmoil of negativity of abuse, expectations, criticism, dangers, threats, mistakes and much else piles on pressures that the simplicity of words will not assuage, it is  involvement, engagement, listening, touching, hugging, understanding that some people need to see beyond their clouds – before you so readily judge and condemn, be aware that that invincible and inviolable man within you might just in the right theatre be like the person we have suddenly rubbished, excoriated and condemned with disinterest and indifference thinking we are being helpful.

In all that I have written here, I have not even begun to tackle the issues that I had to mind when I started this blog, let us read this as an introduction, there is much to talk about on these suicides – if anything, just say a prayer for anyone you have until now been unable to bless for reasons of your religious beliefs without which you might have been more understanding.

Nigeria: Torture defended as standard police procedure

The rickety stool of the hamlet

With the way every nonentity incapable of achieving peer-reviewed and internationally recognised titles borne of the dint of cranial-matter exertion, I was not too worried about the title of heir apparent.

The number of frogs that are princes and ugly ducklings that are princesses in Nigeria has cheapened the idea of being titled that plain formal address as Mr, Ms, Mrs or academic titles seem to be more respectable without the baggage of being tagged a crook.

The issue here was that an heir apparent to the rickety stool at a hamlet in a backwater of Yorubaland had come to nought in police custody [1] having gone there to report a robbery. Mercifully given to hyperbole, the copywriter assumed every community title had a throne.

Suspicious of reporting a crime

The search for justice in Nigeria is a difficult one; in fact, the search for a police force that acts anything like a civilised and professional service in Nigeria is fraught with danger where any contact with the police could lead to the loss of life.

The man, mechanic having notice that his workshop had been burgled called on a scion of the mechanics community and with him went to report the burglary to the police. He had this witness to forestall a situation where the police would have acted funny, but it made no difference.

Unbeknownst to him, his boss had already reported the matter to the police, strangely the police did not go out to investigate or gather clues as to the matter, it just went into file.

As the man reported the burglary, the other report came out of the file and though one cannot say what the boss had reported, the man was arrested.

Of guilt and innocence by sides

The shocking revelation but everyday reality with the Nigerian Police is that the plaintiff or accuser is always considered innocent and the defendant is automatically considered guilty with the full force of unlawful restraint visited on the person without interrogation.

In fact, for plaintiff, read first mover, richer person, influential community leader or an influence peddler – a plaintiff is not so much a complainant seeking redress, rather it is someone seeking to oppress with menace in such a way that the person on the receiving end is taught a lesson regardless of the person’s innocence or guilt.

Committed suicide by himself

Somehow, this man in police custody for 48 hours suddenly died – or as Divisional Police Officer Ben Osuji averred, Dauda Najeem had committed suicide by himself in the cell.

I am a bit confused by that construction, if he did commit suicide, it by implication means he did it himself, but when by himself is added for emphasis, I suspect the suicide might also have been assisted – when this happens in police custody, it is an extra-judicial killing, a murder by the authorities and someone needs to get to the bottom of the case.

Somehow, if Mr. Najeem had committed suicide by hanging, even the police should have a Polaroid camera to record the scene of the hanging as the first course of action on discovery of the man.

The impunity of glaring police negligence

So many things are amiss in this situation, the police were supposed to conduct hourly checks on the cells and in fact monitor those who might be susceptible to self-harm. Somehow, Mr. Najeem could not have been suicidal; he was overjoyed at the arrival of his new son, his close-knit family seem to be quite integral to his life and as the only son was the heir-apparent.

The police were not as forthcoming as they should be in circumstance of serious public interest and concern as the head of the state Criminal Investigation Department offered as much information as to say that only the Commissioner of Police could ask him questions about the case.

It leaves one wondering if there is any accountability of law enforcement in a democracy in the first instance and if law enforcement really realises that their existence depends on confidence that the public has in their ability to enforce law and order as well as serve as the first port of call for complain and conflict resolution.

Humiliation, not a justice function

There is no indication as to how the man hanged himself apart from the reference that the man was in his trousers, hopefully that is always the case, there is no reason to completely denigrate and humiliate a man because he is a suspect.

