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.

Related Posts

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

Sunday

Hurricane, screams, and banging of doors characterise another morning drama. Someone gotta tame this Victorian male chauvinist called Jonah.

“Where are my children?” he shouts.

The reply is another scream from, I guess, Mwikali. Aly is already out of the house.

“Come and fight, you uncircumcised piece of meat!” comes Aly’s voice. Two hot headed fools, squaring it out for a woman. History is definitely repeating itself. By the time I am out, the two men are rolling on the ground.

“Stop it!” Mwikali shouts, as she tries to get between the two men.

She is bleeding from the lips. Before I reach them, Aly flashes a knife, and swifter than a Samurai warlord, jabs into Jonah’s stomach. I cannot believe it, nor make a move. Mwikali, hand in mouth, cannot scream. Jonah stops the struggle. Only Aly, has the presence of mind to continue the madness. He extricates himself from the mangle of Jonah’s body, and raises the knife for a kill.

“No!” the simultaneous scream from Mwikali, and myself, stop him mid air.

Jonah recovers from the shock of the stabbing, but the gushing blood creates panic in him.

“You have killed me you Digo dog!” he whispers hoarsely. The blood is now a trickle. He is writhing in pain.

“Aly. No!” I tell him, the knife still over Jonah’s head.

Any moment, and Jonah is past tense. He looks at me with renewed anger. I can see the fire in his eyes, and it is a matter of the wrong trigger, before he does something foolish.I walk towards him, and motion him to give me the knife. Aly ignores me, bends down, and wipes the blood on Jonah’s orange T-shirt. Jonah flinches. Aly walks from the scene. Jonah slumps and passes out. Mwikali’s hysterical scream brings my children, running out of the house.

“Bring my phone, Didi,” I check Jonah’s pulse. It is not very weak.

“Where is Aly?” Titi shrills, holding on to my night dress.

I decide to call a cab. The watchman is already outside the door.

“Mwikali, stay with the kids,” I order her.

I watch as the watchman, and the cabman, struggle with Jonah. The neighbours are awake and a sizeable crowd has gathered out.

“The Klinik,” I instruct the driver. I call the OCPD about what has taken place.

“ Meet you at the hospital,” he tells me.

This is complicated. Aly has disappeared, and his phone is off. Mwikali is with my kids. Jonah is at my mercy. At the Klinik,I tell the OCPD, “My houseboy and my neighbour fought.” I notice his distant gaze.

“Your mind is not here,” I jolt him his dreaminess.

“Many things,” he whispers. We check on Jonah, who is conscious and keeps clicking, and muttering to himself. Sounds like “Ther meru!” He is wheeled into theatre.

“Finally, I think I have tracked down my kids, and their mother,” the OCPD whispers, as he sips water.

It is hardly 7 a.m. and the fury of the coastal humidity can be felt.

“And?”

“She is married to another man,” he replies dreamily. “A white man!”

“And the kids?”

“They are gorgeous little adults.”

“Where did you see them?”

“ It was accidental, at the Nyali Nakumatt.”

There is relief and pain, in the OCPDs voice. He seems glad to finally trace his family, but sad he cannot have them.

“Did you talk to the kids?”

His voice is nostalgic. “Yes. Lovely kids, or should I say, young adults. After a short silence.

“What next?”

“I really don’t know,” he replies as we move towards the doctor, who is just out of theatre.

Another doctor, Kyanda, is taking care of the stab.To my relief, no vital organs, seem to have been touched.

“Where is your Aly?” the OCPD asks.

“Most likely at his mother’s, but you never know with these Digo men,” I reply. We walk to the car park.

“I have a lunch date with my kids at WaterWorld,” he excitedly tells me.

That to him, is approval from them.

“Cell Five?”

That seems to make him tense. “A big mess. A story for another day,” he says.

Jonah will remain in hospital. I drive back home, to find another drama unfolding. Jonah’s wife is back with her kids, and her earthly belongings – a paper bag of shoes, and a mutilated bag of clothes. She is perched outside the house, conveniently locked by Mwikali. I don’t need this on a Sunday morning. I get into the house, and prepare for church. That is what Sunday was ordained for.

To be continued.

Related Posts

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 8

Saturday

A peaceful morning. The squealing of my kids awake me. It is 10 a.m., and I am not looking forward to leaving the house. My body is tired, and I am getting fed up of popping drugs into my system.

Yesterday’s meetings went well, and we should be sorting out what is ahead of us: Granddad’s burial date was set for next week Friday. His brothers, however, boycotted the meeting claiming the mandate to call meetings.

Abdul, Mariam and I, sorted out most of the paper work, pertaining to the restaurant. We have another meeting today with Abdul’s lawyer. But first things first. I have another trip to see Christine, who promised to introduce me to some of the young boys, she has been sleeping with.

“I don’t know if they will agree to see you,” Christine had told me, the last time she spent a weekend at my house.

Christine is very crucial in my fight against HIV, and its spreading, amongst the youth. Her acceptance to be tested,and subsequent negative results were a step forward.

I am ready to leave the house when, a hard knock startles me. Aly opens the door.

“Welcome,” he says. A familiar lady walks in room.

“Where is my husband and children?” she demands aggressively.

“Jonah?” I ask.

“Yes!” she screams lunging at me. Aly holds her, handling her rather roughly.

“Next door, please,” I point at Jonah’s door, plastered with all manners of posters of political figures.

“The lady next door told me to check here. I want my husband and kids,” she continued.

David and Terry come running to the room, and are shocked to see an angry woman being held by Aly.

“Go and call Gadaffi, Hitler and Makeba,” I tell them. In less than a minute, the three healthy, well dressed, and bouncy kids are in my house.

“Those are your kids,” I tell the angry woman. I notice the shock, and look of a green-eyed monster on her face. These are not the same emaciated kids, that she left behind a couple of weeks back. Makeba, the eldest girl, remembers the mum and runs towards her. There is hesitation from the other two, but they follow suit.

“You may leave my house now,” I firmly tell the lady, who is unapologetic and ungrateful. I stop my kids from following them, but Aly is free to do so.

“She has taken the kids away,” an elated Aly comes, and tells me.

“Where is Jonah?” I ask.

“Still campaigning, I guess,” Aly answers.

Jonah and his noisy buddies were yesterday released on a cash bail, though they made noise that the police were working with their political detractors.

“Good luck with your Mwikali,” I tell Aly, as I prepare to leave. Come to think of it, is Aly really behind the latest twist with Jonah’s wife? With the kids out of the picture, he now has all the time with Mwikali.

I hit the road and pass by a supermarket, then to Mariam’s to pick her up on our way to Msambweni. This is my third trip, and I know it won’t be my last.

“How is Susan?” I ask Mariam. She looks out of the window, and I know that things are not good.

“No improvement,” she replies.

“Maybe we should go and see her,” I offer.

“She does not recognise people,” Mariam says.

“It doesn’t matter. After Msambweni, we shall pass by and say hi,” I tell her.

“Okay,” Mariam answers. She sighs, a sign of defeat. I wonder whether she is blaming herself for Susan’s predicament.

“How is your fine payment going on?” I tread on dangerous ground. Mariam lets a long hooting laughter and slaps her thighs.

“I am no push over,” she says, hands akimbo. I made a move on her boss, who is now hitting on me.

“You mean there are so many…..,” I stumble looking for the right words.

“Lesbians. Gays. Autoreversals. Boots…” Mariam rattles all words associated with ‘them’.

“I am sorry,” I apologise.

“What for? Do you know that table next to the cashier?” Mariam asks.

“Yes,” I reply.

“It is called ‘Council’ because, it has the most powerful women in Mombasa,” she continues. Mariam is getting excited as she narrates this story.

“Powerful in what sense?” I ask.

“Security, we have a top ex-CID woman there. A few other CEOs of top private, and public companies. Plus one or two politicians,” she explains.

“Wow!” I say in shock.

“I hit on one of them to evade the Council fine,” she says.

“You really are a smart girl,” I tell her, laughing at her ingenuity.

“This is Mombasa. You either survive nor get roasted by the sun!” Mariam continues.

