Diary of an HIV-positive woman (16)

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

Tuesday

Jonah is his name. Loud, cantankerous and annoying are his characteristics. He is my neighbour, who lives in one of the servant quarters with a young woman whom I presume is his wife.

Jonah is colourful – far too colourful for a man. Everything around him is orange – in honour of the political party he subscribes to. Posters of his local and international political idols litter the outer walls of his house, thus making the flats look like a campaign headquarters of a political party. Efforts to get them removed always leads to loud and violent confrontations.

The music that comes from his house is that loud ohangla music of only one artiste – he seems to only have one CD, which he plays over and over again. Worse is the smell of mbuta fish that emanates from the house on almost daily basis.

“Onge!” is the word he likes uttering when he is angry, flailing his hands in the air and clicking his tongue rather too loudly and dramatically like the female characters in most Nigerian movies. I later learn that ‘Onge’ means ‘No Way!” It is one of those rare occasions where my knowledge of another language is not limited to greetings and swear words.

I hate politics and by extension politicians. That a fully grown man, like Jonah, can blindly subscribe to a politician’s rhetoric without thinking is to me the height of all stupidity. But worse than men following politicians, is the media’s obsession with politics and politicians. Come on, there are more interesting things to write about rather than the fake fights between politicians.

It is not yet 6 a.m., and the crying of a young baby jolts me from my early slumber. This is followed by the raised angry voices of women arguing, or is it screaming, at the top of their voices.

A woman with three children in tattered clothes is hammering at Jonah’s orange door. She tears a poster of a presidential candidate that Jonah adores to the ground. She crumples the poster and throws it away.

“Open this door, or I will break it,” the woman shouts as she bangs on the door. The kids look bewildered.
The whole compound is now awake. Lights from the eight main houses and the other three  servants quarters are on.

I am one of those brave – or is it stupid- enough to venture out into the cauldron. Bring on the heat! I move to the woman, who hardly looks 20 years old and the kids, all looking younger than my twins. Must be the diet.

“What is the problem, and why are you disturbing everyone’s peace?” I ask her, woman to woman. She looks every inch a villager – the kitenge head gear, old rubber shoes, long skirt and a faded multi-coloured jacket.

She momentarily looks at me, of course, trying to place whether, or not, I am one of the hubby’s toys.
Her speech, to my advantage, of course, is a mixture of broken Kiswahili, mutilated English and fluent Dholuo. The combination is hilarious, but I dare not laugh.

“This man does not come home (upcountry), he does not send any money and does not even write letters. How am I supposed to feed three children plus his sick mother?” the torrent comes out, the anger in the voice difficult to match.

“Please do not shout,” I try to caution her as a means of respect to all around. This, however, falls on deaf ears.

“Now I am told that he has married another woman,” she concludes, still shouting. “So I’ve decided to bring him his children!

“Jonah, you can hide and sleep with all the Mombasa women, but your children will not go back to Siaya with me!” she gives her final orders as she turns to address the kids.

“Wait for your father here!” The kids looking scared, hungry and confused all nod vigorously.

“Mijinga!” She gives the door one mighty kick and then takes a walk towards the gate, her swaying hips and head, a definite contender for any cat walk any day.

What is it with women and dumping kids at men’s places? When will women ever learn that a man’s job ends at the ploughing stage? The sowing, weeding and reaping will always remain a woman’s job. I cannot imagine dumping my lovely twins at their father’s place. Never!

Almost immediately, just before I turn to go to my flat, Jonah comes out bare-chested, but with an orange towel wrapped around his waist. Disgusting piece of a human being! I spit.

“What are you looking at?” he hisses at me as if I am the architect of all his tribulations.

“The 8th disaster of the modern world!” I hiss back at him, contempt written all over my face. I doubt whether he has understood the joke.

“Take your children and learn to be a man!” I summarise as I walk away to my flat. I find my Titi and Didi wide awake, their eyes expectant with questions.

“Did you fight?” Titi asks in her shrilly voice. Bad reputation that I have made with my kids.

“No mum, I did not fight! It is our neighbour who had a fight.” I explain to them.

“Whose kids are those?” Didi asks his excitement level up at the prospects of getting playmates.

“Jirani’s,” I tell him as I prepare them to get to school. It is hardly 7 a.m., and I am already tired.

The morning is slow, only Dr  Njoroge has apologised for not being there when I came visiting.

“Tomorrow, I shall wait for you first thing in the morning,” he tells me. This is turning out to be one big farce. But that aside, it is an issue that I need to get out of the way, so the earlier the better!

Mariam passes by my office at around lunch time. I am excited to see her. She looks hot in her all pink outfit.

“Can I buy you lunch?” I tease her, well aware it is that time of the month when lunch dates are rare.

“No my dear, I have a serious lunch date today,” she replies cooing with the excitement of a teenager ,who has just landed her first kiss.

“Who?”

“Guess?”

“Nooooo!”

“Yeeees!”

Mariam has her first date with the policeman’s wife!

“Keep me posted!” I tell her.

“I will need your help in distracting him,” she comes out honestly. Just when I thought I was through with the OCPD.
I feel awful about this. I am not sure I like the direction that all this is turning towards. But I know I owe Mariam, and so I smile sheepishly as she walks out of my office.

Half an hour into my lunch break, Abdul also pops into the office. He finds me dozing, and he wakes me up by calling  my number. I jerk, go for my phone and then look dazedly at Abdul.

“The restaurant deal is through,” he tells me. “I need us to see it today.”

“After work,” I tell him, and I still don’t know whether to be excited or not. I am still not sure where all this is headed to.

To be continued.

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