Diary of an HIV-positive woman (43)

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

Monday

Mr. Kombo is in the office early today. I walk in to update him on our progress over the last few days. The computer hacker was at work yesterday evening, and he gave me a list of addresses where the porn DVDs are being delivered to.  The hacker managed to delete all the existing files, and I can’t wait to see the boss’ reaction. The money being exchanged is crazy. I cannot believe how much Mr. Kombo has been raking in profits. One of these days I will certainly confront him with this information.

“I want to start a programme for HIV/AIDS for teenagers,” I tell Mr. Kombo after exchanging a few pleasantries. I try to avoid any form of eye contact.

“HIV/AIDS is too congested a field to venture into,” he advises.

“But I am passionate about it. I even have a few girls already,” I say with the passion of a football fanatic, who is defending her favourite team despite odds being heavily stacked against it.

Mr. Kombo smiles. “Passion alone is not enough. Politics is everything in these murky waters of donor funding,” he says.

“Politics in everything! This country is doomed! Can’t anything be done differently, run professionally, funding divorced from corruption?” I ask. The desperation in my voice is palpable.

“Original sin my dear. You have a lot to learn!” Mr. Kombo replies. Someone has to save Kenya and her people from these pitfalls of obsession with retrogressive politics. I am deflated but not defeated.

“Can I at least give it a try?” I ask. My school girl tone comes in handy.

Mr. Kombo laughs, and I must admit he looks more handsome than before. There is an awkward stint of silence, albeit brief but long enough to have our eyes lock. Our thoughts seem to converse and transport us back to the first time we met. I swallow hard, the emotions and thoughts of our good times chocking me.

“What happened to us?” he asks in a husky whisper.

“Life happened,” I reply in the same tone. I almost ask about his status but courage again deserts me.

“Thanks Mr. Kombo for your time,” I squeeze his hand and walk out before drowning in nostalgia. He does not utter a word as I walk out of his office. I stop at the door. “I have a court case to attend. One of my AIDS girls has sued her teacher for defilement,” I inform him.

“Good luck. I will help you with the funding but from within,” he says.

That excites me, and I let out a whooping, “Yes!”  This is a big relief for me. The guilt of always running around trying to sort out my AIDS mess can now be replaced with a more meaningful mission to trace my maze and puzzle that the AIDS story has become.

“Thanks,” I murmur. This time I go back and give him a slow and sensual hug. He reciprocates. I am the first one to let go, and I hear a sigh escaping from his lips. I walk out a happy girl, a song escaping my lips. A little jig crowns it all. I am over the moon!

I take out my phone and place a call to Christine’s grandmother. “Please tell Christine to flash me when she comes home for lunch!” I instruct her. I need to talk to Christine and share with her the good news.

The first person I meet as I step out of the office is- you have guessed it right- Teresia. She seems to be in a fowl mood.

“Look at this letter,” she shouts as she waves a paper in front of me, her chest heaving heavily, and her nose snorting like a wounded buffalo.

“Good morning Teresia,” I greet her.

“Where am I expected to get all that money from?” she shouts again. I take my seat and take a look at the letter. It is from one of the leading banks that has been dishing out loans left right and centre to anyone who can produce a computer-generated payslip and appointment and reference letters-  all of which can be manufactured in any cyber café. Somebody has defaulted and Teresia, as a guarantor, has been served with a repayment notice.

“What really happened?” I ask.

“It is that Pamba man. He is such a useless man, just thinking of himself and his personal pleasures. I swear if I get him….,” she answers.

“What really happened?” I ask again, ignoring Teresia’s ranting and promising myself that I will not allow her or anybody else to ruin my day.

She hesitates, and then goes into a full verbosity. “He took a loan from a bank, convinced Jumah and I to be his guarantors. He even gave us a bit of the money!” she says.

“How much loan did he take?” I ask.

“I am not sure, but Jumah told me its Kshs.2 million,” Teresia whispers as she turns to the door, obviously praying for Pamba to walk in so that she can slaughter him there and then! No Pamba walks in, so Teresia has to contend with me.

“What was the money used for?” I ask.

“Business – those yellow Tuk Tuk taxis that you see at Casablanca. I also hear that he is building a mansion in Nyali,” she says.

“All those taxis? They must be more than 10 of them,” she continues.

 This is indeed shocking because Teresia’s salary is too meagre to guarantee someone such a huge loan.

“I am very sorry but someone has to pay the bank back its money, or they will throw you in jail!” I say.

Teresia walks out talking to herself, clicking every other second and banging doors and cupboards. I walk out of the room, making my way to the courtroom to catch up with Mr. Mambo, whose mentioning is today. The problem with our court system is the delay and timing, and one can never tell when a case will be heard.

I am at the door when I stumble on Mariam and Susan, hand in hand heading towards BackFront Restaurant, where Mariam has been working wonders. Business at the restaurant has really picked up, its main clientele being gays.  The returns are impressive, and plans to add lodging facilities are in the works.

Susan looks pathetic. It’s high time someone confronted either her or Mr. Kombo about her situation. Her right hand is visibly shaking and her eyes are glassy, which are clear signs of substance abuse. Mariam, on the other hand, looks sharp in her all white dressing, making her look like a diva.

“Where to so early?” Mariam asks.

“To the courts to catch up with one Mr. Mambo!”  I reply. They make the connection. “Wanna come?”

“Sure!” Susan is the first one to respond, though I am not sure she is in the right framework of mind to sit in a courtroom. She is wearing the same clothes she had on Saturday, something very unladylike.

We take a walk towards the car park, passing by council workers in yellow coats, who are busy collecting parking fees from unsuspecting motorists. I still can’t understand what the central government does with  all the revenue it generates from the parking fees.

“Oh no!” goes Mariam as she comes to a sudden stop. Her hand slips out of Susan’s as both Susan and I come to a stop.

“So this is the reason why you have not been returning my calls or messages?” screams a beautiful lady, whom I quickly identify as the OCPD’s wife.

The woman makes a swing at Susan, but I am fast, and I quickly shield Susan.

“You touch her, and I will call your husband right now!” I tell her. Mariam tries to make up a cover up story, but it’s obvious, she has been caught red handed.

What follows is a barrage of  insults, which attracts a sizeable crowd of morning idlers.

To be continued.

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