Even so, if the man is charged and arraigned before a court where due process is followed; the sentence meted out should be punishment fit for the crime, if it causes humiliation it should be a matter of how the punished has reacted to the punishment, it is not the function of the courts to create the moral context for humiliating redress.

TORTURE!

However, it would appear we are closer to the truth about the cause of death when a word creeps into the story – TORTURE. Apparently, torture is the main means of extracting information from suspects in the Nigerian Police Force – this really makes you sick.

I can only quote verbatim the opinion of a top police officer who spoke on condition of anonymity. “Torture would continue to be a weapon for extracting information from suspects as long as modern high technology investigative gadgets were not provided to the police.”

He goes on to say, “We have no tools. In as much as we are not sorcerers, there is no way we could unravel many cases without the use of torture. Look at the type of gadgets used by European and American detectives. The efficiency of their police dissuades criminally-minded people from committing crime because they know they will be caught. And when suspects are caught, they quickly own up because they know that the police will get to the root of the crime.”

Flawed criminal investigation ideas

Where do I begin to break down this flawed philosophy of criminal investigation?

I do wonder if the modern high technology investigative gadgets alluded to are basic detective work with the use of common sense and deduction, fundamental forensics or thumbscrews.

Maybe lie detectors could be useful but you need good questions to arrive at some useful answers but they cannot be the basis of case argued beyond reasonable doubt.

I would agree that the police are not sorcerers, clairvoyants or seers, but if the replacement for detective and investigative work is condensed to torture as a means of solving cases, nothing could be as uncivilised and barbaric as to have that as a fundamental criminal investigation procedure.

A fallacy and a fantasy

The assertion that the efficiency of the police dissuades criminally-minded people is a fallacy if I ever heard one – but this is typically Nigerian where supposedly knowledgeable people make unsupportable statements about some view abroad and use that as a basis of unchallengeable authority.

Since people do not bother to check the facts or ascertain the veracity of such outlandish statements those views are taken as gospel truth and they become part of the accepted body of Nigerian knowledge.

When suspects are caught, they quickly own up? Not in the Europe I live in and not in the America that I have read about – it makes you wonder what constitutes the curriculum of our police forces and where these myths of policing and crime resolution come from.

I would contend these people need no tools or gadgets, if you cannot use basic commonsense and deduction to research a situation you definitely cannot move on to the sophistication of some tools which presumably are supposed to extract the truth without causing pain.

Torture cannot elicit the truth in truth

What baffles me more is the notion that torture, the inflicting of pain can elicit the truth about a situation. Supposedly the police have not cottoned on the idea that a person might just admit to anything in the natural tendency for self-preservation.

This obviously does not take into account the possibility that the administration of torture can be quite suggestive by compelling the person to affirm what the police wants to be affirms to clear up their case work though not necessarily solve the crime.

The lack of finesse in such heinous activities which seem to have no limits lead the victim suspects to a point of expiration that is beyond medical help, the perpetrators then attempt to walk away from their crimes with the claim that the suspect committed suicide.

Record the torture as evidence

In fact, if torture should really be a tool for crime resolution, the whole truth extraction process should be available to the crime and punishment system. Complete audio and video recordings must be made available to the defence and the jury, the police who use torture cannot be allowed to present their cases as objective if the means by which they have obtained evidence is so subjective.

Subjective evidence acquisition should suffer wider scrutiny for others to judge not the case in as much as the animals that are paid to police but resort to such abhorrent methods.

No evidence obtained under torture should be admissible in any court anywhere in the world and definitely not in a democracy. We might well take riffraff off the streets and inculcate them in the police if there is no art, science, methodology and reviewable counsel to the work of criminal investigation.

I have no confidence

Unfortunately, I have no confidence in the police hierarchy to pursue to satisfactory conclusion the need to assure the right to life and the preservation of human rights such that civil means are employed to gather evidence.

Neither am I confident that this would be the last death in police custody attributed to suicide when it is almost definitely a torture-induced murder and that impunity would continue as the police lives up to its despicable malevolent moniker of ‘Torture Chambers’.

May Dauda Najeem rest in peace and if there is any justice in this world, those responsible for his death through commission, omission or negligence must be brought to book and made to pay a very heavy price.

Source

[1] The Punch: Controversy trails heir apparent’s death in detention