Diary of an HIV-positive woman (31)

By JEZEBEL KAMBO
Published January 17, 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

Wednesday

It is now official. I am on ARVs and have been given a strict programme of medication and dieting to follow: minimal or preferably no alcohol, the right food, rest, proper sleep blah blah blah.

The literature on ARVs has not left my handbag. I am struggling to remember the names of the ARVs. NRTIs and NNRTIs – nucleoside analogues which interfere with the action of an HIV protein called reverse transcriptase, which the virus needs to make new copies of itself. All Greek to me, but necessary for my survival.

The support group meeting yesterday was an eye opener, though I still do not understand how those guys can talk so openly about their status and their sex lives. Maybe I will get there.

I now have two buddies seconded to me to help me fight the stigma and to help me follow the rules and keep by the guidelines. Sorry, but I have forgotten their names – shows you how much I value them. I hate preachy people and approaches towards lifestyles.

It is 5 a.m. and again sleep is proving to be elusive, and I keep on replaying all the incidents of my life. Some are just hilarious. Mum has pulled a disappearing act on us. Nobody knows where she is, and she is not picking any of our calls. The grandfathers are worried because they now have to fend for themselves. Good for them. My last resort is shags. The problem is I do not know exactly where my upcountry home is, but that will be solved soon. I have a general idea and for this, I will require the help of my siblings. Maybe I should call my priest brother. He is more reliable.

The OCPD is still on my neck about not meeting him yesterday. He sounds very desperate. Sir, I will meet you soon. At 6 a.m., I get off the bed and go to the maid’s room to get an extra pair of duvet – strange but I am feeling cold.

The house girl is missing from her bed. Well, at 5 a.m., she could be anywhere from fetching water to making breakfast. I go back to my room and about half an hour later I hear a familiar shout.

“Onge!” booms Jonah’s voice. Since the fire, I am very careful not to ignore what happens to those poor kids. I drag myself out of bed and to the parking lot where I am met by scenes of an angry Jonah wrestling a council officer to the ground. One wonders what council officers are doing at such an ungodly hour. But I guess that is the best time to get Jonah.

“What do you mean there is no woman to take care of my children?” he shouts at them, holding the man by the scruff of his neck while the woman askari keeps her distance.

“Come out Mrs. Okwon,” Jonah shouts. And out comes Jonah’s latest wife, a lady I know far too well. I hide my shock as Mrs. Okwon walks out confidently in her night gown.

“Is there a problem here?” she asks the social workers who look shocked. The two leave in a huff as I am left to fight it out with Jonah. And this is one big beef.

“Since when did my maid become your wife?” I ask him as I move towards the half naked Mwikali.

Jonah looks menacingly at me. “Since Sunday. Do you have a problem with that?” he asks as he moves towards me. I don’t budge and watch as Mwikali proudly stands by her man. Some things now fall into place. My shopping for the house over the last couple of weeks has almost double with the excuse that the kids are eating more. Now I do understand. The ironing of my clothes has taken a back seat, and I guess Mwikali must have been ironing Jonah’s clothes.

I leave the two fools alone and walk to the house to clear Mwikali’s stuff – which fit into three paper bags. I place them outside Jonah’s orange painted door.

Mwikali comes out to fight. “Where is my salary?” I am anticipating this and with me is an envelope with her full month’s salary though she has only worked for two weeks. She rips the envelope count the money, and then looks disbelievingly at me.

“I have added you some money to buy your new husband some pyjamas and underwears,” I add sarcastically as I walk back to the house to meet my two angels peering outside the kitchen window. “Mum, kwani our aunty is now akina Gadaffi’s aunty?” Titi asks sadly.

“Don’t worry, we shall get another aunty soon,” I console them as I prepare them for school.

“Can we get a boy aunty?” Didi asks, and I am thrilled at the brilliance of my son.

“Sure, we shall get a boy aunty today,” I assure them. And I vow to get a house boy young enough to make Jonah run in his sleep. That makes my morning, and even as I am dropping the kids, the thought of Jonah and Mwikali hardly bothers me.

Teresia is already waiting for me at the office. She looks shocked at my happiness. “I am looking for a house boy,” I tell her. As expected she has a dozen and one references. We settle for three, give them a call and agree to see them over lunch hour. They better be smashing.

Ten a.m. My phone reminder goes off. Time for my second dose of ARVs. Yesterdays meeting convinced me that I needed to take care of my body and life. Just after swallowing my medicine, I get a reminder call from one of my HIV buddies, Kwame. Impressive.

Mr. Kombo walks in as I am just finishing with Kwame. He is all smiles. “Good morning Jessica,” he happily harps as he moves to his office, motioning me to follow him.

“Good morning sir,” I respond following him.

“Why has your phone been off?” he asks, but before I can answer he continues.

The company has a sponsor for salaries and allowances for the next two years, which means we are back to our former figures. Heftier allowances is definitely good news for me.

I leave the office a happier soul and meet Susan coming in. She looks haggard, tired, heavy eyed and is smelling of stale alcohol. The girl is losing it fast. She greets me but her mind is far.

Susan goes straight to Mr. Kombo’s office, shuts the door and there is an exchange of words evidenced by the high voices. I am torn in between. Should I or shouldn’t I intervene? I decide to play the good girl and walk into the office.

“Come Susan, this will not do you any good,” I soothe her.

Susan looks at me and breaks down in hysterical sobs, talking at the same time. It is hard to make out what she is saying, but I get the final bits which she keeps on repeating over and over again. “I want to die. Someone please kill me. Please!”

To be continued.

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