Diary of an HIV-positive woman (1)

By JEZEBEL KAMBO
Published September 27, 2009

Hi. My name is Jessica* but my friends (who are very few) call me Jezzie while my enemies –a constituency of them – call me Jezebel. I am 25 years old and HIV-positive. I am a mother of 4-year-old twins – David* (Didi) and Terry* (Titi). This is my story.

WEEK 1

Life as a receptionist in a privately owned firm can be unpredictable. My boss is such a character. I make way to the ivory tower, a glass compartment that is tastefully furnished – it looks like a showroom. I wish her manners were the same. The office is next to Regal Chambers on Moi Avenue, overlooking the face of Mombasa; the towering twin tusks also known as Mapembeni. From here one can see the expansive Uhuru Gardens, one of the town’s tourist attractions.

I knock at the immaculate door written “MD”, let myself in and wait to be told to sit down. The offer does not come and the woman does not move her gaze from the computer. “Take your letter,” she says coldly. “Pass by the accounts office to get your dues.”

The month has just begun and there are hardly any dues. I gather courage. “I hope this is not about the rumours that have been going round about me hitting on your hubby,” I say. She swivels her black leather chair and for the first time turns to face me. She stands up, hardly any height to talk about, but the fire in her eyes make up for her shortcomings in that department. The beige skirt suits make her look executive, but the brown sun tanned weave on her head lets her down immensely.“Get out before I call security. You are no longer an employee in this firm,” she hisses.

I get the message and walk out slowly but being one to always have the last word, I turn and shout, “I will get him. And I will make you suffer.” It is a promise, not a threat. It is not my fault that the hubby has been making passes at me! I did not ask to be born beautiful. I bang the door and walk to my station. The diary on my desk is the same way I left it yesterday – open on today’s date. Two uniformed security men are already there to make sure that I do not take anything belonging to the company. I know them.

“Cowards, why two of you?” I mock them. They keep quiet and watch as I put all my belongings – the kids’ photos, some mementos of my travels – in a Nakumatt supermarket shopping polythene bag. Off I go, ending my seven months tenure as a receptionist with the firm. As I leave, I make a call to the boss’ hubby, Mr Matano. “I have just been fired because of you! Will you pay my rent?”

“Please call me later, I am in a meeting,” he lies easily, just like all men when they are cornered.

Sooner than later, I will get you my friend. The world is a marble. I walk out of the air conditioned room and the full humidity of Mombasa morning heat hits me squarely on my face. It’s a feeling that I have never gotten used to.

I am disorientated as I walk to the matatu bus stop that I have I just alighted from. It is barely five minutes walk. I board a Tudor bound matatu, oblivious of the shouting and aggressive touts. It is time to go home – Makande flats opposite the Makupa police roundabout – and re-strategize.

[This story is the work of fiction but the issues raised are based on real life happenings. * Not their real names].

To be continued.

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