WONDER 8
Eight women, who grew up together, married around the same area- Section 58 - and are now in their forties take a peek at life’s intrigues. Of the eight, one, Lillian, has just been expelled from the Chama and one, Veronica, has called it quits. The two, however, remain in touch with the other members of the Chama. Their monthly meeting is due, but before they meet, each has had their own share of woes with life.
Pauline Onyango – 42 years old, restaurant manager, and married to John K’Ogalo, a 47 year old government accountant. They have 3 sons, Pierre who is 15 years old, Keith, 13 years old and Eric who is 4 years old. John is fighting for his life, afflicted by HIV/AIDS.
“Send him upcountry, so as to lessen the burden when he dies,” suggested Jackie when she visited. Quite callous but practical, that’s Jackie for you.
Pauline, always the calm and sober one in the group, looked at Jackie. “Might as well bury him here is Nakuru. Same thing.”
Pauline’s two sons knew what was going on and she had made it her point to explain to them.
“Did Dad get AIDS from a prostitute?” Pierre inquired during Pauline’s briefing to the boys. Pauline was stunned at the bluntness of the question.
“It is not only prostitutes who have AIDS, my son,” Pauline tried to be as assuring as possible.
“Do you have AIDS?” Keith joined in the questioning.
“No,” Pauline replied but somehow she must have not been convincing enough to the boys. Her occasional bouts of heavy coughing had alarmed the boys.
“Are you sure?” Pierre asked rather harshly.
“Are you going to die? asked Eric, the youngest of them all.
Pauline understood their fears and she had to be there for them.
“I think I will become a priest,” Pierre murmured under her breath. It was a promise, not a threat.
Elizabeth Mwende – 40 year old businesswoman, stall No.401A on Koigi’s House, Kenyatta Avenue . She is barren.
Elizabeth came home one evening and found a note on the dining table. It read. “I am sorry things cannot work between us. I’d love to have kids of my own one day. Good luck in your future endeavours.” Signed, Godfrey.
Elizabeth sat down and did not move for a long time. Then she finally tried Godfrey’s number. It was off. So she called the members of her group, most who lived within Section 58.
“Men are dogs,” said Christine, the first one to come to Elizabeth’s house.
Elizabeth was crying. “This is the 3rd man who has left me in 3 years. Why?”
“Adopt a kid or kids if that is the problem,” offered Prisca.
Elizabeth was still low and they all decided to treat her to a movie – on a weekday.
Prisca’s eyes were firmly on the new curtains and nets that Elizabeth had put in the house. They conveniently matched with the gold carpet. Whenever members of the Chama came visiting, Elizabeth always made sure there was something new in the house.
Christine Wakesho – 43 years old single mother of 2 – a 23 year old 2nd year university son, Stano and an 18 year old Form Four student, Tina. The kids have different fathers and they know it.
“Mom, I think there is something I should tell you about Stano,” Tina approached her mom
Christine was immediately on her guard. “Drugs?” Tina shook her head. She paused.
“Worse. He is going out with a sugar mummy.” Tina’s eyes bulged in guilt at letting out her brother’s guarded secret.
It did not sink. “How do you know?” Chrisitine asked her daughter.
“Please promise that you won’t tell him that I told you,” Tina pleaded. She looked behind her shoulders just to confirm that there was no one around.
“Okay, I will try my best.”
Tina showed her mum the sms Stano had sent her. “Hi Sis – imagine I am getting a new car for my 24th birthday! How cool!” Christine could not believe it.
“For how long has this been going on?” Christine asked.
“9 months!”
“What?” Christine went for a cold glass of water, dreading the next question she was going to ask.
“How old is she?”
Tina hesitated but the combination of pain and pity on her mother’s eyes swayed her judgement.
“52!”
Christine choked on her water making Tina rush to her mum’s side.
The tirade followed for the next minute or so. Then Christine sat down and broke down in tears, wailing her heart out. Tina joined her.