We reach our destination. I make a call to Christine, and yes, she is waiting for me outside her house. I drive on the narrow path, and park outside the mud walled house. Christine comes running. I get the four plastic bags full of shopping from the back seat. Christine comes to help unload the stuff.

“Thank you very much,” she says. Sweet girl. One wonders what goes wrong between childhood and adulthood? We follow Christine to say hallo to her grandmother. Within five minutes, we are on our way to visit one of Christine’s boyfriends, a 15-year-old standard eight boy. From the onset, I can tell that Karim is doing drugs. All the signs are there: glassy eyes, dry lips, dazed look.

“Hi!” My hand lingers a bit longer, and I notice the slight shake. Mariam, being a bit older than I, goes a step further and unleashes two rolls of bhang.

“Want one?” she asks Karim. He hesitates, shock all over as he looks from Christine to myself. The shaking hand, and the licking of lips confirms our fears.

“Not now,” he says unconvincingly,as we move towards one of the makuti kiosks, that sell drinks on the beach. There are many idling youth, looking around for business.

“Take it,” Mariam insists, and Karim smiles pocketing the roll. Suspicion confirmed, we now know our guest well. We sit but Karim is restless.

“Christine must have told you of our mission,” I take over from Mariam, who gawks at the boy.

“Yes,” he replies. I find monosyllabic answers a put off.

“I need to set up a VCT Centre around here. Soon,” I tell him.

“Okay,” he answers.

“How many people – especially young men – would come for testing?” I ask him. He hesitates.

“Not many,” he replies.

“Why?” I ask him. Another hesitation.

“We all think that we are positive,” he continues.

“What about you?” I ask. A longer hesitation.

“I don’t know,” he replies.

“Do you want to know?” I ask.

“No,” he answers. Time to change tact.

“How much do you make in a day?” I ask. His face brightens up. “Kshs.1, 000 on a bad day. Three times that on a good day,” he replies.

Mariam jumps in, “That is a lot of money. What errands do you run?” He looks around to make sure no one is listening.

“A mule,” he pauses then goes on. “Mandrax. Marijuana. Brown sugar.”

Suddenly, a chill goes through my body. Cell Five. These are the effects of Cell Five and drug distribution in the coast. I feel sick.

“To who?” Mariam persists, she knows the answer only too well. Again another stealthy looking around.

“Anybody willing to buy,” he replies. I notice that he is getting impatient, and has moved to the edge of his seat.

“Anybody in the school?” I ask, my heart sinking not wanting to hear the answer.

“Many. Almost all the boys, and half of the girls,” he says.

I am horrified as I look at my beautiful Christine. She nods slowly, and I know that we have a momentous job. It’s not only the HIV that I have to fight. Drugs.

Karim leaves, and Christine, Mariam and I, take a walk on the public beach. I listen to the wind whistling past my ears.

“You are too quiet,” Mariam says above the cawing sea gulls. I stop and look at my Christine. I take both her hands, and look into her eyes.

“Are you doing drugs?” I ask.

“Yes,” she looks away.

To be continued.

Related Posts

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 8

Friday

Second sleepless night, and this time I have to do something. It is 2 a.m. I call the OCPD.

“Sorry but this has just to stop,” I wail. “Even my kids are complaining.”

My Aly is still sulking. “Mwikali says that she will be the mayor’s wife soon,” I laugh out loud, but Aly is consoled at the absurdity of the idea.

In less than 10 minutes, a police lorry is in the compound. I peep out and see almost a dozen riot policemen in full gear getting out. They know the flat number, and soon heavy footsteps are outside my door. The music is still blaring.

“Open the door!” they order. I hear the door creaking.

“What do you want?” Jonah shouts. Arguing with the police is something one should never attempt. Three heaves and the metallic door is yanked out of its hinges.

“Everybody out!” the police shout.

They escort the more than seven ‘councillors’, who were making a racket in a residential area. Mwikali and the kids appear to check how the men are shooed away. Aly sees her and waves. She waves back, and I am sure, the smile between them is not an innocent one.

It is almost 3 a.m. when the peace and tranquillity of the night hit me. I doze off only to be woken up by my alarm. It’s already 6 a.m. I manage to drag the kids out of bed, and out of the house. They are tired.

“When will we start using the matatu?” Didi asks me.

“When my car gets spoilt,” I answer sagely.

“And when is that?” he persists.

“Not tomorrow and not next month,” I reply.

“Next year?” he asks. I give up.

“Yes,” I reply, to get him off my back.

“Yeah!” he screams as Titi joins in the celebration.

“Is tomorrow next year?” Titi asks, with all the innocence of a 5-year-old.

The shrilling phone comes to my rescue, with the ring tone of my favourite gospel song.

“Hi mum!” I chirrup.

“Your grandfather is dead!” she declares amidst sobs.

I am stunned. Despite his relatively advanced age – 72, grand-father has not been ailing at all. If anything, he has been in the best health.

“What happened?” I ask.

“Foul play. His body was found still, in the morning. Could be food poisoning,” she answers.

“By who?” I ask.

If there is one old man who minds his own business, it is ‘Officer’, as my maternal grandfather is fondly known.

“We had a meeting with him yesterday about his land, and how some of his own brothers and sons, have been trying to swindle him of it,” mum continues.

Land, land, land. Same story of obsession with land. It seems like in most communities, life comes last in the pecking order of priorities. It is Aly who reminds me, that it is time to drop the kids off to school.

“I am coming there right now,” I tell mum as I hung up and start the car.

“Who died?” Titi asks.

“My grandfather. My mother’s father,” I reply.

“Sorry,” she whispers.

“Don’t cry mum,” Didi notices my streaming tears.

I drop the kids off and drive off to grand dad’s place. I find my parents. I hug mum, but mumble a greeting to dad. No hard feelings but I still consider my dad a stranger in my life.

“Fine,” dad mumbles back as he looks away. It will take very long to warm up to him.

There are two plain-clothed policemen asking questions around.

“Where is the body?” I inquire.

“It has already at the mortuary,” the taller and darker of the policemen replies.

“Anything stolen?” I ask.

“A file cabinet broken into, a couple of personal documents are missing,” he continues.

Mum is distraught, knowing that she is in custody of some of the documents that the killers were after.

“Any arrests? Suspects?” I ask.

“Not yet, but we shall be talking with the neighbours and family,” one of the officers explains.

“Thanks a lot,” I excuse myself and join my parents.

We need to convene a family meeting and sort out the logistics of ‘Officer’s’ burial.

“It’s too soon,” mum protests.

“No,” dad replies, and for the first time I am glad that he is around. We need to start moving right away. There is the death notification, meeting permit, burial permit all to be sorted out.

“Where shall we meet today?” she asks.

“Our place, of course,” dad replies.

“5 p.m. Inform everyone,” mum concludes as we walk out of the compound.

My heart is heavy as I drive to work. I reach shortly before noon. Mr. Kombo has not reported, and as far as I remember there was no notice about his absence. I whip out my phone and notice several missed calls, from numbers that do not register. I decide to call one of them.

“Abdul here. What took you so long to call back?” he shouts above the background traffic.

“Just lost my grandfather, so I was running around,” I reply.

“Can we meet today in the evening at the restaurant?” he continues.

“Bad day. Got my grandpa’s funeral meeting to attend. We could meet after that,” I reply.

“Okay,” he says.

Abdul, Mariam and I need to meet to sort out the logistics of the restaurant. Money seems to be rolling in, and we need to work out the final details on how to split the profits. I hate some of these gentleman’s agreement issues.

I notice Hussein standing at the door of my office. This boy has respect, not like Pamba. Speaking of Pamba, the grapevine has it that he has gone under, though his Tuk Tuks are still operational. Poor Teresia and Jumah are still being hounded by bank officials; about the loan they guaranteed Pamba.

“Yes, Hussein?” My heart is wildly racing as I try to keep my gaze away from his.

“I have the herbs with me,” He says as he moves to my desk and stands.

“You may sit,” I tell him. He does so and removes a brown envelope with dried leaves.

“This is supposed to be boiled, and taken in liquid form three times a day,” he says with the conviction of a certified medical practitioner. Sounds familiar.

