mzeiya
Elder Lister
It is around 11am on a Wednesday when the Healthy Nation team walks through the wide metal gates of Nairobi Funeral Home. The air outside is warm and still, but upon entering the mortuary complex, a cold quietness descends.
The corridors are silent, broken only by the persistent hum of refrigeration units. On one side, stainless steel doors line the wall, each sealing a life story that has reached its end. Dozens of bodies lie preserved, awaiting identification, paperwork, or the final preparations for burial. Some will be claimed within hours. Others will remain for weeks or months. A few may stay much longer—unknown, unnamed, and unclaimed.
Nairobi Funeral Home, formerly the City Mortuary, is the main public and government-run mortuary that receives a volume of cases, including unidentified, unclaimed, and forensic cases brought in by police.
The mortuary’s Superintendent, Patrick Kibuga, leads the way with slow, deliberate steps. A veteran of this place, his movements are heavy and measured as if each day here requires a quiet, emotional negotiation. Without a word, he motions for us to follow him deeper inside.
“This section,” he says, pausing before a row of numbered chambers, “is where we receive most cases from across Nairobi County.”
He hesitates before opening one of the drawers, offering a moment to brace not just our bodies, but our emotions. The metal slab glides out, revealing a white-shrouded form — a young man whose life ended far too soon.
We move further, and the grim reality deepens. Drawer after drawer holds the bodies of young men, mostly in their twenties, some barely older, as documented. They were discovered in Eastlands estates, informal settlements, and even middle-class neighbourhoods across the city.
Mr Kibuga explains that bodies are delivered accompanied by police, who provide details in a document known as the Body Admission Register.
“When a body is brought here, the police first give us the information. We record the name of the deceased if it is known, their age, gender, where the body was found, and the time it was collected. We also note the circumstances of death; if it is a suspected suicide, we indicate it clearly. Then we enter the OB number from the police station handling the case.”
Once this information is entered, the body is given a unique mortuary number, which serves as its identity in the facility. It is then placed in the cold storage chambers.
However, not all bodies arrive with known identities.
“If we cannot identify the person at the time of admission, we label them as ‘Unknown Male’ or ‘Unknown Female.’ The police then start the process of tracing relatives. Sometimes it takes weeks, months,” he explains.
Families are only allowed to collect the body after presenting identification documents, and once a postmortem has been conducted, along with police clearance.
Mr Kibuga notes that many suicides involving young people are brought in late at night, the news often shocking relatives who arrive to confirm the identity. “It is painful,” he says quietly. “Most of these young people had dreams. When their families arrive, the grief in that room is something you never forget.”
Here, we met Jacinta Njoki, a mother of five. She sits quietly in her small sitting room, her fingers absently twisting the hem of her dress. Her eyes carry the dull, faraway look of someone who has spent many nights awake, replaying a moment they cannot undo.
Two months ago, a distressing call from a neighbour's number delivered the news of her son's death. Overwhelmed and unable to wait for the caller to finish speaking, she rushed out, running to the scene in a desperate hope that it was not true.
“I couldn’t wait for that phone call to end because I knew the distance from where I stay to where my son lived was not far. I ran there, and when I arrived, I confirmed it was him,” she recalls, her voice breaking.
She found neighbours gathered outside in disbelief, others whispering quietly. Soon, police and local authorities arrived, cordoning off the area as they carried out preliminary investigations.They documented the scene and took statements from neighbours and family members.
After completing the standard procedures, the officers transported the young man’s body to the mortuary for a post-mortem.
For Jacinta, watching her son’s body being taken away marked the beginning of an unending grief. The pain remains fresh, the unanswered questions about his final moments a heavy burden.
She describes her son as a humble and determined young man who struggled to find employment. “He was a very good boy,” she says, softly. “He never gave me problems. Even after finishing his studies, he kept trying to find work so he could help me and his siblings. Every day, he would wake up early and leave with his documents, going from one place to another hoping to be called for a job.”
