Diary of an HIV-positive woman (29)

By JEZEBEL KAMBO
Published January 10, 2010

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 5

Monday

As a matter of urgency, I seriously need to sort out mum’s operation. This means that I have to hit the road from Malindi all the way to Mombasa.

“Still remain undercover,” Mr. OCPD instructs me. He offers to drop me to Mombasa town and pick me when I am done. We all are using different phone lines, so I have not communicated with mum about her operation. I leave the kids in Mariam’s capable hands. If all goes well, we should all leave Malindi today evening. But again that is at the OCPD’s discretion.

I pass by the office and find Teresia, our tea lady, and Pamba, the driver, whiling away some time. Mr. Kombo is still in Nairobi – he will be reporting back on Wednesday.

“Mwana, you really have disappeared,” she says, as she inspects my clothing. “And your skin looks funny.”

Teresia is right. Rashes are starting to spread all over my body, and it is a matter of time, before they reach my face. I need to see the doctor soon.

“Just from the police cells,” I mutter to her.

Teresia looks horrified.

“Is that why some men came looking for you on Saturday afternoon?” she asks.

This time I am the one who is horrified.

“I am rushing to the bank and should be back just before lunchtime. Take down all messages,” I instruct her.

At the door I meet Pamba looking overly concerned. Please not now Pamba.

“The cars’ tyres were stolen last night,” he says. My mind is far.

“Good morning Pamba. I will sort that one out when I come back,” I tell him as I walk out of the room.

“When will that be?” he asks, as if he was born with a car in hospital.

“When I am in the office next,” I answer.

I disappear down the stair and hear him shout that even the car battery was vandalised. That Pamba man is trying to be smart. Problem is they all forget that the loose ends are slowly tying them up.

I am at the bank in less than 10 minutes, mid month traffic being minimal: lack of money to fuel junky cars, so goes the old Kenyan joke.

“The loan application is successful and funds are already in your account,” the manager informs me, as he checks on his computer. I am elated as this means that I can book for mum her operation.

“How much can I withdraw across the counter?” I ask, because I do not have a cheque book.

“All of it,” replies the manager. I make some mental notes and decide to withdraw half the amount – Kshs 250,000. The bank manager facilitates this, and within 15 minutes, I am through. I walk out a happy woman. Walk casually so that those prying eyes do not suspect you of carrying so much money, so goes a common street parlance. I abide by it.

I move to the parking lot and open the front door of my car, only for three smartly dressed men to appear.

“Police,” says one of them, as he quickly shows his badge to me. “Please do accompany us to the CID headquarters for questioning!”

Finally the law has caught up with me. The OCPD was right in saying that we should keep a low profile. He will be raging mad to learn of my arrest, though he knows that I needed to sort out mum’s case.

Two of the men get into the car’s back seat, and one on the passenger’s seat. Before starting the car, I try to plead my case, “Gentlemen, I am sure we can talk about this and come to some agreement!”

They are calm and do not raise any fuss. The one next to me speaks, “Orders from above, lady. We talk at the station.”

I rest my case, and leave it to the gods to decide my fate. I start the car, and drive out of town towards the CID headquarters. Five minutes on airport road leads us to one of those deserted roads.

“Stop and pull aside, I shall drive,” the man tells me.

“Don’t act smart,” the other one talks from behind.

The change is smooth, and I am at the back of the car sandwiched between the two men.

“Please hand over the hand bag,” one of the men instructs me. It is then that the doubts start flowing. Are these men real policemen? There goes Kshs 250,000 – mum’s operation money! I reluctantly hand over the money, despair setting into me. I have heard stories of banks colluding with crooks to swindle people, who have just withdrawn big amounts of money. I will take this up with the bank if I get out of this alive.

“Why are you doing this to me?” I finally gather strength to ask in between sobs. The itching starts, and again the scratching comes back in full force.

The men are silent as the driver manoeuvres sharp bends and rough roads that definitely lead away from the CID headquarters. Somehow I expect the men to blindfold me, but either they are so confident that I will not report them, or they just don’t care what happens to me. Then the bickering and whining starts.

“Why should we hand over all the money to the boss yet we are the ones who risk our necks and lives?” the man on my left starts.

“He takes all the money, all the women and leaves us with leftovers. It’s not fair,” joins in the next one.

“We deliver the drugs, collect prostitutes to him, and follow up the runners, and then this type of pay!”

This is quite interesting, only that I am taken hostage. I would have loved to meet the boss under different circumstances. And who said that men do not whine?

“Why don’t we taste her a bit before giving the boss? She looks ripe,” comments the driver as he lets out a weird laugh. The others don’t find it funny, though one of the men starts fondling my breasts and pinching my nipples. This one did not attend Romantic High School! How disgusting! It is like a snake crawling up my body!

“You have already forgotten what happened to Kamale and his family?” the man on my right asks.

There is silence, and even the hand that was crawling up my breast is quickly withdrawn. Some murmuring which I strain to hear follows.

“It was needless to kill his wife and kids,” comments the driver, as he turns towards some huge mansion that is surrounded by a stone wall that looks like 20 feet high. The big black gate with electric fencing automatically opens, and I notice no guards or workers around.

“That is what happens when you desert the boss,” replies the one next to me as the car is parked on a massive parking space that is paved with stone tiles. I notice a mural of a serpent in the centre of the parking lot, and I also notice no cars or people in sight. The silence is characteristic of a monastery. A few trees adorn the compound.

“Out!” orders the driver. I look around at the huge mansion, which is three storied with dark windows ringed with heavy metallic grills. The roof has red tiles. I wonder who lives here. “Come!”

I meekly follow the three men, who are no longer as menacing as they were. I still need that handbag of mine. The ‘leader’ rings the bell, and three well fed and muscular bouncers dressed in all black and donning designer shades open the door, look left, right like someone about to cross the road. There is some nonverbal communication, and the three men lead me to an expansive sitting room with a mixture of gold and off white walls. It  is tastefully furnished with cozy seats and expensive paintings, definitely the work of a professional designer.

“Sit!” one guard orders me.

I sit on the nearest black leather sofa, awaiting the next part of my instructions. My mouth is dry, and the air conditioner does not help much. The clanging of doors behind me leads to a turning of heads, where an old Arab man, definitely in his sun set days, in a shukha casually walks in.

“Call Five,” he orders the men. He has a powerful silky voice, which does not match his age. He reminds me of the many mafia movies that I have watched; only that this time, it is real.

“She will join Cell Five as a runner. Make sure she is well inducted into the system, and that she understands all the rules,” the boss orders one of the men next to me. He must be the Don Corleone around here.

The ‘Cell Five’ comes in from a different door that the older man had used. I turn to see who this ‘Cell Five’ is. I cannot explain my shock. It is the OCPD!

To be continued.

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