“Do you know anyone who has been on these herbs and has been cured?” I ask. That seems to catch him off guard.

“No,” he replies. Hussein is honest and that puts a damper into the whole exercise. I feel him. I sometimes have that desperate need for the cure of HIV to fall down from heaven.

“What about Tanzania?” he asks. The same desperate look again.
There is the theory of Kenyan HIV-positive prostitutes who went to Dar es Salaam and came back negative. Ever since, there has been a continuous stream of HIV-positive patients moving desperately into Dar. The problem is quacks have also sprouted all over, thus making it hard to tell what is genuine and what is not.

“Sure, Hussein. Next week we shall take a trip down to Dar,” I tell him. The smile tells it all. I hope that he is looking forward to the trip as much as I am.

To be continued.

Related Posts

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 8

Thursday

I did not sleep well last night; loud music – Ohangla – and laughter from Jonah’s house. I wonder how his kids survive this cacophony. At this rate, I will have to move out.

I cannot believe, Jonah is vying for the post of deputy mayor. He is not even a councillor. But with politics one never knows. I also do not like the tension in Aly. He has been muttering to himself all day.

“Mum, look, Gadaffi and Makeba are wearing the same uniform as ours,” Titi shouts, as I lead my kids to the car. The furious sun has descended on coastal inhabitants. The heat, I can take. It’s the humidity that kills me. Jonah has paid for transport for his kids. Impressive. Very impressive.

“Mum, I also want to go to school in that matatu,” Didi pleads. Bad song, Didi. I know it will not stop, but I have never been a fan of those school transport menace.

Jonah descends the stairs in his orange T-shirt, an orange towel round his bulging waist. “Bye darling Makeba. When I am president of this country one day, all these flats shall be yours!” he shouts for all to hear.

I drive off in a huff, my twins’ nursery rhymes hitting the highest key notes. The battle with Jonah has moved too close. No, I will not move house, Jonah. You will be the one to move. Today is a crucial day. Abdul’s father is being laid to rest at the Kiziwi Muslim Cemetery at Tudor.

“ We will bury him at 11 a.m.,” the OCPD, my reliable source of information all through, tells me. Women are not allowed at the burial, so I will pay my last respect at their house.

“Abdul?” I ask.

“I have no idea,” he replies. “Though I know that he will make it.”

“I will see you at the house,” I sign off.

Hussein, my new runner boy, drops a brown envelope at my desk. “Are you okay?” he asks. He holds my chin and looks straight into my eyes. A shiver of sensual excitement electrifies my body. Involuntarily, I shudder. He smiles.

“I am fine,” I reply rather hastily, as I rip open the envelope and spew the contents on my table.

“Have you tried the herbs I gave you yesterday?” Hussein asks.

This time I feel my self control ebbing away. No, I cannot be feeling like this. It has been ages since I looked longingly at a man.

“The herbs?” Then I remember the Chinese herbs, we were given during the meeting yesterday. “Not yet.”

“You should try them. I am feeling good,” he moves closer. My heart is in a whirl, and I think he knows it.

“Have you checked your CD4 count?” I ask.

“I will do so,” Hussein replies as he plants a kiss on my lips. I don’t resist, and my eyes are shut waiting for more but nothing comes. Hussein saunters away leaving my body on fire.

Teresia takes over, “When can my two sons start working? They are here!” I snap out of my daze. That gets me, I immediately stop what I am doing.

“How are you?” Teresia’s sons ask simultaneously, with all the coastal mannerisms. They are almost the same height, and are casually dressed in weather-friendly shirts.

“I am very fine,” I reply as I stand to shake their hands. “Please wait here as I sort it out with the boss.” I move to Mr. Kombo’s office.

“We have two of Teresia’s sons here. Let us grant them an interview and then clear with them.”

“Sure, show them in,” Mr. Kombo implores. His voice is husky, and his skin has lost its lustre. The boils on his face look ominous. He needs help. Urgent help.

I move out of my office and show both boys into Mr. Kombo’s office. Teresia walks to her station as I check in the brown envelope. My blackberry phone is missing. I left it on the desk, as I went to talk to the boss. I immediately dial the number from the office line. The familiar ring tone blares from the boss’ office. I walk in. Both Teresia’s sons freeze, as my ringtone continues booming.

“It’s okay to pick the phone,” Mr.Kombo, who is not aware of what is going on, instructs the young man.

“He cannot do so because it is my phone,” I say as I stretch my hand. Embarrassed , the young man places the phone in my hand.

“Both of you get out before I call the police!” I command. They quickly scamper out of the boss’ office, and I am there to make sure they do not pick anything else.

“Those boys do not know how much trouble they saved me,” I mutter to Mr.Kombo. I am relieved that Teresia will not bring up that topic again.

“I need to talk to you,” Mr.Kombo whispers to me. That gets me, and I immediately take a seat. He looks out of the window, deep in thought.I am silent, not wanting to interrupt or pre-empt anything.

“I am not keeping well,” he croaks, his focus still outside the window.I wonder how ‘not well’ really means.

“Have you seen a doctor?” I ask.

“No. I do not trust our local doctors,” he answers.

“I will take you to my doctor,” I assure him as my phone rings. Private number.

“Where are you?” The voice hits home.

“Abdul!” I exclaim as I move out of Mr. Kombo’s office.

“Meet me at the restaurant in five minutes time,” he says.  The line goes dead. I rush back to my desk for my handbag. I glance at the envelope. It’s a letter from the NGO council of Kenya. My application has gone through.

“Thanks for the push,” I tell Mr.Kombo. “I am rushing to a friend’s funeral.” I hate the look on Mr.Kombo’s eyes. It reminds me of my twins when they were kidnapped.

“How did my sons fare?” Teresia asks me on my way out.

“One of them stole my phone,” I walk past her, leaving her rooted to the spot.

I am at the restaurant in less than five minutes, and I know the table that Abdul books when he is around. He is there in a purple bui bui. Mariam is talking to him.

“My darling,” I whisper aloud, catching both Mariam and Abdul wrong footed, as I steal a quick hug from the seated Abdul. He reciprocates, and for a long time we cling onto each other. Mariam clears her throat as I move next to Abdul.

“I must bury my father,” Abdul is adamant, his eyes blazing at the thought of missing out on his dad’s burial.

“Your brother’s accomplices will kill you,” Mariam warns him.

“The OCPD has promised to take care of that. My brother is already in custody,” Abdul assures us. “We need to go.” His eyes keep darting furtively.We stand up as the waiters still await our orders. Mariam waves them away.

“Did you pay the Council fine?” I ask Mariam as we move out of the crowded restaurant.

“In instalments,” she replies without looking at me. She is still mad.

We hop into my car, driven by Hussein, and drive off to Nyali, Abdul seated behind with Mariam. Nobody is talking. Within 10 minutes, we are at the palatial home. Arrays of big cars, marshalled by uniformed policemen, are parked outside the home. I call the OCPD who assures me that all is safe.

“Follow me,” Abdul tells us, Hussein is by my side. I try not to read the puzzled look on his face.

“Remember you are female, and will not sit with the men,” I remind Abdul. He nods, and I know that he had forgotten.

We go through the back compound, about two acres of well manicured grass. The body of Abdul’s father is under a white tent, surrounded by many others. The family strategically sits round the body, the men and the women facing one another, but separated by the body. Hussein joins the males, way behind. We three ‘women’ move to the family side, and sit next to the females. Abdul breaks down and weeps. Mariam and I hold him.

“Hush, not so loud!” I admonish him. It’s tough.

The prayers are over, and Abdul whispers to me that he has to go to the grave.

The OCPD says that it’s okay. Abdul disappears to the car, and Hussein who is now aware of the plot, drives him off. Mariam and I are left behind. We shall sort ourselves out.

To be continued.

Related Posts

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 8

Wednesday

The clanking sound of furniture gets me awake. Its 6 a.m., and the staircases are noisy with endless commotion. It must be someone moving into a house. I have never understood fellow Coastarians – we move houses either very late in the evening, or very early in the morning.