Prisca Cheruiyot 47 year old accountant with Serena Hotels. She is married, as a 3rd wife, to Moses Leting, a politician and power broker in the current regime and they have 3 children, 2 sons aged 25 and 21 and a daughter aged 19, who has just completed Form Four. She is building a 7 bedroomed house in the upmarket Milimani Estate.
“Mom, you are soon to be a granny,” JayneRose (JR) declared one night when they were watching news.
“Now which of my randy sons has impregnated a housegirl?” Prisca asked her sons.
Both sons laughed out loudly, before the younger one replied, “Or which houseboy has impregnated your precious daughter?”
“No!” screamed Prisca giving her sons the daggers.
“Yes,” screamed JR. “I will be a mummy just like you!”
“Who?” demanded Prisca.
There was silence before JR exploded in tears.
“It is the neighbour’s houseboy, the kiosk man or a matatu manamba,” said her brother.
“Or all the above,” chuckled the second one as they burst into a stream of prolonged and annoying laughter.
“Stop it boys!” the mum ordered. “Darling, who is the father?”
JR hesitated. “He is called Damien!”
The boys burst out into uncontrollable guffaws again.
“Stop it!” screamed Prisca.
“Why? It is that useless manamba who hangs out the whole day at the bus stop?” said her brother. “He sleeps with anything!”
Georgina Njoroge – 41 year old lecturer at a Kenya Institute of Management College in Nakuru. Married with four children, aged between 6 and 17, but husband has been abroad for the last 5 years without communicating.
“Forget him Georgina,” Patrick, an old time friend told her.
Georgina kept quiet as she fiddled with her wine glass. She gulped the wine. The background music did not register.
“Three whole years and there is no word from him. What if he is dead?” Georgina asked.
“No Kenyan dies in the US without the authorities contacting the family. Forget him. I am here for you,” Patrick stroked Georgina’s hand. She felt safe.
“But he is the father of my children,” Georgina started again, the doubts creeping back.
“An absent father is no father,” Patrick told her. “And you are not growing any younger.”
“Are you calling me old?” Georgina purred.
“Beautiful,” whispered Patrick. “Forget him!”
“Easier said than done,” replied Georgina, squeezing Patrick’s hand in reciprocation.
Jackline Nafula Kiragu – 27 year old, Drama and Music teacher at an International School in Nakuru. She is the youngest in the group and was recruited by her aunt who has since left the group. Jackie has just delivered a bouncing baby girl. Her husband Wycliffe, an engineer with Vodafone, hails from a different tribe with Jackline.
“Imagine when he found out that it was a baby girl, he walked out of the hospital,” Jackie was crying as she narrated to her group members.
“The doctor held him by his shirt and told him, “Man, there are many women who do not make it through this, and there are many people who have no children.”
‘The doctor drew Wycliffe closer to him and whispered, ‘Your mother is not a man!’
“Wycliffe walked away and came back in two hours totally drunk. ‘Where is that fucking doctor who thinks my balls are diluted? Does he know that my family line is made of men: I have four brothers and each of them has a son!’?”
Jackline broke down again as she was narrating the story. Her doctor had warned her against serious baby blues.
Jackie’s auntie, Veronica, walked in and found Jackline in tears. The others were thrilled to see her and everyone stood to hug her. Veronica was one of the founding members of Wonder Eight but she had to leave because of Lillian. That was 8 months back.
“How have you been?” everyone seemed to ask Veronica at the same time.
Veronica was overwhelmed by memories flooding back to the good old days. She became teary as she held Jackie’s baby.
There was knock on the door and without thinking Jackie shouted, “Come in!”
Lillian walked in and there was silence in the room. The tension was palpable. No one spoke, not even Jackie the hostess.
“Hi everybody,” Lillian said tensely before spotting Veronica, who quickly gave the baby back to Jackie and stood to leave.
“I will leave,” Lillian offered as she dropped her gift and beat a hasty retreat.
“Prostitute,” Veronica said as Lillian fled the room.
*
It is a day that Veronica will never forget. Veronica had heard rumours about her husband going out with Lillian. However much she tried, Veronica had been unable to establish the truth behind the rumours until one day when she got a phone call at midnight.
