Diary of an HIV-positive woman (20)

By JEZEBEL KAMBO
Published December 7, 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

Saturday

My phones have been off for almost two days. I just don’t have the courage to face the world, but the world neither has patience nor time for me. And I vow not to switch the phones on.

A letter is delivered to me early in the morning. It is from my mother, and she says that she cannot get through to me by phone, hence the letter writing.

Mum is sick, and she needs urgent medical attention. I debate whether the trip to her place is worth making. It is a place that drains the energy out of anyone. Right now I doubt that I have the strength to fight with my brothers and my nephew – a crop of the most useless men I have ever come across. Shida Mingi, my kids’ father, must be definitely related to them.

“Tell mum that I will be there by lunch time,” I instruct the bearer of the note. He hesitates.

“She said that it is very serious,” he tells me. I scribble a note to mum. Forget calling, I am not ready to face the phones.

“I have a few things to work out first, and then I will be there.”

I drag myself out of the living room to the balcony to warm up to the world. I see Mariam coming up the stairs. Not so early in the morning please. I just don’t think I have energy for anybody. I move and meet her at the door.

“Hey girl, where the hell have you been?” Mariam moves to give me a hard and long hug. “What happened to your phones? You even missed work yesterday!”

We move to the sitting room. “Life. Just want a breather, things are too hectic, and I don’t want to drag everyone down!” I tell her.

She laughs loudly at me before declaring, “It’s must be a man, that is why I prefer women!”

Mariam shoots straight. “My date with the OCPD’s wife went very well. We are going out tonight,” she tells me with all the giggling of a teenager. I wish I had the same bubbly feeling towards life.

“That’s great!” I tell her, but I am lifeless. Mariam notices but decides to push on.

“I need your help, Jessica!” Mariam uses my full name, and I know that she really is in need. “Can you date the policeman tonight?”

“My periods started yesterday,” I tell Mariam, who looks disappointed. “Something triggered them, and they came early,” I offer a further explanation, which I know is not necessary.

“I will think of something,” Mariam stands to leave. My effort to get her to take tea does not work. She seems disappointed.

After Mariam has left, I gear up to go to mum’s place. A shower and heavy breakfast later, I enter the car, and the photocopy of the Mr  Kombo’s black book stares at me. I have not had a chance to read it. I sit and open the first page. Printed in neat handwriting are full names of a woman whom I presume was Mrs Kombo. Detailed information of birth dates, working place, siblings details follow. Quite intriguing is the information on the all the love making styles that he had with her.

I love the way he starts the entry. “The first time I met Jane was in a matatu on my way to Old Town…….”

A stone hits the window of my car, and I come out only to see my cantankerous neighbour’s kids, running away. Those Jonah kids need a good spanking. It’s hardly a week since they came, and the number of windows that they have broken is increasing by the day. The walls – incidentally not on their side but ours – are full of charcoal scrawling and drawings. And his father will hear nothing about their indiscipline. “Onge!” will be his thunderous response.

I close the book, and drive off to mum’s, west of Mombasa town on the famed Mikindani houses, a real portrayal of Old Mombasa. The Arabs left a rich legacy of trading skills, ornaments, enviable artistic carpentry skills. This part of town oozes with history, which cannot simply be ignored. The old carvings of doors, stools, scabbards, swords are a testimony that the estate was central to traders.

I am at mum’s place within 10 minutes. I take to the metallic gate, knock loudly at the door,  and mum’s house girl opens it. A strong and repulsive smell of stale sweat and alcohol hits my nose. I almost throw up.

“What smell is that?” I ask, though I know the answer very well. “Where is mum?” I ask the perplexed house girl.

“In her room,” the girl replies. I go to the room and find mom shivering like a wet leaf.

“Get into the car!” I order her as I match out of her room to the opposite side with two other bedrooms. I yank open the door of the first bedroom and there asleep are several bodies. I target the women – two of them. I get a belt and start whipping them. They quickly get up, dress and leave the house in a huff, hurling insults at me. I do the same in the next room, and within two minutes there is a shouting match between myself and the three men in the house.

“Shame on you!” I scream at them. “How can you sleep with prostitutes in your mother’s house?”

My ever drugged nephew slurs, “Kwani you want us to sleep with you?”

My eldest brother, the one who smashed dad’s knee cap years back, moves menacingly towards me. I know he is a violent man and is capable of nastier stuff.

“You wait, and you shall see fire,” I run to the car to find mum groaning in pain. What she has witnessed has just given her increased her blood pressure.

“What happened to the TV and DVD I bought you last week?” I ask mum as I start the car.

“They disappeared,” she says softly, “when I was at the market!”

I know mum too well. “Which of those ‘grandfathers’ sold it off this time?”

Mum is quiet, so I continue with my lecture. “This time I will teach them a lesson they will never forget. I will call the police, and those ‘grandfathers’ will have to return my TV and DVD!”

This time mum talks. “I will tell Omari to return it!”

“So you even know who stole it?” I ask mum, angry that she is letting such useless men like my nephew Omari to ruin her life.

We reach the clinic just adjacent to the expansive Mombasa Polytechnic, an institution, which has churned out countless professionals- including myself -  into the market. I accompany mum to the doctor’s room. I know what the prescription will be.

“She needs to be admitted for observation,” the doctor tells me in front of my mum.

“How many days?” I ask Tobiko, a  middle-aged doctor,  who has been attending to my mum’s case,  for the last two years.

“Today and tomorrow. She should be out by Monday morning,” the doctor confirms.

Mum has no problems with checking in. I facilitate her admission, which takes less than half an hour. I leave her at the hospital and drive straight to the police station. I need those ‘grandfathers’ to be locked up and disciplined while mum is away.

Mr OCPD, another favour is coming your way. Mariam, we are game tonight. It’s time to switch on my phones and live. It’s time to rumble. Bring it on!

To be continued.

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