Moving house is always a nightmare. So I decide to play the angel, and move out to help my new neighbour.
I open the door just as brand new, black leather sofa sets, are entered into the empty house.

“Good morning,” I tell the movers. “Any help you need?”

“No, thank you. Ours is to move the furniture. The owner will join you later,” they answer.

I do not give it a thought, I get the kids to school, and drive straight to the office.
“Good morning young man,” I tell Hussein, one of the HIV-positive people in my support group. He has come for Pamba’s job.

“Good morning,” he replies respectfully, as I orientate him.

Teresia is there and so is Juma. Both are grumbling and I know why. Teresia wants the job to go to her 21-year-old son, while Juma wants it to go to his 24-year-old son. I have done my background search, and both are quite dubious in character. I don’t want another Pamba in the office.

“But he is just a kid,” Teresia starts.  One look is enough to get her thinking straight.
Mariam walks into the office with dishevelled hair, and creased clothes. She takes a seat, uninvited. I wait for her to open up.

“This country is fucked up!” she shouts. Teresia flinches at the curse word.

“What now?” I ask.

“The Municipal Council, which I thought was City Council, has asked for a bribe of Kshs. 1 million, to renew my licence,” she rants.

“Or?”

“Or they will close down the restaurant today,” she adds.

“On what grounds?” I ask.

“Prostitution and promoting homosexuality!” she continues.

I have never seen Mariam this livid. But my guess is that there is more to the saga, than Mariam is revealing.

“Cat fights?” she says. “Yes, this bitch wanted to take me out, but she is not my type: flat arse, bulbous nose, monstrous bust and voluminous hips!”

Mariam is really enraged. She has been set up by one of her clients, or female admirers.

“Sleep with her! Kshs. 1 million  is a lot of money to lose!” I blurt out. She does not believe what I am saying. She clenches her fist and grates her teeth. She will burst any time soon.

“Okay, Miss Pussycat. I will do as you say to save the company Kshs. 1 million,” she whispers slowly and dangerously.

“No, I did not mean that,” I reply.  Too late, she already has picked her bag.

“How is Susan doing?” I shout as her bui bui disappears round the office bend.

Susan. Time to call the doctor and find out. The call does not go through which means that I might have to make a visit at lunchtime. It is Hussein, our new driver who brings to my attention the advertisement of Chinese Herbs that have been instrumental in the fight against HIV.

“The Chinese doctor will be having a demonstration at his clinic in the evening,” Hussein is enthusiastic. I like him. He is lively and lovely. I know that feeling. You are always  out looking for a cure, changing doctors, clinics, or changing support groups with the hope of getting that one magic formula that will, hopefully, unlock the mystery that is HIV.

“Shouldn’t we inform the others?” I ask.

“Not now. Let us go first and assess the situation,” he replies. I agree, though I have my doubts.
I place a call to Dr. Njuguna and subtly ask him about the Chinese and Tanzanian herbalists. He laughs.

“My dear, there is no cure for HIV yet. All those herbalists are taking advantage of desperate situations to make money,” he answers. It sounds logical but a part of my heart tells me to give it a try. The doctor is not through with me.

“And if you decide to go, like all those who are told not to but do, hoping that there might be just a chance, please do not mix herbs with ARVs!” he warns. That gets me thinking.

“How many of your patients are on those herbs?” I ask innocently.

“It’s like sweets, kids and dentists,” he replies.

I still decide that I will go, to just see. One may never know.

A call from Aly.
“We have a new neighbour!” he sounds very agitated. That, I knew in the morning.

“And you will not believe who it is,” Aly goes into the dramatic way of telling stories in the coastal way.

“So who is it?” I try to cajole him but his antics keep on increasing.

“I swear by my mother’s left and right breasts that this is the most ridiculous thing I have ever seen since I set foot on this earth,” he continues. I am silent. I let him rant and rave and then disclose the name of our new neighbour.

“Jonah!” he finally blurts out.

“What?” I scream on the phone. “Jonah? How?” It is now my turn to rave.

“Where did he get the money? How will his children survive? What about the smell of fish? Which mother?” I ask.
But Aly is not through.

“Mwikali has moved back!” he continues.

“How?” I ask.

I am now literally screaming. Jonah has brought the fight right to my door step. What about his assault case, which is still pending in court?

“And there are posters of councillors pasted right up to his door!” Aly adds.

“Posters?” I ask. I had forgotten. The biennial mayor’s elections are underway and campaign posters have started littering the already littered town. Bloody crazy system. When will Kenyans ever sit down to work? Fucking elections year in year out: petitions, by elections, general elections. Hell!

To be continued.

Related Posts

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 8

Tuesday

I am not a great fan of newspapers but I read them, especially the first thing in the morning.“Kenya drug baron killed in Nicaragua!” screams a headline of one popular newspaper. I am about to ignore the headline, when it hits me that it is Abdul’s father. I park on the side of the road and a vendor comes running with all the four dailies screaming the same headlines.

“Give me two,” I instruct him, my eyes firm on the headlines.The two papers have identical stories, with pictures of Abdul’s father and brother Salim. Salim’s resemblance to Abdul is stunning, someone who does not know them well, can mistake one for the other. Now things fall into place. Abdul’s father is the one who received me at Cell Five headquarters, when I was abducted a few weeks back. This means that all along the OCPD, and by extension Cell Five members, have been working for Abdul’s family. Shy Abdul never wanted anyone to know about it.

“Who is that?” Didi asks, noticing my deep concentration on the newspaper.“

A good family friend of ours,” I tell him. Titi recognizes the picture.

“Is he the one whom we met at Wild Waters?” Titi asks on noticing the resemblance between Abdul, and his brother.

“Uncle Abdul?” shouts Didi.

“Is he dead?”

“No, that is his brother, and the other person is his father,” I reply as I choke in tears at the fate of Abdul’s family, and their feuds.

I collect myself and drop the kids to school, my mind still on Abdul and his whereabouts. His silence is not helping much, and I imagine the fate of the restaurant he helped set up, but is now run by my cousin. More worrying is the feud Abdul discussed with me – his older brother Amin’s violent attack on family members-which forced Abdul into exile.

After I drop the kids, my solemn mood rubbing on them.

“Goodbye mum,” Titi says, as she walks out of the car without looking back. Didi keeps on looking back, hoping that my mood will change. I drive to work, my mind in great turmoil. I am shocked to find Mariam crying outside my office.

“My dear, what is the problem?” I ask. She jerks her head and looks at me confused.

“It’s Susan!” she whispers.

“What about her?” I ask. Another pause before she whispers, this time lower than before.

“I think she’ has gone mad!” she replies.

“Where is she?” I ask, the panic in me increasing.

“At home with the house girl,” she says.

We quickly drive to Mariam’s place, on the western side of Mombasa – the sparsely populated Kwahola. We are going against traffic so makes the drive smoother.

“Have you heard of Abdul’s dad?” I ask Mariam. she shakes her head. Mariam is one of those people who does not follow news; does not read any newspapers or magazines, and she like many of the islanders, relies on word of mouth. I brief Mariam on what is going on with Abdul and his family. She is smart enough to read within the lines.

“Will that affect the restaurant?” she asks, her forehead creasing in worry. The restaurant is her baby, and she has transformed it to one of the most sought after restaurants in Mombasa.

“Right now I don’t know, but we will continue to run it in the best way possible,” I reply as I negotiate the final bend, leading to the expansive flats where Mariam lives.We take the narrow and dark stairs to the second floor that Mariam and Susan occupy.

A harassed looking maid ushers us into the sparsely furnished room. At the corner of the room is a pitiable sight of tightly swaddled ropes.

“Why did you do that?” a hysterical Mariam lashes out at the elderly house girl.

“She was violent,” the house girl defends herself.

“We need to get her to hospital right now,” I tell the still confused Mariam. “Remove the mouth gag.”

We remove the mouth gag and the dazed Susan embarks on vitriol.

“I want George, that sexy priest to come and make love to me. Where are you St.George?” she asks, as she goes into a moaning that would embarrass my holy brother George. I am not aware that the brief meeting at the airport between my brother George, and Susan could have sparked such a reaction. I Immediately call my gynecologist, Dr. Njoroge, who has been right by my side ever since I was expecting my twins, and my living with HIV positive status.