“Lillian is with your husband at Gituamba Night Club, Room 41,” was the message from the caller. Veronica tried calling back for more details but the caller had disconnected his phone.
A call to her husband proved equally fruitless.
With that Veronica’s sleep had gone. She spent the next 10 minutes trying out different things. Finally she decided to call Wonder 8 members.
Only two members responded to her distress call.
“What?” Liz had screamed. “I will be there in 5 minutes.
“Wait for me there,” was Georgina’s reply.
Both ladies were there in less than 10 minutes ready for combat.
“Let’s go,” they dragged Veronica out of the house to Gituamba Night Club.
“I want a room,” Liz told the receptionist. “Number 41.”
“Sorry, it’s taken,” the receptionists replied.
Liz then slid a shs.1000 note and the spare key was in her hands
Veronica, Liz and Georgina made their way to the room. Veronica was a bag of nerves. “What if it is not true?” she asked while holding the stairs railing. The others stopped.
“Let’s go back, this is not right,” Veronica said.
“There is only one way of finding out once and for all,” commanded the combative Liz as she matched to the room.
Veronica stood aside as the two ladies took charge. Liz fitted the key into the hole and noiselessly turned the key and opened the door. Georgina walked in. Veronica had to be pulled in.
Liz switched on the light and the room came to life. It was a small room with a bed on the corner. The air reeked heavily of alcohol and cigarette. Clothes were strewn all over the floor. Veronica recognised the trousers that her husband had been wearing that day. On the bed were two figures partly covered in a blanket.
Veronica lost it and yanked the blanket from the bed, thus exposing the two naked bodies. Veronica went for Lillian and pulled her out from her husband’s embrace.
The three ladies all descended on Lillian, who was far too drunk to know what was going on. The husband stirred from his sleep and thinking that it was thieves, started shouting.
The commotion attracted the security personnel who came and resolved the issue by throwing out the three dressed ladies.
“That is my husband,” Veronica said as she was pulled away from the two naked bodies.
“Go home and wait for him,” was the reply from one of the security men.
Veronica and the two ladies did not go home but instead parked their car outside the club.
“I will not go until they both come out. I have to settle this once and for all,” Veronica told her girlfriends. They pledged their loyalty and stayed in the car with her.
At around 10 a.m, Lillian and Tom, Veronica’s husband walked out of the club, hand in hand.
The three ladies came out of the car. Lillian was the first one to spot them. She turned and ran back to the club. Tom stood rooted to the spot.
Veronica, a bag of nerves, broke down crying.
“Why are you doing this to me?”
Sensing danger, Tom tried aggression. “Stupid woman, you think you can keep me on a leash!” His attempt to beat up Veronica was, however, thwarted by the other two tough women.
“Try touching her and you will see fire,” Liz told Tom, as she positioned herself like a boxer. Georgina’s bag was ready to strike.
“So now the Chama has become your husband,” shouted Tom. “Tell them to make love to you as well.” And with that Tom went back to the club.
That morning, Veronica moved out of Section 58 estate to Free Area Estate with her two children. It is the day that she also left the group Wonder 8, despite the protests from the other 6 women.
A special meeting was convened by the group. Lillian and Veronica did not attend. The meeting resolved to expel Lillian. All the members endorsed the decision.
Monday, May 11, 2009
MARY AND JOSEPH
Mary And Joseph.
THE FIRST READING.
A READING FROM THE BOOK OF ECCLESIASTICUS VERSE 4 TO 9.
Two are better than one, because they have a good return for their work:
If one falls down, his friend can help him up. But pity the man who falls and has no one to help him up! Also, if two lie down together, they will keep warm. But how can one keep warm alone? Though one may be overpowered, two can defend themselves. A cord of three strands is not quickly broken.
It was the last Holy Mass that Fr. Joseph was presiding over. He looked at the congregation – his family as he fondly referred to them – and almost choked with love for them. They were simple rural folks who truly believed in God, which is where the problem lay for Fr.Joseph: he had long stopped believing in God.
