Diary of an HIV-positive woman (30)

By JEZEBEL KAMBO
Published January 13, 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

Tuesday

“I am not going to school,” Titi declares the moment we land in Mombasa mainland from our short exile in Malindi. Our OCPD has given us the green lights to resume our normal lives. Normal indeed!

“I want to go to school,” Didi counters. That is the problem with twins – they rarely want the same thing at the same time, unless it is mischief.

I pass by a beauty shop and buy Titi a braided wig which she tries on and immediately falls in love with. Problem solved.

“And no telling other kids that your sister has a wig,” I warn Didi. In less than five minutes, I drop the kids in school. Sister Elizabeth is amused by the contrasting hairstyles of the twins.

“You look like a model,” she tells Titi, who struts on the car park like a real model.

“And you, my little warrior, are smooth all the way,” she tells Didi, who seems to enjoy his head being patted.

“Meow!” goes Didi before taking off. We both laugh and simultaneously say, “Kids!”

I get to the car and start it to go back to the office. My mind is in one million different places. I need to sort out mum’s case urgently. My phone rings, and I know that it is the OCPD, Mariam, Susan or Abdalla. They are the ones who have my new number.

“Hallo,” I reply.

“Can we meet today?” asks the OCPD.

“Sure,” I tell him. “4 p.m. at the hospital. Mum’s operation is due on Thursday.”

There is a lot of explaining that he has to do. For now I am unofficially a member of his Cell Five, though I have categorically told the OCPD that I am not and will not sell or distribute any form of drugs, alcohol or weapons. Neither will I attend any of their training sessions. I also told him that I wanted my money and handbag back. This at least materialised this morning when my handbag was delivered intact at my house by the same crooks who had taken it.

“You must be a big boss,” the man who was trying to fondle me in the car had the onerous task of delivering the bag.

I take the stairs to the office feeling like I have been away forever. Its amazing how 12 hours of activity can disorientate one so fast in such a short time. I have hardly sat down or reacted to Teresia’s complains and there is a visitor for me.

“Daktari, what brings the mountain to Mohamed?” I ask him as I usher him into Mr. Kombo’s office, where I am assured of some privacy.

“Just following up on my favourite patient. How are you doing?” he asks, his eyes firmly glued to my neck. The rashes are spreading fast. I am far too conscious about my skin. I am not sure what to tell him, or how much he knows about my life.

“Honestly daktari, my life is torpsy turvy,” I tell him.

“You need to attend the support groups and to start on the ARVs immediately,” he tells me. “And you also need to eat well and party less. Rumour has it that you have been part of the Mombasa Orgy groupies!”

I lower my head in shame. Small town syndrome seems to have caught up with Mombasa where there are no secrets from one street to another.

“It was only one party,” I weakly defend myself. I feel bad about this. Maybe that is his mission.

“Did you use a condom?” he asks.

I pause. “Honestly, I don’t remember what took place after three drinks.”

“That’s quiet sad,” he tells me as he stands to leave. I see the sadness in his face, and the guilty pangs hit me hard.

“Think of your children. They need you in good health now, 10 years later, and 20 years later to come. Play safe girl,” he says.

The doctor leaves me depressed. He is right; I should start on those ARVs straight away. Today, I promise myself. Today I shall make it for the support group meeting without fail. I swear not to eat junk food, or drink alcohol, or engage in reckless sex. Sounds like new year resolutions in the middle of the year.

Hardly has the doctor left than Jumah walks in looking solemn. I take a deep breath, and as I exhale, Jumah unleashes his latest problem.

“My land upcountry has been grabbed by my younger brother,” he starts. Kenyans and land! I am speechless, so Jumah continues, “He has been moving the sisal fence deeper into my land, thus grabbing vital portions of my land. May I travel upcountry to sort out this mess?”

Travelling upcountry means that Jumah is looking for fare. I don’t understand these people from Western Kenya. They spend most of their time and money travelling to sort out problems that could easily be ignored.

“How much?” I ask Jumah.

“Any amount will do,” he tells me. I snort and Jumah gets the message. “Kshs 5,000,” he finally says, as he shifts on his feet. I remove the money from the drawer and before giving him, I decide to play a dangerous game with him.

“Where is Pamba?” I ask him, the money still in my hands. I look at Jumah struggling to fish for an answer. He mumbles inaudibly. I open the drawer and return the money. I lock it and stand to leave.

“Okay, I will tell you where he is,” he murmurs as he looks behind his shoulders. “He is at Hotel Casablanca supervising his tuk tuks!”

“What about the tyres and battery that were stolen yesterday?” I ask. This time Jumah goes totally mute pleading ignorance. I decide not to push it too hard, but from Jumah, I can see that there is a game whose rules I need to learn.

At lunchtime, I make my way to the hospital to hopefully sort out mum’s operation once and for all.
I take to the stairs of the ward to see how mum is faring on. I hate hospitals – the smell, the long faces punctuated by occasional screams are just a recipe for depression.

Ward 10. I move along the corridors and come to Bed Number Seven. The bed is empty and my spirits immediately sink to the lowest. My heart starts pounding. I crudely grab one of the nurses, “Where is the lady who was in this bed?”

The nurse looks at me and replies flatly, “She is gone! Went yesterday afternoon.” The nurse walks away.
Silence. One, two, three, four seconds pass. I digest the message. Then I panic.

“Gone?” I scream at the top of my voice. “Gone? My mother is dead!” The scream attracts attention, and soon Dr. Tobiko appears.

“Why didn’t you call me?” I again scream at the doctor, who looks puzzled by my melodrama.

“Come to my office,” he pulls me as I wail my heart out. “Your phone has been off since Friday,” he says.
I now remember. “We even came to your office on Saturday to look for you.” I remember Teresia saying that.

“Your mother was discharged yesterday afternoon against medical advice by a man who claims to be her husband,” the doctor tells me.

Dad?

To be continued.

Related Posts