“She needs to see a psychiatrist,” the doctor replies. “Take her to Dr. Musyoki of Coastal Clinics,” he explains to me.

We untangle Susan from the strapping, though her hands, much against my judgment. She is still spewing obscenities.

“Do you think the presence of your brother could accelerate her recovery?” Mariam asks.

“I have my doubts. Susan’s problems are deeply psychological, and cannot be solved by the presence of a priest,” I answer defensively.

Susan co-operates with us to the car, because I have assured her that we are taking her to George. I drive to the clinic and leave them there for the office, to tie the loose ends of the previous week. The paper work on the forthcoming gay conference needs to be worked on. So is the follow up on my own HIV/AIDS group, especially those boys and girls from my former primary school, who seem to be on free for all sexual escapades.

Then there is the BackFront Restaurant, whose papers I am yet to see, because it is Abdul who has been handling the transactions.Teresia is back to the office, looking subdued.

“I am sorry about the burning down of your kiosks,” I assure her. She looks pale, the lustre in her skin gone. Her eyes are paper white, and her lips cracked.

“That is where my children worked,” she confesses, her eyes tearing at the thought of the loss.

“God will provide a way,” I tell her, promising myself to do something when my money goes through. “For now this Kshs.10,000 should get you going,” I hand her the envelope I had put aside for her.

“Thank you,” she replies as she breaks down.

“Any news on Pamba?” I ask Teresia.

“I understand he has a court case already,” she replies. “Though the bank is still on my case.”

“Mr. Kombo and I have decided to replace him, so there will be a new driver from tomorrow,” I inform her.

I move to my desk, and settle down to read Abdul’s story. It is worse than a horror story, the kind of lifestyle admired by those who do not know the nitty gritty. I call the OCPD. He should know a thing or two about Abdul and his family.

“Hi Jessica,” he replies, though he seems in a hurry. “Chaos in Cell Five with the death of Abdul’s father and his brother.”

“Any news of Abdul’s whereabouts? I urgently need to talk to him,” I tell him.

“For the moment, and the next week or so, please do not try to contact him,” he tells me.

“Will he attend the burial of his dad and brother?”

“I really don’t know. It is the classic example of family honour versus personal safety,” he replies. My poor Abdul.

To be continued.

Related Posts

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 8

Monday

Didi wakes up with great laughter. His private joke with Aly, whatever it is, seems to have dissipated the fears that had characterised his mornings. Pity what type of phobias kids have and are forced to live with.

“So what happens to Mwikali?” I ask Aly as we move to the car, Didi having the pleasure of being the first one to be given a piggy ride on Aly’s back.

“She is at my mother’s place for now,” he murmurs as he steals a glance at Jonah’s orange house, which has a new coat of paint. Lovely, life is indeed good.

“Should I go ahead with the FIDA case?” I ask Aly, though I know he has no qualms seeing Jonah put behind bars.

“Yes!” is Aly’s thunderous reply. I need to find out from the OCPD what is exactly cutting with Jonah.

“Mum, who will become our new neighbour?” Titi asks as Aly drops her at the back of the car. My neighbour, a reserved man who was always out of town, moved out on Saturday, leaving us with only one neighbour. Not that it makes any difference.

“I am not sure,” I reply as I get into the car and hit high gear to drop the kids off. I have a packed day today. Christine and the whole of her standard eight class are waiting for me to ferry them to Mombasa town for Mr. Mambo’s court hearing. I hope the mini bus is ready.

Soothing gospel music belting out of my car radio is suddennly interrupted by a news flash. “Mombasa police have sternly reacted to the breaking news of an organised crime unit used in the sale and distribution of drugs, and the supplying of commercial sex workers!” says an announcer.

That should be Cell Five. I will call the OCPD later to find out about a lady, who reportedly spilled the secrets and is now helping the police with investigations. I look at my phone and see a missed call from Christine. It’s time to get moving, so I place a quick call to her.

“All the girls are ready,” she tells me hurriedly. I don’t miss the excitement in her voice. A trip to the mainland is a definite welcome to the girls.

“Do you have permission from your parents?” I ask her.

“Not really. Most of the parents will take it as a school trip to town,” she replies. I am not comfortable with this, but there is little that I can do right now.

“Any teacher accompanying you?” I ask.

“Yes, there is Miss Juma who has agreed to come with us,” she replies.

“I will be there in half an hour,” I assure her.

I drop my car at the office; Jumah is the only one who has reported to work. Teresia, though discharged from hospital, is not in the right framework of mind to work. Pamba is still missing in action. I have already struck him off the payroll. I need to get a driver.

The multicoloured mini bus, a 35-seater with booming music is ready, and it takes the driver less than 20 minutes to reach the school. The girls, all in their immaculate brown dresses and yellow blouses and polished shoes, are ready and raring to go. They orderly troop into the mini bus, and I wait for them to settle before I take the opportunity to address them.

“We shall be visiting the courtroom today, but nothing is expected of you other than just listening,” I say. “Whoever feels brave enough to testify can meet the prosecutor after today’s case. Please also take note of the lawyers, magistrate, prosecutor, court clerks amongst others, that you will encounter at the courtroom.”

We leave and reach the court grounds within half hour. It is almost 9 a.m., and the girls cause a stir within the corridors as they quietly and orderly walk into the courtroom.

Both FIDA and a battery of mean looking female lawyers will be representing the girls’ case, which seems to have also attracted the attention of various NGOs dealing with kids and journalists. I notice a few TV cameras in strategic positions to scoop the action.

The magistrate walks in, and we all rise. He sits and so do we. Silly tradition. Even the magistrate seems taken back by the sea of brown that has engulfed his courtroom. He slowly adjusts his glasses.

“The Republic of Kenya against Mr. Mambo,” intones a prosecutor, who appears bored.

Mr. Mambo walks in and the transformation in his body language is immediate. He seems to go limp and cannot help looking down. He takes the accused’s stand sandwiched between two mean looking guards.

“The state calls the first witness – Jessica Kambo,” the prosecutor proclaims. The girls all look as I regally make my way to the witness stand.

“I swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth,” I hold the Bible in my right hand as I take the traditional oath that binds all witnesses.

The prosecutor takes me through some of the steps, asking me some intimate questions, which I have no difficulty answering. Mr. Kombo looks down throughout my testimony. The girls are horrified at the brutal honesty that I deploy, and most of them are dumbfounded.

“We adjourn for next week at 2 p.m,” the magistrate pronounces after my testimony. Mr. Mambo is quickly whisked away as the girls orderly leave the courtroom and head to the waiting bus.

“Anyone with anything to say?” I ask the girls, who still appear shaken. It is almost 11 a.m., and I am thinking of a good place to buy them lunch – chips and chicken.

“It is very scary!” one of the girl answers.

We head to a nearby Kenchic outlet and I order chips, quarter chicken and a soda for each of the girls. We settle down to eat, and in the process I learn that some men in the estates have also been molesting the girls. I vow to come for them once I am done with Mr. Mambo.

After almost three hours together, the girls and I finally part ways, and I promise that I will pay them a visit in a week’s time.

“Thanks Jessica,” Christine tells me, while giving me a tight hug.

I watch as the girls happily troop into the bus. Flying kisses characterise our parting. I am at the office by noon, where I find Mr. Kombo hard at work. I move to greet him.

“You look happy,” he tells me, and I notice that he is aging, the wrinkles on his forehead more pronounced.

“I am from testifying in court against Mr. Mambo,” I reply with a smile. “Plus I was with all the standard eight girls from my former primary school in the courtroom.”

“I got some funding for your AIDS project,” he says as he moves to print the document.

I am excited. “That is good,” I thump my fist on my palm and lick my lips wondering how to ask about the amount.

“Fifty fifty is the deal,” he tells.

“Gross or net?” I ask.

He chuckles. “Smart girl you have become. Net.”

It’s now my time to smile. I put on a brave face as I frame the next question. “When and how much?” I ask.

“Kshs. 12 million for half a year,” he replies. “It should be here in the next week or so.”