“The Lord is with you,” the priest invoked, spreading his hands as he had done for the last 28 years.
“And also with you,” the congregation replied reverently, also spreading their hands to the heavens to reciprocate in kind.
“The mass is ended. Go in peace, to love and serve the Lord,” he said softly.
“Thanks be to God,” they all replied in unison. The choir took over to belt out the exit hymn
Nimeahidi Bwana Kukutumikia!
Wewe ubwana wangu
Urafiki pia…..
It was beautiful singing, as usual, the blending of the soprano, altor, tenor and bass reverberating on the walls of the building. The choir was one of the strongholds of the Church. Commitment came without say and Fr. Joseph had witnessed the growth in quality and variety of songs sang.
Fr. Joseph joined the procession of eight altar boys as they made their way out of church. He turned to bless the parishioners who made the sign of the cross as a way of acknowledging the priest’s blessings. When he reached the church’s outer door, he stopped to greet those who had left before him. He blessed rosaries scapulas, and small children who were just happy to be around him and be patted on the head. This took him some time but at least it was his best way of saying goodbye without a fuss.
After some 7 or so minutes of socializing, Fr. Joseph made way to the sacrist. Again here, he heartily shook the hands of each of the 8 altar boys and thanked them for their service and dedication to Mother Church.
The boys had already changed to their civilian clothes, a far contrast from the flowing white robes they had been wearing in church.
“Later, Father,” the boys shouted as they went to complete the rest of their Sunday routine. Only John, the head of altar boys did not move.
“Father, are you okay?” John asked softly. He was an orphan, 14 years of age and lived in one of the nearby informal settlings at the market with his uncle and three siblings. The Church, through Fr.Joseph’s initiative, took care of all John’s academic and material needs. The relationship between the two was a paternal - filial one.
There was a brief stint of silence as Fr. Joseph weighed his words. “Sorry John, some weighty matters are bogging me down my son!” He placed his right hand on the young boy’s shoulder. They were almost the same height. Their eyes locked.
John looked at the priest and said, “I will offer a decade of the rosary for you!” He extended his hand and the priest took it, squeezed it before letting go. He watched sadly as John sauntered off. How was he to tell the young man that today was his last day at the parish?
Fr. Joseph slowly made his way to his residence just within the church compound. Behind the priests’ residence, which housed 4 priests, was the convent of Sisters of Tradition – a congregation of sisters who had been rooting for the return of traditional rites within the church: priests should be in cassocks, collars at all official times; the clergy should dress differently from the laity. It was a battle the nuns had refused to give up on, despite the odds being overwhelmingly staked against them.
There was a knock on the door and the priest mumbled absent-mindedly. “Come in.” He did not turn to see who it was.
“How are you Father?” Sr. Mary asked softly. This time the priest turned and looked at Sr. Mary.
“I am not very fine Sister. I don’t think I can pull this off,” he told the Sister as he turned his gaze to the giant crucifixion picture which adorned the wall.
*
THE RESPONORIAL PSALM IS:
Faithful are the wounds of a friend,
But the kisses of an enemy are deceitful.
Make no friendship with a man given to anger, nor go with a wrathful man, or you will learn his ways and find a snare for yourself. RESPONSE
If you have find honey, eat just enough,
too much of it, and you will vomit. RESPONSE
Seldom set foot in your neighbor's house—
too much of you, and he will hate you.
RESPONSE
Better is open rebuke
Than love that is concealed.
Faithful are the wounds of a friend,
But deceitful are the kisses of an enemy. RESPONSE
*
At 48 years old, Sister Mary – born Mwende Musyoki - had been with the Order her entire life. She was born and brought up at the doorsteps of the convent because her mother – a single parent - for many years worked as a gardener at the Convent. Mwende was a constant companion to the nuns right from the moment she learnt how to walk and talk. She would accompany her mother to the convent where the nuns immediately fell in love with her, and she with them. The nuns’ angelic singing, immaculate robes made a life long impression on the small girl.
“I want to be a nun when I grow up,” was a constant song in the house.
