Diary of an HIV-positive woman (21)

By JEZEBEL KAMBO
Published December 9, 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 4

Sunday

I arrive home early in the morning, just before the house girl, Mwikali, takes her off day. Yesterday night was a milestone for me. I took my first step towards sleeping with men with the full knowledge that I am HIV-positive. I am embarrassed to say that I enjoyed every single minute of it, and the poor OCPD had to ask for  a time out.

Unfortunately there is this dark feeling at the corner of my heart, a kind of deep grey clouds of rain that refuses to go away, however much music, dancing, sleeping around I indulge in. It feels like walking around with a wet sweater on ones back.

The children are still asleep, and I am not going to disturb them. I go to my bedroom, and I have no trace of sleep or fatigue. It is time to sit down and make my hit list, just like Mr Kombo’s. If he can do it with women, why can’t I do it with men?

It is pay back time. Top on my list is my kids’ father, Shida. This man abandoned me when I was most vulnerable. I got into fights with my mother about my pregnancy, forcing me to move out. Shida waited for me to deliver then broke the news to me in a maternity ward that he did not think the kids were his! He refused to pay the bill. As a result, the hospital’s staff  detained me for a week , and only released me when Mariam and an understanding Dr Njoroge came to my rescue.

Five years later, the pain and embarrassment is still fresh. Shida has never even sent a single cent for the kids’ upkeep. I jot down his full names, age, and schools he attended. This is fun.

There is a knock on my door.

“I am going to church,” the house girl pipes. I get out of bed and check to make sure that she has finished her chores.

“Have a good Sunday, and please don’t be late tomorrow,” I repeat my standard mantra to her.

She leaves the house, and the kids are up and about.

“Hi mum!” the screech comes from the room. “Where were you yesterday?”

I have no ready answer. I start my maternal duty of getting the kids ready to Church, and within half an hour,  breakfast is done, and the kids are ready to shower.

“Can we go out and play a bit before showering?” they both ask after hearing the squealing of other kids outside.

“Sure!” I reply and before I finish, the kids scamper down the stairs. Some peace at last, even if it is for half an hour.

The next man on my list is my standard 8 science teacher, a Mr Mambo, who used to grab girls’ breasts in the staffroom. I cannot forget the first time it happened to me.

“Please see me after school about your science grades,” he said.

I had naively gone to the staffroom with all the fear that a 14-year-old could master when facing her teachers. The school was deserted, and Mr Mambo was the only teacher around.

“Come and sit here,” Mr Mambo ordered, motioning me to a chair adjacent to his.

First, his hand stroke my thighs, leaving me frozen. Next followed my breasts, which he did rather crudely. I can’t remember how long it lasted, but it seemed like forever. Mr Mambo dismissed me, and I immediately went to the school’s pit latrine to cry my heart out.  I did not share what he did to me with anyone, and the guilt haunted me throughout my teenage life. Mr Mambo, I am coming for you. This time I will be on top, and I will do all the stroking.

The door opens, and Titi is back in the house.

“Can I take this bread for Hitler?” she asks.

 Jonah’s kids have the strangest names I have ever heard. There is Makeba, Gaddafi, and Hitler, names that my kids find hilarious.

Didi follows a few minutes  later to take some cookies to them.

“Mum, can we not go out today?” he asks, reminding me that Sunday is a day that we hardly stay around.

“You are having a good time, aren’t you?” I hardly finish the the question, but Didi assumes that it is an approval. Jonah must be a way today, otherwise, his kids would not be playing with my kids. His other wife has not been around for some time. She must also be tired of him.

Back to the hit list. How can I forget Mrs Matano, and how she unceremoniously threw me out of her office because of her husband was eyeing me? I still have Mr Matano’s numbers, and I know that he would not mind meeting with me again. I will make sure that Mrs Matano knows about the encounter.

How can I forget that horrible headmistress, who expelled my kids from school? I understand that she is not married but that does now worry me. I will talk to Mr Charo, the P.E. teacher to let me know who she hangs around with. Mombasa is a village and almost one end of towns knows what the other end is up to. I will also need Mr Charo’s help in tracking down the lady, whom I fought with. It is pay back time.

This is getting juicier by the minute. I didn’t know that there were quite a number of people who needed a favour for being nasty to me. I am about to call the kids in when I suddenly remember my high school chemistry teacher, Ms Kifaru, who devoted a lot of her time deflating our egos and demeaning us.

“Some of you girls should be in the streets peddling flesh and not wasting my time in class,”  she often told me. “Beauty alone will take you nowhere.” I can’t forget her meaningless punishments, especially the one of filling a 50-litre bucket using a tea spoon!

Ms Kifaru must be married by now or in a relationship. Finding her will not be that hard. Teachers are the easiest people to track down on this earth.

The list is growing, but right now my mind turns to the men I have slept with without protection for the last couple of months. I still am not sure about Mr Kombo, and whether he is the one who infected me with the HIV-virus. He is one of the few men I slept with without protection.

There is the policeman, Mr OCPD, whom I have gone out with twice – including yesterday-  and who I am sure will continue chasing me. Here comes the complication. His wife is having an affair with my cousin, Mariam, and I do not want to hurt Mariam.

I conclude that Mariam is an adult,  and should be responsible for her own actions! There is no way I will tell her that I am HIV- positive. But wait a minute, what if Mariam is already positive? What about the OCPD and his wife? What if they are already positive?  Heck, who is safe any more?

Abdul, my 22-year-old boyfriend, who prefers anal sex, is next on my list!  We have not dated for long, but I can’t help wondering how many girls he has in his chain.

My MP ‘friend’  also comes to mind. Although it was just a one-night stand, I could have infected him with the virus. What about the bouncer at Sceners Club  that I had a quickie with in the toilets. Gosh, this is beyond craziness!

It is getting hard to know who infected who, and I am not sure anymore about who is positive, and who is not.

It is almost lunchtime, and with 14 men and nine women, my list is far from being complete.

The kids are quiet, and I am a bit concerned. I walk to the balcony, and I see Didi and Gadaffi having a peeing contest. Gadaffi is giggling.

“Mine can go higher than yours,” Didi tells Gadaffi, as he lets out a long string of pee on the wall. I am mortified.

“David!” I shout at him. He runs and disappears into the other flats.

Where is Titi? It’s time for lunch.

To be continued.

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