Diary of an HIV-positive woman (42)

By JEZEBEL KAMBO
Published February 24, 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 7

Sunday

Unbelievable. My encounter with 14-year-old Christine has left me dumbfounded. I now have three interesting dossiers to contend with: Mr. Kombo’s, which I am fast losing interest in because  he only deals with rich women; my own story that is embarrassing and a source of guilt to me; and Christine’s, which I am greatly interested in because it highlights how vulnerabe the youth are.

Christine’s story is rich  because it touches on the youngsters’ exposure to drugs and sex and lack of guidance. I need to follow up on the 11 names that are on her list, though I am mainly interested in the seven youths, who are under 14. I shudder as I think of how naïve I was at that age!

I need to talk to Mr. Kombo about starting another wing of our company that deals exclusivlely with teenagers and HIV/AIDS. I am sure we shall get donors to support our cause.

“Where are we going today?” Didi asks, reminding me that today actually is Sunday, and a family outing is definitely on the offing. It is already a hot and humid morning, typical coastal weather at this time of the year. The skies are a clear and spotless blue, a tourist’s haven of what Africa has to offer. In an hour or two, it will be blazing hot, and by afternoon it will be baking.

“Swimming at WildWaters!” screams Titi, who never seems to get enough of water.

A swim will be good for all of us, though I think this is my chance to square it out with the OCPD. Time to repay my date with him.

“Lunch at the Wildwaters?” I ask him.

“Deal!” he assures me.

The kids are ready to go to Church, and they make their way to the car, Aly following from behind with their swimming bags. Aly has turned out to be such a darling. I have even forgotten Mwikali. I am just about to open the driver’s door when I notice some deep and ugly scratches on the doors. A closer look reveals more uneven scratches, which I do not remember seeing yesterday. The marks look fresh like they have been done by a sharp object. On the ground are several pebbles that could have been used for this job.

“Who did this?” I sharply ask my twins and Aly. They know that I am furious.

“Who else other than those useless Jonah’s kids?” Aly spits out, the venom evident in his thin voice.

When it comes to maintaining my car, I am very particular and protective. I am still paying for it! I march up to Jonah’s orange splattered door, windows and walls. I knock hard at his door, my anger only matched by the banging of the door.

“What do you want?” Mwikali comes to the door, face covered in a lesso. She is not Muslim so why the hijab show? A keener look reveals ugly bruises on Mwikali’s brown face. I can vouch that her face is definitely swollen, and that she is trying to hide her left eye. Beast of a man you, Jonah!

I am momentarily thrown off guard, but I recover to stammer, “Where is Jonah?” The hardness in my voice is gone. If there is anything that I loathe it is a man who bashes a woman. That I cannot and will not stand.

“I don’t know,” Mwikali replies as she shuts the door, more out of embarrassment than urgency as characterised by her downward gaze. I am briefly stunned to inaction, but gather myself and walk to the car, where Aly and the kids are waiting to hear what I will say. I turn to Aly.

“No, I am not aware of any beatings,” Aly confides in me, and I believe him. Aly is agitated and I can understand. Digo men love their women to bits. For a moment I feel terribly guilty for having started this entire feud by employing Aly to counter Jonah’s moves.

“Mum, when are we going?” Titi pipes in, jolting me from my stupor.

“Now,” I tell her as I recollect myself, start the car, and roll up my window to address Aly. “Please don’t do anything that will make matters worse!” He nods, but I have serious doubts about his commitment: men are known to be dumb and act dumber when it comes to matters of the heart.

We drive to Church, the twins’ squealing break the disturbing Mwikali images that keep flashing through my mind. I drop the kids at Sunday School and go to the main service. The church is quite packed, and I find no place to sit. I stand throughout the service but it is worth it. The preacher is a young and vibrant man, who seems to know how to work up crowds. He gets the congregation to its feet more than once.

After Church, we drive to WildWaters, the kids excitement building to pitch high. I find the OCPD waiting for me at one of the tented corners. He is in black jeans and a contrasting white polo shirt neatly tucked in.

“Give me some five minutes so that the  kids can change into their swim suits,” I assure him.

Five minutes later, my twins join the endless squealing and shrieking emanating from the pools across. My reminder to take my drugs rings, and I quickly swallow the medication with a bottle of water that hardly leaves my handbag. I’m somehow adjusting to this new lifestyle. I then walk to the OCPD, wondering whether I should reveal my HIV status to him. Not now.

“Finally!” I exclaim as I sit on the wooden benches with a thud that shakes the bench, almost spilling the policeman’s drink. “Sorry!”

He laughs, his shades covering the small slit eyes that I always love looking at when he is laughing.

“I have a lead on my kids!” he starts. I feel sorry for him, though I am impressed with his determination to trace his kids. One more thing that I have never understood with men like Shida Mingi and the OCPD: when they should be bonding with their kids at their infancy, they are busy chasing other pleasures, thus leaving the sole responsibility of bringing up children to the mothers. Then when it comes to custody or alimony the same men prove to be elusive.

“Shoot!”

“I managed to trace my wife’s sister, and we talked.”

“What is new?” I ask, aware of the many leads that the policeman has had in the last number of months.

He pauses, and then looks away before talking. “She says that my wife delivered twins – a boy and a girl. Rumour has it that the boy is working in the United Kingdom while the girl is a journalist in Nairobi,”  he says. There is evident relief on his face, which breaks into a wide smile, thus exposing his white rabbit teeth.

“What about Susan, Mr. Kombo’s daughter?”

“She is not mine, but my wife’s sister’s daughter.”

“So where is your wife in all this?”

“I still don’t know.”

We talk about the challenges of tracing up his children and his lost wife. It is a Herculean task, but the OCPD will definitely manage.

“Why now and not some time back?”

“I really feel less of a man now that I do not know where my kids are,” he answers as he looks at my twins wrestling playfully with other kids on the shallow end of the pool.

“What about your current wife?”

There is a pause as he sips his drink, then looks directly at me. “I am not sure whether it is me or her, but we cannot have kids,”  he says. That cools me off a bit, and I leave him alone to be with his thoughts. After some while he looks at me, and I decide to change the topic.

“What is the latest on Cell Five?” I inquire.

“Wearing thin. The authorities are demanding more for cover.”

“Why?”

“Wealth and greed are inseparable.” Sometimes I wonder if the authorities would really want to see all these vices stopped.

“You forgot politics,” I remind him. He belts out a hearty laughter, and we both agree that politics is the mother of all vices.

“How is your mother?” he asks fondly.

I smile affectionately remembering that it was the OCPD, who helped me rescue my mum from the hands of those traditional witchdoctors.

“She is responding well to medication and psychologically, she is on her way to recovery!”

“Tough woman,” he says with a cheeky chuckle.

“Just like her daughter,” I add. This time we both laugh loudly, catching the attention of my twins, who to turn to check  on who is making their mother laugh her head off. I wave at them, and they wave back as they go back to their game.

To be continued.

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