In the swelling public discussions around mental health and suicide prevention in Kenya, there is one group whose voices are rarely heard. These are not the survivors of suicide attempts, but the family and friends forced to live in the aftermath of loss.
They are the ones left to hold grief that is not only deep but also burdened by shame, silence and unanswerable questions.
They ask themselves what they missed, what they could have done differently, and why the person they loved chose to go as they did.
Often, these questions have no answer. What remains is trauma and silence.
For Ann Wanjiku, better known as Beccah on social media, the trauma came early and without warning.
Beccah was born and raised in Kinoo, Kiambu county. She was a child when her older sister died by suicide, right in front of her, while they were playing.
HOW IT HAPPENED
Her voice drops when she recalls the moment, her words still coated in disbelief after all these years.
“I didn’t even know what was happening. We were playing, and then suddenly she was hanging,” she says.
“At first, she was moving, flinching, trying to speak. I was calling her name. She couldn’t talk.”
What followed was not immediate help but a wave of confusion. She screamed for assistance and ran to find adults. People came, but no one stepped forward. The crowd stood frozen.
Her other sister rushed to try and help, but she was stopped by those around them.
“She was still alive,” Beccah says. “People came, but they just watched. No one moved closer. They said only police can bring her down.”
The police did not arrive until the next morning. They asked her questions, despite her being underage. After that, they left.
There was no return, no follow-up, no visit from a counsellor or teacher. Beccah was never offered professional help. She went back to school, where the world around her had changed.
“I went back to school and people treated me like I was different. Like I was cursed,” she says.
“I started daydreaming to escape. I didn’t want to be in the real world.”
No one told her what had happened, why it happened or what it meant. No adult took the time to sit down with her and explain how to carry such a heavy grief.
Her trauma simply followed her from childhood into adulthood, unnamed and unattended.
HAUNTED BY PAST
Now 25 and a single mother of two, Beccah is beginning to speak publicly about her experience.
On social media, she shares parts of her story, not just to process her own pain but also to reach others who may be carrying similar burdens in silence.
“I realised that hiding it was scarier than talking about it,” she says. “I had to let go of the people-pleasing, the smiling-through-it-all version of me. That side had to die.”
But trauma does not fade just because it’s been named. It creeps into everyday life in unexpected ways.
For Beccah, it shows up when her own children are playing outside.
“Even now, I don’t like seeing my children playing under trees or with ropes,” she says.
“It gives me anxiety. I know they’re just playing, but those images come back. It’s hard to breathe when I see it. I start to panic and tell them to stop.”
These triggers are constant reminders of the day her sister died. What should be ordinary moments of children laughing, climbing and imagining, instead turn into sharp echoes of her own childhood trauma. She tries to appear calm, but inside, she’s reliving a nightmare.
“It feels like a shadow following me,” she says. “I want them to play and be happy, but that fear, that image, it’s always there.”
SEEKING ANSWERS
Across the country in Gatundu North, Elizabeth Kariuki, 50, and her husband Paul Kariuki, 75, live with a different kind of silence.
On March 29, 2017, their son Michael died by suicide after ingesting livestock medicine. There was no note, no warning, no signs that anything was wrong.
“He was fine that day,” Elizabeth says, her voice hushed. “He had supper with us. Laughed with his siblings. Then the next morning, we found him already gone.”
Paul speaks slowly, like the words still weigh heavily on his chest. “It’s like a storm hit us in the night and disappeared before we could ask it what it wanted.”
Michael had five siblings and loving parents. There was no visible struggle. Even after years of prayer, reflection and grief, the family has no clearer understanding of why he did it.
“We don’t believe in therapy,” Paul says. “But we believe in God. He’s the only one who knows what was in Michael’s heart.”
They’ve tried to move forward but the grief is not just personal, it’s social. In their village, they feel the stares and the silence. Some neighbours whisper. Others keep their distance.
“You feel the difference. Like we carry a mark we didn’t choose.” Elizabeth says.
Their other children are also trying to live normal lives, but it’s difficult when the past is never far away.
Paul says they encourage them to be strong and pray. But both parents know faith is not a cure for pain.
They mentioned that the one question they have always wanted an answer to is why their son did it. An answer no one can give them.
“Strength doesn’t mean the pain is gone,” Paul says. “It just means we keep going.”
What links these stories is not only the tragedy of suicide but also the silence that surrounds it. Silence in families. Silence in communities. Silence in institutions.
Beccah says she has never truly sat down with her mother or her other sister to talk about what happened.
“Maybe we’re all scared to open that door,” she says. “Because, what if it’s too much to handle?”
She wishes someone had asked her, as a child, if she was okay. She wishes her sister had been allowed to help that day. She wishes people had known what to do.
That’s why she believes suicide prevention must go beyond social media campaigns and hotline posters.
It must live in schools, in homes, in churches and police stations. It must include community education, not just crisis intervention.
“We need to teach communities how to react in emergencies,” she says. “We need to explain to children what suicide is. We need to give parents tools, not just tell them to be strong and pray.”
HEALING PROCESS
Mercy Mwende, chief operating officer at Thalia Psychotherapy (Mindful Kenya), works closely with families affected by suicide. She says the grief that follows is unlike any other.
“Families often experience shock, guilt, anger, sadness and even shame,” she says.
“They feel alone. They keep asking, ‘Could I have done more?’ Even when there were no signs.”
Healing, she says, starts with openness. Talking about the loss, writing letters to the loved one, joining a support group — these steps matter.
“We encourage families to reach out early,” she says. “At Mindful Kenya, people can nominate loved ones anonymously for support. We believe in prevention through connection.”
Mwende explains that counselling, especially from professionals trained in grief and trauma, can help people process their emotions and avoid dangerous spirals of guilt or self-blame.
Peer support groups, spiritual leaders and community elders can also offer solace. The key is not to isolate.
“Stigma is one of the biggest barriers,” she says.
“It isolates people. They feel judged, even blamed. That’s why we need more conversations like this. Mental health is not a moral failure.”
Mwende warns that people bereaved by suicide are also at higher risk of developing mental health issues themselves.
Signs such as intense hopelessness, withdrawal or expressions of wanting to “join” the deceased should be taken seriously and addressed immediately.
“Don’t wait. Connect them to a counsellor or trusted professional right away,” she urges.
Meanwhile, a major shift is taking place in the legal landscape.
On January 9, the High Court of Kenya declared Section 226 of the Penal Code criminalising attempted suicide unconstitutional.
Judge Lawrence Mugambi ruled that punishing people for attempting to end their lives violated the Constitution’s guarantees of dignity, equality and the right to health.
Esther Gitahi, an advocate of the High Court, calls the ruling both long overdue and transformative.
“Criminalising suicide was a colonial law, outdated and harmful,” she says.
“This ruling acknowledges that suicide is a public health issue, not a criminal one.”
Until the ruling, people who attempted suicide could face up to two years in prison.
Instead of care, they received punishment. The fear of arrest drove many to suffer in silence, and families were afraid to seek help.
“With this ruling, individuals can now seek mental health support without fear of legal consequences,” Gitahi says.
“It also aligns Kenya with international human rights standards.”
Mental health advocates hope the ruling will lead to better investment in suicide prevention, including education, early intervention and accessible counselling services across the country.
For people who have lost their loved ones through suicide, the ruling is a small but vital step.
It doesn’t erase the past, but it offers a measure of justice. A shift in how the country views suffering not as something to punish but something to understand.