My thoughts go wild as I see my dreams of owning a house in Tudor 4 becoming a reality. Abdul, where are you to join me in this celebration?

Talking of Abdul, the man has gone completely under, and I do not have his latest address. He seems to be changing his location every day. The fallout in Cell Five is also getting worse.

To be continued.

Related Posts

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 8

Sunday

“Mwikali is being discharged today,” Aly tells me in the morning. I am silent as I know what this entails. Who shall foot the bill? Where will she go after discharge? Who will pick her from hospital?

I look at Aly, and he seems to read my thoughts. “She can go and stay with my mother in Likoni,” he says. Aly’s father died during the disgraceful and meaningless xenophobic Likoni violence of 1997 that rocked the Coast Province – another madness engineered by Kenya’s politicians and stupidly executed by ordinary Kenyans, who did not acknowledge their role in the skirmishes and instead heaped all the blame on the lawmakers.

“Aly, let Mwikali make her own decision, and please do not make the situation messier than it already is,” I tell him.

“Mum!” a scream startles me. Didi never screams, so if he does it means big trouble. Aly and I both run to the kids’ bedroom.

“I want to talk to mum alone,” Didi says emphatically. Aly looks hurt for being thrown out of the room. Didi is still lying on his bed, looking uncomfortable, his eyes darting around.

“Even Titi should leave the room,” he says. Titi has just woken up and is rubbing her eyes, yawning and scratching at the same time. She leaves the room and joins Aly in the dejected bench of the unwanted substitutes.

“What is it David?” I ask him, using his formal name to signify that this is indeed a serious matter.

“Lock the door!” he orders, his eyes bulging in great fear. My heart is by now thumping extra volumes of blood. I obey him. He removes his pyjama and shows me his penis. “Mum, it is swollen and it is not the first time!” I take a look at it and yes, it is erect not swollen.

“For how long has this been going on?” I ask.

“It is usually swollen every morning when I wake up,” he says.  I feel sorry for David, who is very concerned that something bad might happen to his sexual organ.

“There is nothing wrong with your willy,” I tell him. “It happens to all boys and men when they wake up,” I try to sound professional and serious, though I am dying to burst out in laughter.

“But you are not a boy, how do you know this?” Didi asks. He gets me offside, and I quickly conjure up an answer.

“Let us ask Aly, but I will not be here when he talks to you,” I tell him as I leave the room to get Aly.

“Man – boy problems,” I tell Aly, who looks thrilled to be finally playing the role of an uncle. Aly locks the door, and after some minutes, Didi comes out of the room looking relieved.

“What was all that about?” Titi asks her brother, jealous that she was left out of a serious family issue.

“Men’s problems,” answers Didi proudly. I am curious to find out from Aly how he managed to convince Didi that what he is expriencing is normal.

Aly quickly prepares the kids for Church. Sunday is a day for domestic touring and sampling as many restaurants as possible. Today is no exception.

“Your water is ready!” Aly shouts from my bathroom. I start to take a quick bath and hear my phone ring. I leave the bathroom and reach for the phone to check who the caller is, but I do not recognise the number, so I call back.

“Who is this if I may ask?”

A lady answers the call, and my question seems to offend her.

“The chama elections are on today, so you better be there,” comes a familiar voice of Charity, the chama’s chairperson.

“Where?” I ask.

“At my place,” she answers before hanging up. Now, do I even remember where she lives? It is almost a year since I attended any of the chama meetings though my shares are still intact. Should I or shouldn’t I go? Is it really worth sacrificing a Sunday afternoon with my kids to attend the chama elections? I decide to go, but only after spending time with my kids.

Aly escorts the twins to the car, and I notice Jonah coming out of a fancy looking taxi. He is carrying plastic shopping bags from an upmarket supermarket. On seeing him, his kids run towards the taxi. Surprisingly, the children look clean, and are even wearing shoes!

“Life is good,” Aly says rather too loudly to both Jonah’s and my liking. Jonah throws him a nasty look.

“Not now please,” I caution Aly.

“What will happen to Mwikali?” Aly asks a bit aggressively. I guess the sight of Jonah has reawakened some deep resentment.

“Why don’t I drop you at the clinic as we head to church?” I ask him. “If she is ready, then I will organise for her transportation to wherever she is going.”

Aly jumps into the car, and we drive off. “It looks like some people have either struck gold or have become devil worshippers,” Aly says in reference to Jonah’s newly found fortunes.

“How does devil worshipping come into this?” I ask him. Aly goes into superstitious stories on how some people sell their souls for material and financial gains.

“You have been watching too many Nigerian movies,” I tell him as we drive into the clinic’s compound. Aly remains in the car with the kids as I go to the ward to check on Mwikali.

Mwikali is ready to go home and is relieved to see me, though I notice that she is also embarrassed about something.

“Where is Aly?” she asks, avoiding eye contact with me.

“In the car with the kids,” I tell her. I complete her discharge paperwork in less than 10 minutes. Her total bill is slightly more than Kshs.20 000, a tidy sum but still within my abilities.

“Jonah will pay for this in court,” I tell her, but she does not respond immediately.

“I don’t want to take up the court case,” Mwikali finally says. I am fed up with this cat and mouse game.

“Mwikali, it is your life and there is very little I can do about it. Only that next time he beats you up, please do not come to my house!” I tell her.

Aly sees us coming, and he gets out of the car, though the expression on my face is not friendly at all.

“Aly, I am through with her. She is all yours,” I tell him. I get into the car and drive off, leaving Aly and Mwikali mouths agape.

We are at the church’s compound in less than 10 minutes, the kids rush over to Sunday school while I saunter to the main church, the heavenly singing bringing peace to my troubled soul.

Hours later, we are through with the service and decide to eat lunch at Kenchic. We then head to the chama elections at the upmarket Magongo estate. We enter the chairlady’s house, and six ladies, who are sharply dressed catch my attention. The women appear cold and don’t seem moved by our presence.

“Hi!” I go round greeting the ladies. Charity’s house is cosier than before – the gold coloured curtains match with the nut brown wall to wall carpet and the black leather seats. I realize that each of the four walls is painted in a different colour, and I do not miss the exquisite dining table set.

“These are a gift from Turkey,” she brags as she tells us how much they are worth.

The meeting starts, and I am the main topic of discussion.

“Are you committed or not?” Charity asks me rather brusquely.

“Where commitment means financial support or emotional support?” I reply in the same tone. “It seems like a decision has already been made about my membership, so cut the long story and just tell me what I am meant to do.”

The ladies seem to have reached a consensus to expel me from the chama, and my attendance must have upset their plan.

“We have agreed that if anyone misses three consecutive meetings, then she will be expelled,” Charity concludes.

The rest of the meeting oscillates from hot gossip to husband bashing, housegirl antics and children’s humour. I have a good laugh the whole afternoon, and so are my kids, who run around the expansive estate’s playing field. I am glad that I came for the meeting. The laughter has invigorated me. Talk of girl power.

To be continued.

Related Posts

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

Saturday

It’s 3 a.m. The time angels are said to be descending on earth. I hear a car driving in, and I am up quickly. I hear the pounding of a door from afar. I move to the kitchen door and take a peak at Jonah’s house. I notice a police car and three armed policemen, one of them knocking on the door.

“This is the police, please open up!” he says.

Jonah comes out of the house, fully dressed in an orange suit and black shirt. Of late, his dressing has become sharper and his lifestyle, courtesy of the taxis that drop and pick him, flashier than before. He should now transfer the same to his kids.

Jonah opens the door, and the three policemen bundle him into the car. He is careful enough not to protest;  he must have learnt his lessons the last time he was arrested.

I wonder what will happen to the kids. It’s time to contact their real mother, wherever she might be. Mwikali is still in hospital, the x-rays reveal no fractures, just soft tissue damage to her sides. She should be released today. Aly, however, is home after spending more than 12 hours at the hospital.

I try grabbing some sleep but I am unable to, so I stay up in bed tossing around, waiting for the day to break.

Early in the morning, and I have a visitor. My elder brother, George, the one studying for priesthood at Kwale Seminary, pays me an unexpected visit.

