Diary of an HIV-positive woman (15)

By JEZEBEL KAMBO
Published November 19, 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

Monday

I have not slept a wink the whole night. Mariam and I spent the whole night looking for the kids in all the possible corners we could: friends, family, enemies. For the first time in four years, I call their father, Shida Mingi. Maybe, just maybe, he could have taken the kids out for a drink. Long short but worth a try.

“What type of a woman are you not to know where the kids are?” he asks rather crudely. “Wait till our next court case!”

“Wrinkled and deflated balls!” I shout at him for taking advantage of a situation that calls for calm.

Finally at 7 a.m., my maid, Mwikali, troops into the house with my kids full of excitement and stories. I am speechless as I look at the house girl, who is quite oblivious of the trauma she has put me through. Mariam is the one who talks, “Where were you with the kids?”

The housegirl misses the sarcasm in the question.

“We went to our church, then for a trip, then to my grandmother’s place in Changamwe!”

Didi takes over and tells me how they were treated like royalty. Honestly, I am speechless.

“Mum, are we going to school today?” Titi asks in her shrilly voice.

Didi knows the answer even before my tired eyes and emotion take over.

“No! You have forgotten that mummy was sent away for fighting,” Didi’s voice carries the tinge of pride at the fight I had.

“I don’t want the other mummy to hurt my prince,” I tell Didi, but I know that they know the truth.

Mariam knows of another school that we could try. Why not? The kids bathe and get ready for their new school – if they are accepted. We drive off to a church kindergarten run by some Catholic nuns. I explain the dire situation to the headteacher, and she has no problem accepting the kids. I pay the fees in cash.

“Please don’t tell anyone that mummy fought with another mummy,” I plead with my twin angels huddled snugly next to me. “This is our family secret, and no one should ever know!”

There is a lump in my throat as I bid them goodbye. Such sweet angels going through a rough patch just because their mummy fought!

“Next?” I ask Mariam as she applies make up in the car.

“Police line, his house to meet his wife,” Mariam, in reference to the OCPD, replies without batting an eye lid.

I am not sure we are doing the right thing. My phone rings, and I give it to Mariam.

“She is driving,” Mariam tells the caller. “What court case are you talking about?” again Mariam responds, but rather too aggressively to my liking. The cursing that follows from Mariam makes me guess that the caller has hung up on her!

“What happened?” I ask, though I know the answer very well.

“He says that he is expecting you in court at 9 a.m., and that he will make sure that you are jailed,” she says calmly.

“Maybe we should go,” I tell Mariam, who lets out a long string of sarcastic laughter.

“The problem with you Jessica is that you are too soft – everywhere. Let me show you how to deal with these Mombasa policemen!”

We both laugh as my phone reminder goes off. Mariam checks it and reads: “Dr. Njoroge’s appointment!” Oh no, not again!

We drive to the police’s residence just adjacent to the station – different gates though. The government needs to do something about the state of these houses. The brown roofs are dilapidated, the walls total stripped of their colour, and the doors just hanging by their hinges. No wonder cops in this country are such a dejected lot.

Mariam alights and goes to find out the OCPD’s residence. It is right at the extreme end of the neat compound, just next to the well trimmed hedges, which I am sure are maintained by inmates. Sure as rain, she finds it, and comes back for me. We move, my heart beating rather too loudly till my ears seem to be on a permanent vibrate mode. Mariam knocks softly. The door is opened by a stunning lady.

“Hi, I am Mariam and have been sent by your husband to show you these gold chains and earrings,” Mariam starts right at the door.

We are ushered in by the graceful lady,  who, almost my height, is donning a traditional Swahili dress, which makes her look regal. We walk into a lovely house with delicately coloured walls. The lovely hostess flashes a wide and warm smile as she shows us where to sit. Makes you wonder what men never see in their houses and spouses.

“Please have a seat,” she tells us as she motions the housegirl to serve us tea. She has an angelic voice, and her mannerism cements the reputation that coastal women are renowned for. Mariam displays the wares of the table and like all women, the glitter takes over our hostess.

“How much?” she asks warily.

“Your husband helped us with a difficult case,” starts Mariam, a master at making up stories, “so we shall give you the earrings free-of-charge. The chain, we shall sell to you at Kshs 500 a piece.” Mariam tactfully helps her to fit the earrings. My eyes cannot be deceiving me, but I notice Mariam subtly rubbing her breasts against the woman’s shoulders. Mariam’s hands also linger on a bit too long on certain parts of the woman’s body.

My phone rings! It is 8:45 a.m., and I know who it is.

“Where are you?” the barking comes from the other end. This time the tension in me has gone. Mariam is a real tactician.

“In your house, selling gold to your wife. Speak to her,” I rush the conversation so as not to be caught.

The wife blubbers on, “Thank you so much for the gold chains and earrings. I am so grateful, you don’t know what this means to me!”

From her expression, we guess that all is well. Within minutes, he is at the door of his house immaculately dressed in his brown inspector’s uniform. He removes his cap and puts it on a chair. I am tense, but Mariam is ice cool.

The officer expertly examines the gold chains. “They are genuine!” he declares as he forks out shs 1,000 for two gold chains. I am unable to meet his gaze.

“Thank you officer for helping us out with that difficult case,” Mariam declares, as she wraps everything. “You have a very beautiful wife and an exemplary house. The best I have ever seen in Mombasa!”

“Thank you!” he murmurs, his eyes hard on me. We leave the house rather hastily and make it to the car. Mariam is in fits of laughter.

“If you want to fix a man, just target his wife or kids,” she expertly tells me.

“What about the case?” I ask naively.

“He won’t touch you! What we have done is to tie a string around his balls. He makes a move, and we pull the string!” Mariam’s colourful language still baffles me.

“Were you by any chance seducing the policeman’s wife?” I ask in amusement.

Mariam lets out another long hooting laughter. “I have her. She enjoyed the touches. Watch me move for a kill!” This is getting a bit too complicated for me now!

We drive towards the Central Business District,  where I drop Mariam. I then go to Dr Njoroge’s office. I might as well finish with him once and for all.

I park my car outside the building, take to the stairs, my thoughts all fixed on my medical results. Tough thoughts.
I am at the reception. “Is Dr  Njoroge in?” I ask nervously.

“No, he is on his ward rounds. He’ll be here in the afternoon,” the receptionist lets me know. Damn.

I drive to the office only to be met at the door by Pamba’s woman, back with the kid, and what looks like some officials from the court. This is one woman, who definitely knows her rights.

“You told me to report to the police, and I did. I am here with social workers from the Cradle. She hands a letter asking Pamba to report to the chief within 24 hours, or else he will be arrested. The letter also instructs me, as his direct supervisor, to institute proceedings for his salary to be attached.

“I will work on it today,” I tell the social workers. The woman flashes me a victorious smile. I have to say that I am proud of  this one. I smile back. Genially. I love brave women.
To be continued.

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