Diary of an HIV-positive woman (37)

By JEZEBEL KAMBO
Published February 7, 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 6

Tuesday

David Kwanza Kambo. Terry Mwisho Kambo. Two little, but big people who complete my world. Two kids whose laughter kills me; twins who bring immense joy to their mother. Two cartoons whose squeals cannot simply be ignored.

David is the humorous one, while Terry  is the generous one. Their lives from the time they were born flash through my mind, and I recall going through hell to bring them up. The endless trips to the clinics where the twins seemed to collude with sickness to keep me on my toes. David’s accidents come flashing by – the bean stuffed in his nose that had to removed from the hospital the day he held a snake by its tail, and it did not bite him, or how he used to eat newspapers, and then his faeces would come out full of writings! I try to smile as I recall the fun times we had together.

They have taken my kids away from me. What better way to kill a person! What more is there in life? They have taken my sunshine. I am distraught, inconsolable and have tried to pull all possible strings to get my kids back. The strings have now snapped. And I am about to lose my mind.

“Follow the legal procedure,” advised Mariam.

“No wonder you have no kids of your own!” I screamed at her. I must agree that that was a bit harsh, and I am not surprised that Mariam is not picking up my calls any more.

Abdul is not any better. “Talk to Shida, man to man, and come to a compromise!” he advises. Me talk to Shida? Abdul must be out of his mind. How do I talk to someone who has taken away my kids? How? I have even forgotten that the restaurant is supposed to be operational today. Abdul said he will get it running, then plan for an official opening later in the week.

The OCPD seems to be the most logical of all of them. “Please leave this in my hands, and do not attempt to do anything that would jeorpadise the position of the kids,” he says. He is always mysterious, but his sentiments make sense to me.

“I just want them back,” I cry on the phone not believing the way Shida has used my chaotic life against me: the orgy, the MP’s gun drama, the late nights, the drinking! Smart fool, Jonah. So far you are leading, but soon I will be ahead.

The house is eerily empty. Aly has woken up to complete his chores, but with no kids to take to school, I wonder how it shall be. He is as miserable as I am. I slowly prepare myself to go to work, my mind not in it, but I know I need to go to the office. My erratic attendance has not augured well with Mr. Kombo.

Jonah and Mwikali. I walk down the stairs casting evil looks at Jonah’s orange house. He is the chief architect in the custody case. The knot in my throat and stomach grow tighter, and I am tempted to confront both men. I walk to my car and catch Mwikali peeping out of the window. I am about to start the car when my phone rings. I look at the screen and it is a number that I do not recognise.

“Hallo? Are the kids with you?” asks Shida Mingi. My heart starts racing.

“What do you mean, ‘are the kids with me?’” I ask while shouting.

“They were here with me, and now they are gone!” he shouts back.

“Shida Mingi,” I clench my teeth and fist, “I swear to God that if anything happens to those kids, not only will I kill you but I will roast your bare brown arse on the furnaces of Industrial Area, so that all the mosquitoes and houseflies of Mombasa can feast on them!”

He hangs up on me. I try calling the number again, but it is off. I keep trying, the news too devastating for me. What does he mean by saying my kids are lost? My body breaks into an uncontrollable itch. I reach out for my medicine. I have missed my dose, again, for the last 24 hours! When will I ever get this medication straight? If ever. The itch spreads to my face as the scratching becomes uncontrollable. What did the doctor say about stress?

I numbly drive to the courthouse, the itching on and off. I head straight to the clerk.

“My children are missing!” I hiss at him. “Didn’t I tell you not to award that buffoon custody of the children?” I scream at him.

“I am sorry, but that is a police case not a court matter,” he tells me as politely as he can. Police? Let me call the OCPD and see which way forward. Another phone call, and I struggle to get my other phone. I check the caller and it is one of my brothers – those grandfathers.

“What?”

“Mom is scheduled for the operation today, and the deposit has not been placed,” he tells me.

This time I snap and give me him a tongue lashing. “What is the role of four big men in the house who cannot do anything on their own? How can you leave everything to me?” He hangs up, and I get the message that he does not care what happens to mum. Always the same old grandfathers.

Mom or the kids? The itching comes back again, this time in full force. I go to the car and scratch and scratch. I call the OCPD. He is mteja. I call Mariam. She does not pick up my call. Maybe she is still angry with me. I call Abdul. He is in Lamu. What do I do? I need a drink before I go bonkers. I drive out of the court house to the nearest pub. It is deserted, and the waiters seem to be cleaning up the previous day’s mess.

I sit down and start crying. A waiter dressed in all white approaches me. He is a middle-aged man and walks slowly.

“Are you okay my sister?” he asks, as his hands rest on my shoulder. He remains standing, a concerned puzzle spread across his face. I look at him, tears all over my face, and I wonder what I should tell him.

Should I tell him that I am HIV-positive, and that I am reacting to ARVs, and that I cannot stop scratching and diarhoieng? Or that I have lost custody of my kids to their irresponsible father, who has not been with them for the last four years? Or that my kids’ father has lost them and is now calling me to ask me if I am with my own kids? Or that my mother is about to undergo a double breast surgery, and I have not placed a deposit at the hospital and that they are still waiting for me? Or that my neighbours have ganged up against me and ensured that my kids are taken from me?

I look at the man and shake my head. “Too many problems my friend!” I say.

He smiles at me and sagely replies, “If I tell you all my problems you’ll just tell me to keep them to myself!”

He’s right. My problems are uniquely mine, just like his problems are uniquely his.

“Thank you!” I force a smile.

Another phone call from a private number. I hesitate to take it, but the man nods, and I take the call.

“Cell Five,” says a husky voice, “Please report to base immediately!”

This must be serious. I bid the man goodbye, jump into the car, and drive madly to the base.

To be continued.

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