Diary of an HIV-positive woman (34)

By JEZEBEL KAMBO
Published January 28, 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

Saturday

I miss my kids terribly. Yesterday after the sports day, Didi and Titi went on a two-night trip to Lamu. Their excitement was just too overwhelming.

“Bye mum,” I remember them screaming excitedly.

I feel empty. The house is empty, loudly so. I can only hear the squealing of the others kids in the neighbourhood. My morning is upside down. The ARVs are wrecking havoc in my system. The diarrhoea has not subsided, and the rashes are developing blisters, making me feel and look ugly. I have to see the doctor today.

The drive to the office through Mama Ngina drive is peaceful. I enjoy the drive, listening to the latest FM station to hit the airwaves. Rhumba makes me go wild. I am at the office, where Juma and Teresia are eagerly waiting for me. The urgency in their gait convinces me that I need to replace them. But hey who said that their replacement will be better?

“How are you boss?” Juma starts right after opening the gate for me. He is an old man, so I try to be extra courteous and patient with him.

“Fine thank you, Juma. All well?” I ask him, and each time I do that, he always comes up with a shocker of a story.

“No boss. All is not well. My house upcountry was struck by lightning yesterday and has fallen down. My favourite bull and cow were also killed in the accident. I need to go and rebuild the house,” the litany starts.

I tell him to follow me to the office to discuss the issues, which I know will keep on changing as the days go by. Juma can make a great script writer. The twists and turns in his life, imaginary or not, are definitely worth an Oscar award.

Teresia is waiting for me as I park the car. “I have a women’s group meeting today, and I would like an advance of Kshs.1,000,” she starts, even before I am out of the car.

“Good morning Teresia,” I tell her. Either she does not hear me, or she decides to ignore me.

“My sister also told me that one of the Kombo women has died of AIDS,” she continues as I walk into my office. Both of them are in tow. Several letters are in my tray, and I casually look at them as I sit down. Juma is the one who comes in first.

“When can I go upcountry?” he asks me, his head bowed in mock humility. I debate about him, twiddle the pen and ask him to sit down. He gladly does so.

“Juma, when will this stop? First it was your relatives dying every week. Then it was your parents falling sick. Then your children suffered different ailment. Now it is your house,” I tell him off. His head lowers further.

“But it is all true. There is a bad spirit which the witch doctor says has to be removed from my home,” he defends himself.

“You can go, but I am not giving you any funds. You already are on next month’s deductions,” I tell him.
He refuses to stand up, and I tell Teresia to come in.

“Teresia, I am sorry there is no advance for you as well. You have exhausted your limit,” I tell her and watch as she crestfallen walk out of my office. Juma is still seated, so I decide to open my letters. I separate the bills from my other letters.

The immaculately printed brown envelope is the first one to be ripped. It is a letter from an advocate representing Shida Mingi. The ruling is scheduled for Tuesday next week. Wait a minute, when was the hearing if the ruling is set for Tuesday?

I turn to Juma, “The records do not favour you at all.” He reluctantly stands up to leave, his movement akin to my twins when they have been denied their favourite dish or toy.

I need to tackle Shida and his mission. Custody of the kids? He must be dreaming his head off. Which magistrate would grant him custody of my two precious ones? The office phone rings, and I pick it up. I immediately recognise the voice.

“Yes Pamba, why are you not at work?” I ask him sharply. He sounds distant, and the phone gets disconnected. So I call him on his mobile, and he answers right away.

“I have just been car jacked on my way to work,” he starts, sounding distant. I panic, then immediately relax. Some things are not adding up. I decide not to adopt the multinationals approach of inquiring first about the goods, then the vehicle and lastly about the driver.

“Have they injured you?” I ask him. Pause.

“Just a little,” he says. A groan escapes his lips.

“Where?” Another groan, louder and more profound.

“My head is cut.”

“What about the car?” Pause.

“It went.”

“And the computers?”

“They all went.”

“What else?”

“My wallet and all the money I had.”

“How much?”

“About Kshs.22,000.”

“What about your phone?” Silence.

Then the line goes dead. Of course his blackberry phone is not lost, which means another of Pamba’s sly moves.

Mariam walks in as I am plotting how to cut Pamba’s antics to size. She is with someone whom I have never seen before. A boyfriend?

“Here is the computer guru you asked for?” she tells me. Now I remember Mr. Kombo’s computer that needs to be hacked into. I have to trace the origin and destinations of the pornographic DVDs.

“Thanks Mariam,” I whisper.

The introductions complete, I tell the computer guru to come after work when Mr. Kombo is likely not to be there, or on a Sunday afternoon. He chooses Sunday afternoon. Deal.

To be continued.

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