She recalls how he often expressed frustration over the lack of opportunities, but never lost hope.
“He used to tell me, ‘mum, my day will come.’ He believed things would get better. That is why it is still hard for me to understand what pushed him to this point,” she adds, tears welling in her eyes.
For Jacinta, the loss is not only that of a child, but of a young man she believed had a future full of promise.
Our next stop is in Kayole, where we meet Jackline Muthama, 26. She is among the many young people who have attempted to take their own lives, driven by rejection and isolation.
She recalls her mother bringing the family from Kericho to Nairobi in 2013 hoping for a better life. However, things did not go as planned. Her mother struggled to secure employment and eventually, overwhelmed by stress, left Jackline behind with her two siblings in the unfamiliar place. “We came believing life would get better, but everything changed when my mother couldn’t find a job. The pressure was too much for her. That’s how she abandoned us,” explains Jackline.
They were later taken in by a family that offered shelter, though life remained difficult. After completing high school, she found herself confronting a harsh and unforgiving world.
“My body (being intersex) is not like everyone else’s. Because of that, many people in the estate looked down on me, mocked me, and insulted me. When I went out to look for work, most employers rejected me. In the last two years, I have constantly battled thoughts of ending my life.”
Discrimination and unemployment are among the main triggers of suicide among young people in areas such as Dandora.
Benard Otieno, 32, a boda boda rider, says his neighbourhood, commonly known as Kisumu Ndogo, has witnessed many young people take their own lives.
“What I’ve personally seen is that many are overwhelmed by heartbreak. Just recently, my neighbour took his life because his partner left him. And there are many others who are unemployed... When you ask why they drink, many will tell you they have no work and life is too heavy.”
In Pipeline Estate, Charity Mweu, a community health promoter, is on the frontlines, counselling unemployed youths struggling with substance use and hopelessness.
Charity says the situation has become so alarming that police officers are frequently seen collecting bodies of young people who could not hold on any longer.
She emphasises that a worrying number of young people in the area are jobless, leaving them vulnerable to depression, drugs, and despair.
Nairobi health officials have raised the alarm over a disturbing rise in suicide cases among young people in Eastleigh and surrounding estates.
According to Nairobi County Health Executive Tom Nyakaba, Nairobi Funeral Home has been receiving an unusually high number of bodies linked to suicide, with the majority being youths aged between 18 and 32 years.
Mr Nyakaba reveals that the facility, which has a capacity for 200 bodies, receives between 25 and 34 suicide-related deaths every week. Out of these, eight to 10 are youths; a trend he describes as deeply worrying and reflective of a widening mental health crisis in the city.
The rest of the bodies are of older people. “What is shocking is that every week we receive young people who have ended their lives, most of them from Eastleigh and nearby estates,” said Nyakaba.
But in the past six months, the facility has been receiving two to four bodies related to suicide deaths daily. On weekends, the facility receives about 34 bodies, out of which eight to 10 are recorded among the youth. “The biggest contributor is job-related stress and partying,” says Mr Kibuga.
“These are individuals who are at the prime of their lives, yet they are silently battling emotional and psychological distress.”
He notes that the trend is no longer confined to low-income areas. “One out of every eight bodies linked to suicide is now coming from high-end neighbourhoods, indicating that mental health challenges are cutting across social classes,” he adds.
While Mr Nyakaba emphasises the county’s ongoing efforts to strengthen mental health support through public hospitals and community-based centres, he admits that more needs to be done. The rising numbers, he says, call for urgent intervention: more accessible counselling, youth support centres, and public conversations to break the stigma around depression. He urges families and communities to look out for signs of distress and encourage open dialogue.
For officers on the frontline, the crisis is taking a personal toll. Joseph Mwangi (not his real name), a police officer who frequently responds to suicide scenes in Eastleigh, finds the work emotionally draining.
“It is never easy,” he confesses. “These are young people, some the same age as our own children. When you carry that body, you don’t just see a case. You see a life that has ended too soon. It stays with you.”
