Diary of an HIV-positive woman (14)

By JEZEBEL KAMBO
Published November 17, 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 3

Sunday

I awake with a bolt at 6 a.m. Something is wrong, and I am in deep trouble. You see, yesterday in the afternoon, after so many calls and messages, I decided to switch off my phones, and instructed my house girl and the kids not to disturb me as I took a snooze. In the process of sleeping, I forgot two appointments.

Dr  Njoroge, whom I have been taking round and round, must be convinced that I am avoiding him. Far from the truth. Then there is the OCPD, who promised to quash my assault charges if I honoured his personal summons. The first one took place, and the man now wants more.

I look at the two phones and debate whether or not I should switch them on. Damn if I do. Damn if I don’t. I bite the bullet and switch on both phones and the light in my bedroom. The messages come in thick and fast. I count a total of 26 messages from both phones. Time to start reading.

I start with the Zain line and go through each message. Most are from my buddies and family who want to know about my fate, and if I am alive. Well, I am alive and kicking. The last two messages, which I have deliberately left out until now, are Dr  Njoroge’s message and the policeman’s. I start with the doctor’s, since I know it is lighter.

“Old habits die hard my dear Jessica. Please honour your appointments. Health is wealth!”

 Oops, seems like I am about to lose a good doctor and a friend.

The policeman’s message is even worse: “Can’t reach you on phone. Come to the police station tomorrow (Sunday) at 7 a.m. or else…..”

It is 6:20 a.m. Let me call him and explain what happened. One, two and three tries and his phone goes unanswered. Maybe he is ignoring me. My other line has a mixed variety of messages but what stands out most, is my long lost brother, who is studying for priesthood.

“I will offer mass for you today!” Simple and sweet, just like him. Memories of our childhood flash by, and it occurs to me that he is the only person, who I really miss in my family. The others are just rogues.

My phone rings, and I hesitate to pick it, because it is the policeman.

“Hallo,” I say meekly.

“I am expecting you at the Police Station in half an hour’s time!” he barks at me.

“I can explain,” I start, but he has already hung up! Come on, what is this with hanging up on someone? Be a man and talk and listen. These policemen should marry robots.

Sunday is a crucially packed day for me. It is the day that I bond with my kids, going out to anywhere and everywhere. It is the day that we do not cook in the house – all our meals are taken out, partly to sample the exquisite dishes that are on offer in most restaurants, but mainly to just eat out. Sunday is also the day that the house girl takes her day off – usually as early as 8 a.m. and comes back the following morning at 7 a.m., just before the kids go to school. I need to talk to the house girl first about the change of plans.

“Aunty, can you possibly leave at 9 a.m. today? I have to report to the police station?”

“But my church service starts at 9 a.m. sharp, and I cannot afford to be late,” she retorts, thinking that I am a devil incarnate out to make sure that she does not go to church – like me!

“I will be back by then, and will drop you at church. I will also give you your tithe for this month,” I offer as a way of swaying her judgement.

It’s amazing, but money always seems to melt even the hardest of hearts. She smiles and then brings me back to earth.

 “Okay, but at 9 a.m. sharp, I will have to leave with or without you!”

I am relieved and hurry to shower, change into my jeans and a T-shirt, hop into my car and madly drive to the police station. I just make it, but the OCPD is not at the station, though he has left strict orders with his juniors.

“We are under strict instructions to keep you in cell until the boss is back,” I am informed by a young fresh faced corporal, who is hardly out of his teens and looks like a mango in a banana plantation.

“Let me call someone to take care of my kids,” I plead with the two freshers. But policemen in this country possess some of the hardest skulls impregnable to logic.

“You should have done that before you came here,” the shorter one informs me. His chin is smoother than his forehead.

“Orders are to be followed not questioned,” motions the taller and darker one as he points towards the cells.

I ignore both of them and call Mariam, my cousin, telling her where I am, and to go and rescue my kids.

“So you have decided to disobey my orders!” the taller policeman tells me menacingly, trying to act his height.

“Be careful young boy! I am here because I forgot to sleep with your boss yesterday. When he comes and decides that it is time to sleep with me, then I will tell him that you tried seducing me!” I move close to his smooth chin and look him straight in the eyes. That gets him, and I see him cower a bit.

I am thrown in and meet some of the rowdiest women of Mombasa town: pimps, drunks, street girls, name it. I somehow gain their respect after they find out that I am locked in for forgetting to sleep with the top cop. They roar their heads off saying that it is the first time they’ve heard such a line.

The OCPD comes in at around 1p.m. and calls for me. I am famished, and I hate mind games. He looks immaculate in his nut brown uniform and decorative medals hanging on his shoulders. I wonder what achievements, other than taking advantage of desperate cases like mine, he has under his belt.

“What is your story?” he asks me, his eyes firmly on my bust, the cleavage purposely teasing him. He licks his lips.

“I conked out yesterday. Honestly,” I plead my case. He twiddles with his biro pen, my fate about to be decided in seconds.

“Last chance,” he hisses. “Today 6 p.m. sharp! Miss it, and you are in court the first thing tomorrow, and this time, I will make sure that your file does not disappear!” I wonder if these are the same fire spitting cops, who we see on TV exclaiming, “My boys returned fire after they were shot by the thieves!”

“Yes, sir!” I whisper. “Thank you very much!”

I scamper out of his office aware that quite a number of cases are carried out outside the court rooms. Mr Chief Justice should just shift his courts to the cells and lodgings. What better way of decongesting the corridors of injustice!

I call Mariam, and she sounds to be in distress, “Jessica, I cannot trace the kids! The watchman was not there when the house girl left, so he does not know whether she went with them or not!”

Damn! Where are my kids?

I drive madly to my house, and find Mariam waiting for me.

“Let us start with her church,” Mariam is practical about it. The problem is I do not know which church she attends.

Phone call? She does not have a phone.

To be continued.

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