The Way Back

CW: addiction, self-harm, mental illness, inspired by true events

From their earliest days, children learn through what adults do and the silent lessons they convey. They notice laughter after a glass of wine or stress eased by a drink. To young eyes, it seems harmless—just part of adult life. Yet, these early observations can quietly take root.

Children often inherit drinking habits silently, learning from parents without noticing. What begins as simple imitation can grow into addiction, hidden by routine, until it becomes a lifelong struggle passed from one generation to the next.

For one woman, this was the beginning of her story.

Ann Mathu was introduced to alcohol and cigarettes at the age of ten. Her father was a functioning alcoholic—one of those who could drink late into the night and still report to work as though nothing had happened. To him, there was nothing wrong with what he did. Drinking wasn’t excess or escape—it was simply life as he understood it. Family gatherings often revolved around muratina, a traditional brew widely regarded at the time as harmless—even wholesome—which reinforced his belief that his drinking carried no real consequences.

Growing up in Thika Town in the late 1960s, Ann adored weekends. Her father, one of the senior figures involved in establishing the municipality, spent much of his leisure time at members’ clubs. Ann and her siblings accompanied him, sometimes receiving sips of alcohol. Ann shared her father’s easygoing nature, and the bond between them was strong. When her mother objected, her father defended her.

Throughout childhood, Ann thrived academically. Nothing suggested the path ahead.

In 1977, she entered high school—and lost her father that same year.

Mathu Senior had been drinking as usual and decided, around 5:00 a.m., to drive to Muranga to visit his mother, Ann’s grandmother. He never made it.

She was in school when the incident occurred and stayed home for only a week, returning immediately after the burial. Despite her closeness with her dad, everyone—likely due to her youth—seemed to expect her to move on with life.

She became rebellious—not out of malice, but from a longing for guidance. Like many teenagers, she struggled to find the words to articulate what she was feeling.

Ann began sneaking alcohol and cigarettes into school, even introducing other girls to the vices. At that vulnerable point, all she wanted was to escape the pain of losing her father—but no one guided her through it. Seeking relief, she turned to alcohol, the same way she had once shared moments of connection with him.

As her clique of rebels grew, and the amount of alcohol they drank rose, her grades would, however, steadily decline. Come the end of her high school tenure, she’d broken a record, one that was both shocking and unimaginable.

At the time, the third division grade Ann and others (the majority members of her clique) had attained was unheard of in Ngandu Girls High School. When she went home, she became a pariah. The fact that her cousins had also attended the same school and had not only passed but were en route to pursue great careers only elevated the hell she received, particularly from her mother.

However, her aunt saved her when she proposed pursuing a diploma course. In 1981, she joined Kenya Polytechnic University, opting to pursue Institutional Management due to her love of cooking.

College brought freedom—and money, especially from student funds, which Ann used to organize inter-college dance competitions.

While some might have seen her situation as a second chance, the cash, underground status, and newfound liberty only fuelled her drinking.

By her second year, she entered the Miss Kenya competition, chasing a scholarship to Paris, but sadly placed second. A judge’s favouritism ended her dream.

Still, modelling contracts followed. At eighteen, Ann had income, confidence, and access. Her social world changed—and so did her consumption.

She’d soon become infatuated with a young lad. Given that he was a bit older than Ann, it could be argued that all she was looking for was a father figure. Nonetheless, their relationship blossomed to the point that Ann introduced the man to her mum and other members of her family.

Reality would, however, come knocking once Ann informed him that she was pregnant. ‘Prince Charming’ abandoned Ann and moved on with another woman.

A teenager with a baby on the way, if it were not for her mother’s help, her world would have crumbled.

Her mother’s support helped Ann complete college, but the achievement did little to lift the shadow of her past. Slowly, the unresolved pain settled in, and she sank into depression.

That low followed her to her new job at Moi Equator Girls Nanyuki. She kept alcohol at home and drank whenever the chance arose.

While in Nanyuki, a friend introduced her to a spot frequented by Air Force pilots. Drawing on the modelling skills she had learned, Ann discovered a way to secure free drinks.

When it comes to alcoholism and drug addiction, it’s almost impossible to pinpoint the contributing factor because things and events just stack up, making one graduate from one level to another. Ann’s case was no different.

