Diary of an HIV-positive woman (11)

By JEZEBEL KAMBO
Published November 8, 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 continuing story.

Week 2

Thursday

Morning battles continue. This time Didi is on the offensive. “How come we don’t have a daddy to take us to school like the other children?” Why these questions pop during the early morning confusion, I just don’t know. I choose silence, but this does not seem to sink with the kids. My head is hurting from yesterday’s drinking session. What happened? I vaguely remember a brawl, but who was fighting who? I need a clear mind; maybe I will I sit down and piece together the events of yesterday after dropping the kids off.

“Other children are dropped by both their daddies and mummies,” Titi joins in, of course, on the side of her brother.

“Why we don’t have a daddy to drop us?” he asks. “Can Mr Charo be our daddy?”

Before I can open my mouth and put my big foot in it, both of my phones ring, the jarring sound giving me a break from the grilling session.

“Have you seen the headlines in today’s papers?” Mr Kombo shouts on the phone. Beast, what happened to hallo or good morning!

“No,” I go limp as I place the other phone on mute. “Let me drop the kids then we can talk about this!” I answer him. Headlines? Oh, no! Please God, let it not be true. Please.

I quickly usher the kids into the car, ignoring the second call. It must be something about yesterday. Didi seems to have a solution to my problems, “Why don’t you just get a daddy to drop us to school?”

My nerves are frayed and if Didi continues with this story, I will have no option but go and abandon them at their father’s place.

“Or you can go to that supermarket and buy one daddy and get another free!” shrills Titi. That gets me, and I smile.

At the roundabout, I slow down and double park just after the first lane. The newspaper man comes running with newspapers. I settle for the two leading dailies as the man casts looks at me. My window slides up to shut him out of my world.

“MP IN GUN DRAMA OVER WOMAN!” screams one headline.

“WASTE OF TAX PAYERS MONEY!” screams another, of course, trying to outdo its competitors. My picture is right there holding the MP  suggestively as he brandishes a gun!

“We are getting late,” Titi complains.

“Sorry mum,” I mutter as I gather my guts and start driving. The morning radio talk shows all dwell on the issue – calling the girl in the picture a prostitute and the MP a disgrace!

“They should have morality laws in parliament,” suggests one caller.

“Why are you condemning just the MP? Even the woman, who lured him is part of the rot in the society,” remarks another one.

My day is ruined so early. Even as I drop the kids at school, I wonder if my Mr Charo has read the papers or heard the story.

I drive into the office to meet a furious Mr Kombo and a sympathetic Teresia.

“What were you thinking of while going out with that politician?” he screams at me.

I hate it when someone screams at me. It reminds me of my childhood, when my father used to scream at my mother, and then end up beating her up! It took some of my aunts’ courage to drag mum out of the abusive marriage. But dad did not stop there. He followed mum to her new residence and came to beat her up. One of my brothers, Mwala, who was hardly 13 at the time, is the one who rescued the situation with a virtuoso solo performance of hammering a hockey stick on dad’s left leg, thus breaking it instantly. Had it not been for mum’s hysterical screaming, my brother would have gone ahead to smash dad’s head. The shocking thing is that my brother later turned out to be exactly like my dad. Poetic justice? Mr Kombo’s screaming scares me. Will he hit me?

“You shall not go to the conference today,” he orders me. I hope he does not fire me. I am in tears as Mr Kombo walks out of the office. Teresia comes to my aid, “You are still young and very pretty. Use your beauty and brains to advance yourself in life!” Empty words, but much better than the screaming.

“Thanks Teresia.”

I call the MP, and he’s gracious enough to take my call.

“Don’t worry my dear. I will sort out the journalist, who covered that story,” he says.

What’s the use? My name has already been dragged into murky waters of politics.

Abdul calls me, but I refuse to take the call. What I am going to tell him about official duty? Juma, our guard, compounds the day’s misery by coming to ask for an advance. “My wife has lost her mother, and the burial is on Saturday!” he says. I approve his leave and give him an advance. He walks out a happy man, but I am a broken woman.

To be continued.

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