He describes the traumatic scenes of grieving families and shocked neighbours, where officers must remain composed under deeply disturbing circumstances. “We are expected to be strong, but we are human too. After you leave the scene, the images replay in your mind. Some of us struggle to sleep,” he says.
He adds that repeated exposure to such incidents without proper counselling can lead to stress, anxiety, and emotional numbness among officers. “In many stations, there are no structured psychological support systems for officers dealing with trauma. Some speak among themselves or try to suppress their feelings altogether.”
What hurts most, Joseph says, is seeing how common the cases are becoming common among the youth in Eastleigh. For many officers, the hope is that communities, families, and mental health organisations can work together to address the growing crisis before more lives are lost.
She explains that many have grown up in environments marked by adverse childhood experiences, economic hardship, and exposure to violence. These factors create a high risk for mental health issues such as depression, anxiety, and chronic stress.
“A lot of young men are struggling with unemployment and financial frustrations. When someone feels they cannot meet basic needs or societal expectations as providers, it can lead to deep feelings of hopelessness.”
She adds that this burden is worsened by family conflict, abandonment, and weak social support systems. Stigma often prevents young men from seeking help. “They are taught to be strong, to keep quite. But silence can become heavy. When there is no outlet, the emotional pain becomes overwhelming,” she notes.
Substance abuse, used as a coping mechanism, can intensify distress and impulsive behaviour. Compounding the issue, Ms Waithera highlights that Kenya’s mental health system remains underfunded and inaccessible, with many deaths going unreported due to stigma and fear of blame. She emphasises that preventing suicide requires a community and systems-level response, not just individual effort.
She recommends: “When families, schools, communities, and government agencies work together, we create safe spaces for
young people to seek help. No one should feel alone or without options. We are losing too many young people, and families are left with questions that will never be answered.”
fokachi@ke.nationmedia.com
The corridors are silent, broken only by the persistent hum of refrigeration units. On one side, stainless steel doors line the wall, each sealing a life story that has reached its end. Dozens of bodies lie preserved, awaiting identification, paperwork, or the final preparations for burial. Some will be claimed within hours. Others will remain for weeks or months. A few may stay much longer—unknown, unnamed, and unclaimed.
Nairobi Funeral Home, formerly the City Mortuary, is the main public and government-run mortuary that receives a volume of cases, including unidentified, unclaimed, and forensic cases brought in by police.
The mortuary’s Superintendent, Patrick Kibuga, leads the way with slow, deliberate steps. A veteran of this place, his movements are heavy and measured as if each day here requires a quiet, emotional negotiation. Without a word, he motions for us to follow him deeper inside.
“This section,” he says, pausing before a row of numbered chambers, “is where we receive most cases from across Nairobi County.”
He hesitates before opening one of the drawers, offering a moment to brace not just our bodies, but our emotions. The metal slab glides out, revealing a white-shrouded form — a young man whose life ended far too soon.
We move further, and the grim reality deepens. Drawer after drawer holds the bodies of young men, mostly in their twenties, some barely older, as documented. They were discovered in Eastlands estates, informal settlements, and even middle-class neighbourhoods across the city.
Mr Kibuga explains that bodies are delivered accompanied by police, who provide details in a document known as the Body Admission Register.
“When a body is brought here, the police first give us the information. We record the name of the deceased if it is known, their age, gender, where the body was found, and the time it was collected. We also note the circumstances of death; if it is a suspected suicide, we indicate it clearly. Then we enter the OB number from the police station handling the case.”
Once this information is entered, the body is given a unique mortuary number, which serves as its identity in the facility. It is then placed in the cold storage chambers.
However, not all bodies arrive with known identities.
“If we cannot identify the person at the time of admission, we label them as ‘Unknown Male’ or ‘Unknown Female.’ The police then start the process of tracing relatives. Sometimes it takes weeks, months,” he explains.
Families are only allowed to collect the body after presenting identification documents, and once a postmortem has been conducted, along with police clearance.