“Come in,” I usher in George, who is with one of his priest friends, Charles, and my niece Omar. We hug. I notice Omar’s eyes scanning the room, possibly for what to steal at a later date. Dare he!

It is not long and my twins are in the sitting room, joining the early visitors. Christine, who spent the night at my place, joins us. I am happy to say that Christine tested negative and is relieved, so am I. One less hurdle.

“David and Terry, though we call them Didi and Titi,” I introduce my kids to the visitors. The kids hit it off, telling the visitors stories about school. Didi even has the audacity to narrate the story of my fight at his first school.

“David, I thought we have an agreement about that story,” I tell him. He laughs it off.

My brother is on his way to Nairobi, where he shall be completing his priesthood studies in about a year’s time.

“I just wanted to make sure that my hardworking sister is okay,” he tells me. “And I also need to see mum.”

After a hearty breakfast punctuated with wisecrack from my twins and deep stories from my brother, we all head to pay mum a visit.

“Can we pass by the hospital to see a friend of mine?” I ask the two. “It will be brief.”

We move to the clinic where Mwikali is admitted. My brother offers prayers and assures Mwikali that she will be fine.

“She should be home tomorrow,” the doctor reassures Mwikali. Which home, I wonder.

“Are you going back to Jonah’s house?” I ask her, seeing that the swelling has subsided in both eyes, and the lip looks less of an arrow root and more of a sausage. She is quiet, and I guess someone needs to talk to her before she is killed in the name of love.

“Get her a counsellor,” I tell the doctor as we leave to mum’s place.

“We have but she is stubbornly in love with this violent man,” the young doctor says.

The drive to mum’s place takes less than 10 minutes. The house girl opens the door.

“Please call mama for us,” I instruct her, “and tell her it is her daughter and son.”

Mum, hearing voices, comes down to see who the intruders are. Her joy knows no boundaries as she lets out an ear splitting scream.

“George mtakatifu!” she screams as she comes hurtling down the stairs like a 5-year-old.

“Careful mum,” I tell her as I move to the stairs to aid her descending. I must admit that her skin’s lustre is impressive – smooth and flowing like that of a new born baby. Whoever said that love is both medicinal and poisonous was not far from the truth. For mum, the move to live with dad was definitely worth it.

George is all emotional as he hugs mum. Both of them break down and I join them in crying.

“My only son,” mum whispers.

We settle down for a  hearty breakfast, then George and his friend leave.

“We have a plane to catch at noon, and we have to be there at least two hours before departure,” George tells mum.

“I will drop them off,” I inform mum, who is all teary. The last time she saw her son was more than three years ago.

George hands mum a rosary. “This one was blessed by the pope himself,” he tells mum. “Whenever you use it, remember me.”

“Where is dad?” I ask and the shock in George’s face is evident. I will explain that one later, George.

“Gone to work early,” brags mum, happy that her husband is actually doing something worth being proud of.

George leaves for the airport, leaving us both heartbroken. Mum cannot hide her grief and is all teary.

The drive to the airport is a sombre one, George revelling in all the great stories that have been taking place in the seminary. We reach the airport, and I come face-to-face with Mariam, Susan and an old male tourist who has just touched down.

“My priest brother, George,” I start the introduction before realising that it would be better if everyone self introduced themselves.

At the mention of the word priest, Susan becomes excited while Mariam looks jittery. George is happy to have met my friends.

“May I have your number?” Susan asks George, her excitement irritating Mariam.

“I will give it to you,” I intervene. George does not seem to mind and soon, he and his friend disappear into the checking bay. Susan, Mariam and the tourist wait as I finish with George.

“Sorry about that,” I tell Mariam. “Who is the guest?”

Mariam is all happy. “I am getting married to Karl,” she says gaily. My jaw drops, and I look to see Susan’s reaction, but she looks least bothered.

To be continued.

Related Posts

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

Friday

My grandfather often says that angels in heaven usually descend on earth to sprinkle the lucky ones with blessings at 3 a.m.  Not so this time.

I hear screams from a distant and immediately snap out of my deep slumber. The screams come closer to my house, and I hear someone pounding on my door.

Aly and I head to the door, with his dagger drawn and ready to strike in case of any adversaries. We are met at the door by an almost naked, pitiable and bleeding sight of a wailing Mwikali, my former housegirl, who left to be  Jonah’s partner.

I usher her ito the bathroom to wash her wounds when I get a brainwave. “Wait. Let us take photos of the bruises. We can use this against Jonah,” I tell Aly, who rushes and comes with the house camera. We take photos of the battered girl, who has a split lower lip. Her eyes are also swollen, and she is coughing blood. This is serious.

Aly and I take turns washing Mwikali, who is still dumbfounded.  Aly is furious, and I notice him fingering his side belly. I know what is in there – a scabbard with one of those wickedly curved knives that are classified officially as a licensed weapon. Some one is going to get hurt.

“We need to rush her to hospital,” I tell Aly as we dress Mwikali into one of my bui buis to conceal her facial wounds. We walk her to the car and seat her at the back seat. Aly is bitter, and I notice him inching closer to Jonah’s house.

“Not now Aly. The priority is to get Mwikali to the hospital, then deal with Jonah later on,” I tell him.

“What about the kids?” he asks, hinting that he would like to remain behind and sort out that M’bara.

“I will drop you at the hospital, and then come back to prepare the  kids for school,” I tell Aly, who is obviously agitated and is determined to pick up a fight with Jonah.

Aly follows my instructions and reluctantly walks into the car. I get into the car and start it. Mwikali is groaning in pain, forcing me to drive slowly while Aly keeps a constant watch on her. The five-minute drive to the nearest clinic  seems like forever today.

“You have to report this to the police,” a young doctor at the clinic tells us.

“Right now it is the patient we are concerned about, and not the culprit,” I reply. The doctor is friendly and removes a card from his pocket, hands it over to me and instructs us to give him a call in case we need help with the police.

I bid the duo farewell and head to the house to tend to the twins. “I will be back for you after I drop off the kids,” I tell Aly, who remains at the clinic to watch over the sedated Mwikali.

A woman basher in the 21st century! Jonah, I am coming for you, and this time it won’t be the Aly games that we have been playing. I need a strategy that will not hurt his kids. What was Mwikali thinking of going to live with a man like Jonah who is fond of mistreating women?

It is 5 a.m. when I reach home. The trail of blood from Jonah’s house to my house is still fresh. I get a mop and wash away the blood before the kids see it. I then head to the kids’ rooms and wake them up.

“Where is Aly?” the kids ask in unison.

“He had to go somewhere early in the morning. He will be back when you come from school,” I reply.

“Will you carry us to the car?” Titi inquires, and I guess I have no option but to do so.

We leave for school, but my focus is not on the road. I am so preoccupied with Mwikali’s plight that even the kids notice that something is bothering me. “Are you sure Aly is coming back?” asks Didi, the most vocal of the twins.

“If he is not there when you come back from school, I will buy you a horse,” I reply.

“And you will buy me rabbits?” Titi joins in. I laugh, and my laughter relaxes them.

I drop the kids off and dash to the clinic, where I find Mwikali sleeping with Aly by his side. “The doctor says she will need a day or two to recover. We will need to take x-rays to see if there are any broken bones,” Aly says.

I call the OCPD and request him to send one or two of his boys to the clinic. He assures me that he will see to it.

“I have to go to the office. Please don’t leave here without letting me know,” I tell the still agitated Aly. I give him money for meals, walk out, but return a few minutes later to whisper something to him. “That knife will get you into deep trouble,” I tell him.

“Someone will pay dearly today,” he replies.

“It’s not worth it,” I tell him as I walk out of the room.

I arrive at work, and I am met by an elated Jumah. “Teresia will be discharged today,” he informs me, but my mind is still far. “And thank you for the tip yesterday. I hired out each of my mkokotenis for Kshs.1,000 per day!” I love his enthusiasm so early in the morning.

“Good morning Jumah,” I tell him as I walk in the office to settle into the day’s routine.

The phone rings, and it’s Mariam on the line. “Are you on for the deal or not?” she asks.

