Not Every Advice Is Good Advice: A Cautionary Tale from Nairobi

Dear friends,

NOT EVERY ADVICE IS GOOD ADVICE.
You have read it correctly. Not every advice is good, even if it comes from a qualified professional or a trusted figure. Sometimes, humans are simply human. Watu ni watu.

Even a medical doctor can give poor or hazardous counsel to a client for various reasons, and I am writing this from firsthand experience. Someone said experience is the best teacher, but sometimes, it is wiser to listen before you witness things by yourself. There is a land of no return. We have a saying: "Do not advise someone when they are about to start the journey. Advise them when they are back." This might make sense in some situations, but what if they never return?

Ask those who were there ahead of you, but beware. Not everyone has the same experience, and not everyone possesses the same level of knowledge or expertise, even within their own field. A medical doctor once suggested that I take whisky back in February 2025 to manage my high blood pressure. She thought mine was unusually high for no apparent reason and suspected my blood vessels might be the underlying issue. I doubted her guidance at first, but because it came from a medical professional, the thought took root deep in the back of my mind.

Before the end of that same year leading into 2026, I experimented with various brands. They neither helped nor harmed. But she had specifically mentioned whisky. Why try other things?

On the evening of 19th August 2026, I did not acquire whisky. Instead, I felt overly confident in my own resilience and ended up consuming triple my usual amount. A single cup of vodka multiplied into two and a half, with the final half provided by a friend. I do not appreciate the aftermath. Even though I did not quarrel or raise my voice as I often observe other intoxicated individuals doing, I had to ask my friend where the washrooms were, and he had to guide me there by the hand.

Upon returning, I told him to take a portion of my drink and announced that I wanted to go and sleep. I could hear soft laughter echoing in the bar. My friend decided to escort me. As we approached the road leading to my residence, he said goodbye. I remember how swiftly I crossed, fearing that a stray vehicle might strike me. I reached safety, but was I truly safe?

Reaching my house, I managed to open the door. There was no outer gate. Removing my clothes proved to be a separate ordeal. I tried to laugh at myself, or rather at the situation, but it was a bitter laugh. I managed to deal with the clothes, though I could not hang them where I originally intended. Then, I sat down on my bed, pondering the gravity of what could have gone wrong.

Everything in the room smelled of vodka, and I despised it. I lay down, realizing the head of the bed was dangerously close to mine. Sooner than expected, I was tossing and turning without my own volition.

An inner voice demanded action: "You must take a lot of water, or you will shut down, right now!" I obeyed. Yet, reaching the water bottle beneath my bed felt monumental. I kept trying, lowering my legs first for fear of hitting the cemented floor headfirst. I finally retrieved the bottle and the nearby cup, but pouring water was a tug of war. I managed to fill the cup and drank it slowly, terrified of drowning in a cup rather than a pool.

Then I forced myself back onto the bed and landed with a heavy thud, headfirst. I remembered the last time I experienced such a fall was as a young boy, more than forty years ago. "Okay, now I know what it means to be drunk," I told myself.

I should have known better. Knowledge alone is insufficient. You need knowledge combined with wisdom to preserve life. A teacher must now listen to his wise students. Shall I?

Instead, I texted my Bishop on WhatsApp. He called immediately after reading that I was very sick. I did not disclose the full story, mentioning only that I would be okay after vomiting. "Well done, boy!" whispered the same voice in my head. After that, memory failed me until 5:00 AM the following morning.

I woke up feeling remarkably light and well, but the aftermath of vomiting left the room reeking. My head still carried the scent of vodka. At 8:00 AM, I walked to the Bishop's home and found him, his wife, and others enjoying morning tea. They asked with genuine concern how I felt. My Bishop is also my father-in-law, meaning his wife is my mother, too.

His wife asked if I had stayed outside in the cold for too long. I then admitted that I had consumed something which made me sick. I did not specify the exact beverage; you can fill in the gaps and read between the lines. She instructed someone to serve me a warm, comforting cup of coffee, which helped immensely. I then returned to my quarters outside the main gate, and about two hours later, I penned these words while the lingering smell of vodka still hung in the air despite thorough cleaning.

Do not ask me if I will ever attempt taking two cups again, because I cannot predict the future. I had no valid reason for consuming it in the first place. Do not blame the medical doctor for my choices. Thus, I might drink again, or perhaps never. I know you are human, and right now you are thinking, "Can't you just decide?" No. It is not as simple as you might think.

John Monyjok Maluth
Emerging China-Africa Scholar