Mr Kibuga notes that many suicides involving young people are brought in late at night, the news often shocking relatives who arrive to confirm the identity. “It is painful,” he says quietly. “Most of these young people had dreams. When their families arrive, the grief in that room is something you never forget.”
A mother's unending grief
In Jericho, one of the older estates, the buildings in Nairobi’s Eastlands, have seen generations grow, stumble, and sometimes break. Inside one home, life has ground to a halt.Here, we met Jacinta Njoki, a mother of five. She sits quietly in her small sitting room, her fingers absently twisting the hem of her dress. Her eyes carry the dull, faraway look of someone who has spent many nights awake, replaying a moment they cannot undo.
Two months ago, a distressing call from a neighbour's number delivered the news of her son's death. Overwhelmed and unable to wait for the caller to finish speaking, she rushed out, running to the scene in a desperate hope that it was not true.
“I couldn’t wait for that phone call to end because I knew the distance from where I stay to where my son lived was not far. I ran there, and when I arrived, I confirmed it was him,” she recalls, her voice breaking.
She found neighbours gathered outside in disbelief, others whispering quietly. Soon, police and local authorities arrived, cordoning off the area as they carried out preliminary investigations.They documented the scene and took statements from neighbours and family members.
After completing the standard procedures, the officers transported the young man’s body to the mortuary for a post-mortem.
For Jacinta, watching her son’s body being taken away marked the beginning of an unending grief. The pain remains fresh, the unanswered questions about his final moments a heavy burden.
She describes her son as a humble and determined young man who struggled to find employment. “He was a very good boy,” she says, softly. “He never gave me problems. Even after finishing his studies, he kept trying to find work so he could help me and his siblings. Every day, he would wake up early and leave with his documents, going from one place to another hoping to be called for a job.”
She recalls how he often expressed frustration over the lack of opportunities, but never lost hope.
“He used to tell me, ‘mum, my day will come.’ He believed things would get better. That is why it is still hard for me to understand what pushed him to this point,” she adds, tears welling in her eyes.
For Jacinta, the loss is not only that of a child, but of a young man she believed had a future full of promise.
Our next stop is in Kayole, where we meet Jackline Muthama, 26. She is among the many young people who have attempted to take their own lives, driven by rejection and isolation.
She recalls her mother bringing the family from Kericho to Nairobi in 2013 hoping for a better life. However, things did not go as planned. Her mother struggled to secure employment and eventually, overwhelmed by stress, left Jackline behind with her two siblings in the unfamiliar place. “We came believing life would get better, but everything changed when my mother couldn’t find a job. The pressure was too much for her. That’s how she abandoned us,” explains Jackline.
They were later taken in by a family that offered shelter, though life remained difficult. After completing high school, she found herself confronting a harsh and unforgiving world.
“My body (being intersex) is not like everyone else’s. Because of that, many people in the estate looked down on me, mocked me, and insulted me. When I went out to look for work, most employers rejected me. In the last two years, I have constantly battled thoughts of ending my life.”
Discrimination and unemployment are among the main triggers of suicide among young people in areas such as Dandora.
Benard Otieno, 32, a boda boda rider, says his neighbourhood, commonly known as Kisumu Ndogo, has witnessed many young people take their own lives.
“What I’ve personally seen is that many are overwhelmed by heartbreak. Just recently, my neighbour took his life because his partner left him. And there are many others who are unemployed... When you ask why they drink, many will tell you they have no work and life is too heavy.”
In Pipeline Estate, Charity Mweu, a community health promoter, is on the frontlines, counselling unemployed youths struggling with substance use and hopelessness.
Charity says the situation has become so alarming that police officers are frequently seen collecting bodies of young people who could not hold on any longer.
An official alarm
“Most of those we see are youths who are using hard drugs. Sometimes ambulances come to rush them to hospital when they are barely conscious. Other times, the police arrive to collect those who have already died,” she says.She emphasises that a worrying number of young people in the area are jobless, leaving them vulnerable to depression, drugs, and despair.