“Let my boss come then I can see how to go about it. Ideally there should be no problem,” I tell her, though she seems to want the deal sealed immediately.

“How is the restaurant doing?” I ask.

“Great. We expect a houseful of revellers today,” she says.  “We need to urgently work on the lodging side. Why don’t we buy the adjacent Dhambi House and convert it into a lodging?”

“Abdul is not here to make the deals because he has all the paperwork,” I inform her.

Mr. Kombo walks into the office shortly after my phone call. He is in a jovial mood, which means we can discuss two of our problems. I walk in and brief him about Christine’s case and the funding issue.

“That is a lot of money and might attract the eyes of the Government,” he says, “though it is viable!”

I take that as a green light. I walk out of the office only to find Christine waiting for me.

“How did you find this place?” I ask, with shock written all over my face. She is the last person I expected to visit me.

“I know Mombasa quite well,” she assures me with the authority of a girl who has been around for long. Christine is dressed in a jeans trouser, a pink T-shirt and sports shoes, a typical teenager’s dressing. She is stunning!

“Welcome,” I say as I lead her to Mr. Kombo’s office. I need to introduce her to my boss.

Mr. Kombo is excited to meet one of my projects, though the gleam in his eye reads mischief. I am on the defensive, especially given the discovery I made about Mr.Kombo and the pornographic DVDs he exports to China. I have to keep Christine away from him.

I escort Christine out of the office and take her to Dr. Njoroge’s office for counselling and HIV testing.

To be continued.

Related Posts

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

Thursday

Mum’s recuperation at the hospital has been quick and impressive. She is responding positively to medication and medical attention.

“I am tired of the hospital,” she wails as she turns on her hospital bed. She genuinely looks bored, though a sudden distraction sees her eyes darting past me to the door. An angelic smile spreads across mother’s face, and I am curios to see who has such powers over her.

“Hi darling,” mum croaks, her eyes dancing with the gaiety of a child, whose parent has just come back home after a long journey.

I turn very slowly to come face to face with dad, the first time that we are meeting since the OCPD and I abducted my mum some 10 days back.

“Hi dad,” I say stiffly, the tension on his creased face evident. Somehow, this newfound love between mum and dad is baffling, and I am having problems making head or tail about my parents. But love is one emotion that generates more problems than solutions.

I walk out of the room without waiting for dad to say anything. I just don’t get it. Here is one man who as far as living memory is concerned, spent the better part of his life battering mum and her kids. Then he disappeared after one of my brothers smashed his left knee with a stick. Now he is back, and mum is over the moon. Do I miss something here?
I lean on the railing outside the wards, looking at the human traffic in and out of the wards. Long and sad faces are the order of the day.

“Why are you outside?” one of my annoying brothers asks me, thus snapping me out of my stupor.

“Hi Salim!” He is reeking of alcohol, his clothes untidily creased and smelling of sweat. He looks like someone straight off a TV detergent commercial. Not far behind him is Omari, my nephew; his dressing and mannerism not different from his uncle’s. These men badly need an iron lady, a male basher.

“Dad is inside with mum,” I tell them. Their reaction: a devastating upper cut that floors you instantly.

“What brings him here?” asks Salim, his fists clenched, the missing buttons on his shirt looking more ominous. Clearly the memories of childhood have not faded.

“Well, he happens to be her husband,” I tell the two untidy men. “And he is also our father and Ahmed’s grandfather!”
The two clowns click their tongue and walk away from the hospital lobby.

“Hey, where do you think you are going?” I shout at them, the prospects of being left alone with dad not looking too attractive to me.

“You will find us at the parking bay once you are through with the discharge,” Salim shouts. “We don’t want another knee smashing, do we?” I get the message.

I facilitate the discharge, an exercise that takes a frantic half hour of shuttling between the cashier, the pharmacy and the nursing station. Some of the hospital charges I find exaggeratedly high, and I am vocal about it. In the end, the bill comes to slightly under Kshs.300 000, though mum will still need heavy medication and some chemotherapy. Damn this country and heathcare! What happens to those who cannot pay? Well?

Finally I go to the ward to pick up mum. “I will go and stay with your dad,” she whispers like a young girl who has just eloped with the man of her dreams (or is it nightmare?).

“Sure,” I concur with her. Between dad and those useless ‘grandfathers,’ I would go for dad anytime. “I will drop you home to pick your belongings,” I tell her. She is radiant as she moves out of the ward, and we slowly walk to the car. The nurses are happy to see her go in good health.

My brothers have all disappeared into thinness. It bothers me not, and I drive mum to her residence to collect her personal belongings, then drive them to the west of Mombasa to the middle class residence of Magongo. I am impressed by dad’s style of living, and I hope that mum will find the peace that her health deserves. They look good together. Dad could end up being the catalyst that mum needs to get her health back on track.

After settling mum and making sure she understands how and when to take her medication, I drive off with the parting words of, “Your next review is in a week’s time. I will come for you.”

“My daughter,” mum whispers and my system immediately goes cold. She has never called me like that. “Thank you very much. God will bless you with great health and wealth!” She holds my hands and gives me a long but frail hug. I reciprocate.

I leave feeling good about myself; take a leisure drive back to town, listening to relaxing gospel music from another of those mushrooming FM stations. The drive along the other side of Mombasa takes me through the slums of Magongo, Bangladesh, and Bokole where quite a number of tax payers reside. Just before taking the main road, I notice the food and grocery kiosks that are normally on the roadside have been demolished, probably over night when the owners were not there. A blame game will develop with the council saying that the owners were given three months notice, while the owners will claim that there was a court order issued stopping the council from evicting them from the city centre. We hear it year in year out.

I arrive at the office just shortly before lunch and find Jumah waiting anxiously for me.

“Where have you been?” he asks me rather too aggressively for my liking.

“Good morning Jumah,” I reply. I wonder when he will be travelling upcountry for his daughter’s dowry session, if there is any.

“Teresia has been hospitalised,” he says too rapidly. That gets my attention, and I stop.

“Okay, go slowly and tell me what happened,” I tell him.

“Three of her kiosks were burnt down yesterday in downtown Bangladesh!”

I take a deep breath and wonder what else I don’t know about my staff. Teresia owning three kiosks is definitely a boost to her income, but all of a sudden so many things fall into place: the missing office groceries, the late mornings, early afternoons, frequents off duty.

“I did not know that Teresia owned kiosks,” I tell Juma who somehow looks shocked at having revealed a colleague’s secret.

“And what do you own that I don’t know of?” I ask Juma who has not recovered from his goof.

He pauses, scratches his head and then sheepishly says, “Three mikokoteni that ply the Kongowea market area!”

I smile and pat him on his back. “Congratulations Jumah, I love hard working men like you! How is business?”
Jumah smiles proudly before launching into a tirade. “Business is not very good. Between fighting with the council workers and the men who I have employed to pull the carts, business is a nightmare! At the end of the day the men are full of stories that hardly make any sense!”

I feel for him. “Why don’t you hire out the mikokoteni for a fixed amount a day irrespective of what you get? In that way you end up with a fixed amount per day!”

The smile on Jumah’s face spreads wider, and he gives me a high five. “Thanks girl, you are a genius!”
We walk out with Jumah to go to Coast General Hospital where Teresia has been admitted. The old lady is still in shock, though seeing Juma and I does bring some joy to her. When will the government ever learn that Kenya is a third world country? If the government cannot fix roads, sewers and have those super highways they have been dreaming of, then they should just sit back and co-exist with the kiosks, mushrooming slums, muggers, corruption everywhere, inept police force amongst a host of many other shortcomings.

Later in the evening I meet with members of the support group. We have a new member, a young handsome man who somehow reminds me of Abdul. The fear in his eyes is encouraging. Now I feel like a veteran.

“Karim,” he introduces himself. He does not look a day more than 21 years old. That more and more young people are contracting HIV/AIDS is now worrying. Soon we shall have primary and secondary schools where half the population is infected. Time to do something. Talking of primary pupils, my date with Christine is still on.

My Abdul has been holed up in Dar-es-Salaam with no communication. I know him too well. Soon he will resurface and take it up from where we left it at.

To be continued.

Related Posts