Diary of an HIV-positive woman (22)

By JEZEBEL KAMBO
Published December 13, 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

Monday

I am at work early, having missed out Friday and Saturday. My mind is more settled, though my soul is tortured. The emptiness has just refused to fade away. But life has to go on. And it surely goes on, oblivious of my emptiness and torture.

Mr Kombo comes in and looks at me with those eyes, “How will we recover the time you missed out?”

I know when Mr Kombo is spoiling for a fight, and I know how to duck his jabs. “I will make up on this coming public holiday,” I tell him, though my mind is not on him, but on the book I have been going through. Of particular interest is a 22-year-old university student labelled XY. It is one of the few entries that Mr Kombo has not used names of his victims.

“Give me the exact time and dates of the compensation,” Mr Kombo mutters as he walks to his office.

Like mother like daughter. Date? December 25. She was 18 when we first made love, a fresh virgin and vulnerable and easily impressionable. It was the most explosive encounter I have ever had with a teenager…..

“Hi Jessica!” a sharp voice interrupts my memory and recounting of Mr Kombo’s entries. I turn to acknowledge Susan’s presence in the office.

“Hi girl!” I stand from my chair and give her a hug. It is always great to have someone full of life and spirit.

“You smell so good!” she purrs. “Which perfume do you use?” she asks as she continues to savour my scent.

“Jairo Doir!” I answer proudly though I know that my supplier of perfumes, Abdul, has gone under. I cannot reach him.

Susan goes to greet her dad and then settles into the office routine. My cell phone rings. It is the doctor.

“How is my young girl?” he inquires.

“Couldn’t be better!” I answer inaudibly, though I know that he knows me inside out.

“Have you contacted any of the support groups I gave you?” he asks. Silence. “There is a meeting today at my clinic at 5:30 p.m. Please try and attend. I am sure you will like it.”

“I will try,” I answer him. And I mean it. There is no harm in walking in to see what type of people are in the group.

Teresia keeps me on toes with her crazy demands about sugar, tea leaves and milk. I am sure that I bought enough groceries for a week.

“What do you mean finished?” I ask her.

“There is nothing on the shelves. Come and see for yourself,” she invites me.

This woman is driving me mad. It is time to take tighter control of the office budget. With Pamba, Juma and Teresia combining forces, soon I will be greying or balding before I turn 30.

One of the errands I have to run today is out of the Central Business District. It is here that I sweet talk the driver to drop me at my former primary school, Mwaki, some 20 minutes drive from Mombasa town to the dusty roads of South Coast. We take a ferry and make the cross over to the other side of the town. The landscape changes, and the buildings get smaller as we drive down to my former primary school. It is just after 1 p.m., and I know that school is still in session.

“Wait for me here as I sort out some issues. I won’t be long!” I instruct Pamba, who stretches the driver’s seat ready for a nap. Ever since the case of the woman and the kid in the office, Pamba has had some renewed respect and affection for me. Like all men, he does not openly show his affection.

My primary school compound seems much faded and dustier than it was 10 years ago when I left, but the classes are the same: dark, dusty, broken doors and windows. Nostalgic thoughts stream back as I see myself running after my friends or away from some naughty boys. Time really does fly.

I walk to the headteacher’s office to request if I can see Mr Mambo. The secretary is not there, so I go to the wooden door marked ‘Headmaster’ in an uneven painting that has since turned yellow with time. I knock on the door, just like I used to do years ago.

“Come in,” comes a gruff male voice. I open the door and walk in. The room is full of yellowed books, files, charts, posters on the wall. They look aged and not well kept. The man does not lift his head.

“Please sit down!” he instructs me. Still there is no eye contact. The voice rings a bell, but I dismiss it.

“How are you mwalimu?” I purr softly and sensuously. This time the head comes up slowly. He sits up, and the shock on his face is the same as the one on mine.

“Mr Mambo!” I squeal out in shock. “You mean you are the headmaster!” I shout out. He has not changed and looks much younger than he was 10 years back. He mistakes my shock and goes straight for the defensive.

“Who are you?” he pretends. Memory lapse my foot! How can you forget those firm breasts that you fondled in the staffroom years back? How can you forget taking my hand and placing it on your private parts? How can you forget the moaning and groaning as you forced me to rub your private parts?

“I am Jessica Kambo. I left here 10 years back,” I assure him as I remove my shawl to reveal my stunning gold laced top, thus exposing my cleavage. For obvious reasons, I have not worn a bra. I notice his eyes lingering on my bust.

Satisfied that I have not come to fight, his memory suddenly refreshes, his face beaming with a half moon smile.

“Yes, Jessica. I remember you very well. What can I do for you?”

“I work with an NGO that alleviates poverty in rural areas. I wanted to find out how we can assist the school,” I tell him.

“Sure, we would love that,” he says, but his mind is far, very very far.

“Can we meet for a drink today evening?” I ask him. “A place of your choice.”

He readily agrees, and we sum it up.

“Thank you very much mwalimu for all the lessons I learnt from you,” I say as I stand up and go to him for a hug. He literally runs for it. I hug him and feel his manhood rising. He does not want to let go, and I listen to his breath becoming raspier. I withdraw. Yes, I got him! I give him a peck on his lips and leave him transfixed on the floor. Today, Mr Mambo. Today.

We drive back to the city, and I tell Pamba to drop me by the hospital to facilitate my mum’s discharge. I head straight to the ward and find mum in low spirits.

“Further tests, which means I stay here longer. I hate it here!” she tells me.

“At least you will be away from those lazy grandfathers whose job is just to stress you,” I assure her.

“How come none of them have even come to see me?” she asks, and I know that I have to be very smart.

“The doctor has ordered that you need to rest!” I respond.

The doctor comes in and pulls me outside to discuss mum’s progress.

“We ran some tests and found lumps on both her breasts. I don’t want to speculate but it is not good,” the doctor tells me honestly.

“Both breasts? So when does she leave hospital?” the shock still evident in my voice and face.

“Tomorrow morning. The results will be ready by the end of this week,” he says.

I keep mum company and then leave for my appointment with the support group at 5:30 p.m. This is one meeting that I am not looking forward to. I have been trying my best to drown my thoughts and not think of my condition. But being HIV positive is a permanent reminder that my life is definitely shortened unnaturally by the disease. Dr Njoroge has been on my case to make sure that I do attend this support group. But again this will depend a lot on my moods!

Mr Mambo’s date is at 7 p.m. He has to pay. As I vowed before, I got this AIDS thing from a man, and the sooner I spread it the better for me.

To be continued.

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