Diary of an HIV-positive woman (57)

By JEZEBEL KAMBO
Published May 23, 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 5 -year –old twins – David (Didi) and Terry (Titi). This is my continuing story.

Week 9

Monday

Mwikali has the key to Jonah’s house, so Jonah’s wife and kids cannot access it.

“I am sorry, I can’t help,” I told Jonah’s wife yesterday.

I feel bad about how I dismissed her, but enough is enough. This mother Christmas tag, just must be shed off.

“Who is our new ‘aunty’?” Titi asks me, in tears.

“Who told you about a new aunty?” I ask, cuddling her. Her giggles warm my heart.

“Mwikali said Aly will be jailed, for stabbing Baba Gadaffi,” she continues. Stupid housegirl! why discuss such matters with 5-year-olds?

“Both will be jailed for fighting,” Didi intones philosophically. At least he is protecting his hero.

“Remember mum too was jailed for fighting,” she adds. Bad memories, Didi.

Aly has gone underground. The OCPD says he must make a statement. Didi is more subdued. I know he misses a man in the house, and Aly had filled that void. I thought I was through, with the headaches of house helps. The kids, though older, still need some continuity in the house.

“We have to go,” I tell my twin angels.

The sight of a sad kid is heartbreaking. What a gloomy morning. No one is singing, so I try some nursery rhymes, but the mood is off.

“Mum, we don’t feel like singing!” Titi says, looking out of the car. I get the message, and shut up.
I drop the kids,and get down escorting them to their class.

“It’s okay mum, we will go on our own,” Didi dismisses me, holds his sister’s hand, and they walk away, head bowed.

“Anything wrong?” the sister asks me, though she smartly keeps away from the morning gloom.

“The houseboy left yesterday, and they are really attached to him,” I whimper.

“Life’s harsh lessons. Exit one, enter another!” she smiles. Well summarised, Sister. Well put.

Hussein calls as I drive out of the school. I pull on the side, to take the call.

“Hi baby!” he coos. I swallow hard as my muscles relax.

“Hi!” I croak back, my heart racing wildly. This Hussein is having some effect on me. I have started fantasizing with him. Well….

“I have a date with a herbalist from Dar es Salaam,” he jumps to the point.

“Let us meet in the office,” I tell him, as I get back to the road.

His sweet smile, stunning eyes and gentle voice, play continuously in my mind. It’s long time since I had a man. I think it is time. Juma. It’s long since he gave me enough drama.

“Good morning,” he says, somehow I am on my guard. Women’s instinct. A volcano is about to erupt.

“Good morning Juma,” I reply as I study his face for signs of mischief. So far there is none. “Is there a problem?”

“Yes,” he answers. The fellow looks distressed.

“My wife is in hospital,” His voice lowers in. Instinctively even his head bends.

“Wife? Which wife?” I ask, my antennae going up. My memory should remind me that, Juma has several wives.

“The youngest is in hospital, having delivered triplets!” he answers. The distress is real.

“Wow, congratulations!” I am excited, but the agony on his face, stops me dead on my tracks.

“Triplets means curses, boss!” he says before I intervene with a long lecture and, Kshs.5,000 from the office kitty.

He walks away somehow satisfied, but confused. He stops at the door unsure what to do. He comes back, his face a quizzical mask.

“What now?” I ask.

“My people throw triplets in the forest, to avoid curses,” he whimpers.

“You give them to me, and I will find someone who is craving for children,” I tell him off.

“And don’t you dare harm them, or the mother!” The threat sinks, and Juma lumbers away.

Mr. Kombo has not reported to work, for the third straight day. I call him, but he does not pick it. I will go to his house. The guy definitely needs help.

My grandfather’s funeral meeting is on today, and if all goes well, we should bury him this Saturday. Talking of grandpa, I call mum to find out how things are.

“You will not believe this,” she tells me. “Right here with me, is a court officer. He has delivered an injunction against the burial of dad. There is a hearing tomorrow, at the Law Courts.”

That depresses me. Come on, the grand old man is dead, let him rest in peace. What obsession is it, with pieces of land?

“Why don’t you surrender the title deed and bury the old man in peace?” I ask mum.

There is silence, before she sagely replies, “If my dad didn’t do it, why should I?” That makes sense.

“But we still must meet, right?”

“Yes!”

I need a houseboy because, I don’t see myself coping without Aly.

To be continued.

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