As the free drinks flowed, she fell out with the management at Moi Equator because of going to work drunk or leaving and coming back in the wee hours, something that, given the fact that she was housed in a girls’ school, was unacceptable. It was her last warning; the next misdemeanour would lead to her getting sucked. Her pride wouldn’t allow her to be fired.

She took her baby and her nanny and left.

One paradox of addiction is this: despite rarely holding jobs for long, addicts often seem uncannily fortunate at finding new ones. Ann was no exception.

After her prideful exit, she secured another job at the Panafric Hotel—one that lasted three years and ushered her into the fourth stage of alcoholism: habitual.

Alcoholism is a progressive disease that develops in stages over time. Because many alcoholics continue to function and denial is common, it’s often difficult—for outsiders and even for the individuals themselves—to recognize which stage they’re in.

The relay race of alcohol addiction begins with the sharp crack of the starting gun—the momentary thrill of experimentation. The addict-to-be stands at the starting line, wide-eyed and curious, taking their first sip. It’s innocent, almost playful, as they sprint off with the baton, unaware of what lies ahead. The alcohol feels like a game, a test, something to try and discard at will. But with that first taste, the race has already begun.

As the baton passes to the next stage, social drinking takes hold. The runner moves with the crowd, laughing and drinking, feeling it’s normal—necessary even—to keep pace. Fun and dependency blur, control slips, and though the addict still believes they’re in charge, the race is accelerating.

Next comes the instrumental stage, where alcohol becomes more than just a companion—it’s a tool. The baton is now clutched tightly, as the addict drinks not for pleasure, but to cope. Stress, pain, and loneliness fuel the next leg of the race. The baton is heavier now, but they keep running, using alcohol to numb the struggles of everyday life. Each drink feels less like a choice and more like a necessity, but the finish line is still nowhere in sight.

Finally, the habitual stage emerges, and dread settles in. The addict is no longer running freely; they are being driven by the baton itself. The pace quickens, but it’s no longer a race—it’s a chase. Alcohol has become an all-consuming force, dictating every move, every decision. The once-light baton is now a crushing weight, and each step feels more desperate than the last. The addict stumbles, trapped in a race they can’t escape, where the only finish line seems to be total ruin.

Rehabilitation. A new chance. Relapse. Repeat.

The cycle followed her everywhere—jobs, towns, countries, relationships. Each move promised a fresh start, but every time ended the same. Addiction didn’t just ruin opportunity; it swallowed it, leaving only the echo of failure and the crushing sense that there was nowhere left to run.

Losses piled up until Ann hit the streets, where cheap alcohol, industrial mixtures, and despair became her daily reality.

Suicide attempts became her constant shadow. Thrice she tried, thrice she failed. Convinced that God had abandoned her, she slipped into alcohol‑induced psychosis and eventually an alcoholic coma.

An alcoholic coma arises from there being too much alcohol in one’s system, which leads to the brain shutting down. The other organs soon follow suit, making it one of the most lethal types of comas.

Only a small percentage survive.

Ann happened to be part of that group. But despite this, after she survived, she’d go back home and attempt suicide again.

After being discharged, she returned to the local bar and simply sat there. Out of options, she had no idea what to do with her life.

At her lowest, alone in a bar, a former colleague found her. A recovering addict, he saw not failure but the potential for a future testimony. He held her, spoke hope into her, and guided her toward recovery—lighting the first spark of change in a life consumed by despair.

Ann has been sober for nineteen years.

Once upon a time, her story seemed destined to end in ruin—another cautionary tale swallowed by addiction. Instead, once upon a time became a beginning.

Regardless of all the regrettable things she did, Ann chose to speak publicly, reframing addiction as illness rather than moral failure. Once upon a time, shame kept her silent; now, honesty fuels her purpose.

In recovery, she rebuilt her relationship with her children and gave her mother the gift of seeing her whole again. Once upon a time, she inherited pain; today, she interrupts it.

Ann Mathu founded the Sober Again Outreach Program, entering slums, dens, churches, and schools, not searching for addicts, but for testimonies waiting to be written—proof that even the darkest stories can begin again.