Nairobi health officials have raised the alarm over a disturbing rise in suicide cases among young people in Eastleigh and surrounding estates.
According to Nairobi County Health Executive Tom Nyakaba, Nairobi Funeral Home has been receiving an unusually high number of bodies linked to suicide, with the majority being youths aged between 18 and 32 years.
Mr Nyakaba reveals that the facility, which has a capacity for 200 bodies, receives between 25 and 34 suicide-related deaths every week. Out of these, eight to 10 are youths; a trend he describes as deeply worrying and reflective of a widening mental health crisis in the city.
The rest of the bodies are of older people. “What is shocking is that every week we receive young people who have ended their lives, most of them from Eastleigh and nearby estates,” said Nyakaba.
But in the past six months, the facility has been receiving two to four bodies related to suicide deaths daily. On weekends, the facility receives about 34 bodies, out of which eight to 10 are recorded among the youth. “The biggest contributor is job-related stress and partying,” says Mr Kibuga.
“These are individuals who are at the prime of their lives, yet they are silently battling emotional and psychological distress.”
He notes that the trend is no longer confined to low-income areas. “One out of every eight bodies linked to suicide is now coming from high-end neighbourhoods, indicating that mental health challenges are cutting across social classes,” he adds.
While Mr Nyakaba emphasises the county’s ongoing efforts to strengthen mental health support through public hospitals and community-based centres, he admits that more needs to be done. The rising numbers, he says, call for urgent intervention: more accessible counselling, youth support centres, and public conversations to break the stigma around depression. He urges families and communities to look out for signs of distress and encourage open dialogue.
For officers on the frontline, the crisis is taking a personal toll. Joseph Mwangi (not his real name), a police officer who frequently responds to suicide scenes in Eastleigh, finds the work emotionally draining.
“It is never easy,” he confesses. “These are young people, some the same age as our own children. When you carry that body, you don’t just see a case. You see a life that has ended too soon. It stays with you.”
He describes the traumatic scenes of grieving families and shocked neighbours, where officers must remain composed under deeply disturbing circumstances. “We are expected to be strong, but we are human too. After you leave the scene, the images replay in your mind. Some of us struggle to sleep,” he says.
He adds that repeated exposure to such incidents without proper counselling can lead to stress, anxiety, and emotional numbness among officers. “In many stations, there are no structured psychological support systems for officers dealing with trauma. Some speak among themselves or try to suppress their feelings altogether.”
What hurts most, Joseph says, is seeing how common the cases are becoming common among the youth in Eastleigh. For many officers, the hope is that communities, families, and mental health organisations can work together to address the growing crisis before more lives are lost.
Expert analysis
Jane Waithera, a counselling psychologist, counsellor supervisor, and certified mediator, links the rising suicide cases among young men in the eastern parts of Nairobi to a combination of social, economic, and psychological pressures.She explains that many have grown up in environments marked by adverse childhood experiences, economic hardship, and exposure to violence. These factors create a high risk for mental health issues such as depression, anxiety, and chronic stress.
“A lot of young men are struggling with unemployment and financial frustrations. When someone feels they cannot meet basic needs or societal expectations as providers, it can lead to deep feelings of hopelessness.”
She adds that this burden is worsened by family conflict, abandonment, and weak social support systems. Stigma often prevents young men from seeking help. “They are taught to be strong, to keep quite. But silence can become heavy. When there is no outlet, the emotional pain becomes overwhelming,” she notes.
Substance abuse, used as a coping mechanism, can intensify distress and impulsive behaviour. Compounding the issue, Ms Waithera highlights that Kenya’s mental health system remains underfunded and inaccessible, with many deaths going unreported due to stigma and fear of blame. She emphasises that preventing suicide requires a community and systems-level response, not just individual effort.
She recommends: “When families, schools, communities, and government agencies work together, we create safe spaces for
young people to seek help. No one should feel alone or without options. We are losing too many young people, and families are left with questions that will never be answered.”
fokachi@ke.nationmedia.com
