Did 22-year-old Keita Craig die because he was a paranoid schizophrenic? Or were his problems more to do with the colour of his skin? Erin Pizzey asks why society failed him

I realise I am frightened of writing this article about the death of my 22-year-old grandson, Keita Craig. I'm frightened for two reasons.

First, because he was diagnosed last summer as a 'paranoid schizophrenic' and the image of schizophrenia is that of a knife-wielding maniac. In the end, Keita did indeed conform to this media stereotype. He attempted to snatch a handbag from a woman and then punched a man who tried to stop him.

Keita was very gentle and we think it was a cry for help; a failed attempt, as it turned out, to get somebody in the huge phalanx of 'experts' that invaded his life to pay him some kind of attention. What the poor woman must have seen was a six-foot man of mixed race attempting to mug her. If she'd had time to look at him, she would have seen that he rocked uncontrollably from side to side. This was one of the many unwelcome side effects of the bi-monthly injections.

Second, how does anyone begin to try and explain the crippling and unpredictable effects of mental illness on not only the sufferer, but also the family?

My daughter, Cleo, was only 15 when Keita was born. His father, Mikey, was 17. After the initial shock of my child giving birth to a child, I comforted myself with the thought that Keita was born into two, big, loving warm families who welcomed him with all their hearts. I was going through a divorce at the time and facing a great deal of political persecution from the feminist movement. The first time I held Keita in my arms and looked down into his enormous, brown eyes, I felt my first-born grandson was fragile. Eighteen months later, his sister, Amber, was born and I was relieved to see that she was a tough little survivor.

Living with Keita was like living with a miniature kamikaze pilot. He never walked when he could run and if he wasn't running - usually straight into trouble - he was dancing. Cleo and Mikey and their two children lived in my house with Amos, my natural son, and several other boys who chose to live with us. Keita and Amber grew up in a house that was filled with books and music. Within a few years, Mikey was organising the group that was to become Culture Club. George, John and Roy were frequent guests. Amos was rapping on the first Culture Club album Kissing To Be Clever, and Keita and Amber modelled Culture Club-style clothing with their mother and father.

In many ways, those early years of my grandchildren's lives were idyllic, but for me there were serious political considerations. I resigned from my refuge in Chiswick after a power struggle with the feminist movement which didn't approve of my therapeutic approach to domestic violence. Then I began receiving death threats from extremists opposed to my belief that a woman could be responsible for her own behaviour, so my post had to be diverted to the bomb squad and I had to have a police escort on my 1982 tour around England for my book, Prone to Violence. During a tense visit from the bomb squad to my house, I saw the fear on Keita and Amber's faces and it was then that I made the final decision to go abroad. Culture Club had yet to make their fortune, but Cleo knew that Mikey needed to be free to spend much of his time touring the world and she opted to come to America with me.

We settled in Santa Fe, New Mexico, and I think the years we lived there and then subsequently on a tiny island called The Brac, in the Cayman Islands, were the happiest in Keita's life. He was able to find the freedom he needed. When we first arrived in Santa Fe, Keita removed the planks from his bunk bed and named them Jesus, Mary and Joseph. They all had to be fed before the family could sit down at the table. I watched Michael Jackson's 'Killer' video 56 times with Keita, and Mikey sent him a bright-red Michael Jackson jacket with the gloves. Without an ounce of self-consciousness, Keita walked through the malls in Santa Fe, waving at his adoring public and signing autographs. He did, indeed, look like a miniature Michael Jackson.

But the state school found his eccentricity unmanageable and the little private school announced that he had a 'wire loose'. We were a big multiracial family which inflamed some of the local redneck households. Our dog was shot one Christmas Day and two others stolen. Keita and Amber were discriminated against and many of the children were told not to play with them. I decided to move to the Cayman Islands where the families were 60 per cent mixed race. It proved to be a wise choice. Both children were very happy there.

Cleo married Dervin on The Brac and Didi was born in 1990. Cleo came back to England in 1992 with the children and Keita very quickly formed his own group, the Cabians. Amos helped him to make demo tapes and he came close to getting a contract. Keita also successfully applied to go to the Brit - a school devoted to music and the arts in Croydon. He won a Levi competition and was offered a modelling contract, but there were shadows surrounding him. From being an intensely energetic, popular boy, he began to withdraw into himself. He started smoking marijuana and spent more and more time in his bedroom, listening to his music or sleeping. Cleo was worried and arranged with Mikey to attend family therapy.

Now began the dreadful saga experienced by so many families who try to get help for their loved ones. By the time Keita was 16, we knew that he was seriously mentally ill. He was never diagnosed as a drug addict, but he was 'drug sensitive'. This means that even small amounts of marijuana made him hallucinate.

The first time he was taken into Queen Mary's, Roehampton, we realised that he was badly in need of treatment. When I went to visit him, I was shaken by the amount of sedatives he'd been given. The slurring of his speech and the confusion in his eyes haunted me. As he slipped into his hallucinations, his world became a very terrifying place. He often told me that he was frightened of walking the streets.

Of course, his doctors would say it was because he was paranoid, but I knew that Keita was afraid of being a mixed-race, six-foot-tall man. 'People look at me funny, Grandma,' he said. He was frightened of the police stopping him for questioning. He hated the idea of violence but, inevitably, because of his size and colour, violence intruded upon him. Buying marijuana brought him into contact with drug dealers and other addicts. He had his worst hallucinations on crack and ecstasy. His friends were other drug addicts, mostly young men. The National Schizophrenia Fellowship helped and advised us as we struggled from one appointment to another.

Cleo and I met up once a week to clean Keita's flat. He loved his 'pad' and though he kept it tidy, by now he had degenerated to the extent that he smelt. After his stay in hospital, he agreed that he would make me a list of food and I would bring it for him. Eventually, we made our first visit to Tesco. He was frightened by the supermarket. In time, he looked forward to our expeditions and I was childishly happy the day he decided to add tuna fish to his diet.

Amos was close to Keita. Even when Keita was at his worst, which meant that his eyes rolled up to the ceiling and he carried on whispered conversations with his tormentors, Amos took us all out for family celebrations. Sometimes, we were rewarded with Keita's brilliant smile and his wicked, gurgling laughter.

I had just come out of hospital when Amos telephoned to say Keita was in Richmond police station. He told me not to worry; Cleo would be at Richmond magistrates' court the next morning. She came to supper the next day, Tuesday, 1 February. I couldn't understand why Keita had been sent to the hospital wing of Wandsworth jail the day before and not to a mental hospital. Cleo told me he had been desperate and suicidal in the prison cells at the magistrates' court. 'Don't worry, Mum,' she said. 'He's on a suicide watch.' I hugged her when she left at around 8.30. 'At least he's in safe hands,' I said. 'However awful the situation is, maybe we can get something done for him.'

There was to be a hearing in Wandsworth the next day which we hoped would get Keita diverted to a mental hospital. I telephoned Cleo at eight the next morning. Keita's godmother answered. 'Tell Cleo I'm praying for Keita,' I said and then I heard Cleo crying. 'Keita's dead,' his godmother said. 'How?' I asked. 'He hung himself with his trainer laces,' she said.

The last time I saw Keita, we'd been shopping and he chosen a huge sirloin steak. He hugged me and said: 'I love you, Grandma.' He smiled and waved, clutching his carrier bag full of goodies. The next time I saw him, he was in his coffin. I watched my son carry my grandson to his grave. Since Keita died in Wandsworth, two more men have committed suicide. When will it end?