Mwende grew up in a strict Catholic upbringing. She attended Catholic schools, spent her holidays and free time working in the Convent. When she completed her secondary schooling, she shunned a college offer to join the Order as a novitiate. Her mother was ecstatic.
*
Sr. Mary put her hand on Fr. Joseph’s shoulder. His face relaxed, a sign of the effect that she had on him.
“We have been through this so many times, Father. It’s now or never!” she firmly asserted. “You will find me at the town centre – Ukali Building – in an hours time. Please don’t let me down this time!”
She walked out of the room, her immaculate white robes swaying sideways as she moved out. Fr. Joseph stood up and walked towards the picture of Mary, the mother of Jesus, and muttered: “Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for me a sinner, now and at the hour of my death. Amen!”
Twice he had developed cold feet at the crucial time. After 4 years, how could he just walk out of the parish and leave it orphaned? He who had preached in the pulpit about virtues, vices, the 7 deadly sins was now walking out. He who had inspired boys to become priests, girls to become nuns and poor parents to improve their skills was now giving up. He who had taken on politicians head on and made them accountable for injustices was now giving up. What would happen to all those self help projects, like boreholes, irrigation schemes, saving schemes, he had instituted?
Yes, he Fr.Joseph, was spiritually bankrupt, and was shedding his priestly robe to join the laity in the world. It had been a tough 4 years in which he had wrestled with his conscience and his creator. Each year, he had stayed on, only to suffer sleepless nights, tossing around on whether it was better to hang on or to walk out.
The solution had come, surprisingly, in a confession box two years back.
*
THE SECOND READING:
A READING FROM THE BOOK OF
“Bless me Father for I have sinned. My last confession was yesterday,” came the voice which Fr.Joseph had no problem placing as Sr.Mary’s, the Convent’s Vice Superior.
“The Lord has blessed you, my daughter,” the priest invoked.
“I have lost my Faith and my vocation is in trouble,” replied Sr. Mary.
“For how long has this been going on?” the priest probed, shocked that there was someone who was going through the same tribulations like him.
“For close to three years now,” Sr. Mary replied.
“Pray to Our Lady for guidance. You have come a long way to and you will go a longer way,” Fr. Joseph advised, though he felt his words ringing hollow.
“I want to leave the Order!” Sr.Mary muttered softly.
There was silence as Fr. Joseph looked at the woman who had just stolen the words from his mouth.
“And go where? Do what?” the priest asked, more to himself than to the nun.
“I want to get married, have my own children and serve God in a different capacity,” she affirmed.
“Pray more about it,” was all the priest could say.
“I have prayed about it and I am now convinced that this is my path. I shall leave in a month’s time,” were her parting words.
When she left the confession box, Fr. Joseph was in turmoil, his heart pounding with excitement and confusion. Maybe his prayers had been answered. Fr. Joseph did not hear the next person confessing his sins.
The following day Sr. Mary was there again in the confession box. This time she skipped the formalities.
“I did not sleep last night,” she told him. “I kept on seeing this beautiful baby boy calling out to me and saying ‘mummy’! It was so lovely!”
The priest did not tell her that even he had not slept a wink.
“Father, you know I have seen your unhappiness in the last two years and I think you should also leave,” she spoke as an expert.
“Who told you that I am unhappy?” Fr. Joseph asked defensively.
“You are not the same fire brand priest that you were when you came here. You look more troubled,” she continued.
“I will pray about it!” he said weakly.
GOSPEL READING.
A READING FROM THE BOOK OF John 15:12-15
This is My commandment, that you love one another as I have loved you. Greater love has no one than this, than to lay down one’s life for his friends. You are My friends if you do whatever I command you. No longer do I call you servants, for a servant does not know what his master is doing; but I have called you friends, for all things that I heard from My Father I have made known to you.
*
Sr. Mary’s words haunted Fr. Joseph for the next two years that the two sparred, the priest always succeeding in convincing the nun that the tribulations were part and parcel of their vocation.
But the priest had his own share of self disbelief, his words ringing hollow each time. Each year was worse than the previous ones. The retreats did not help and the final straw came when he received a letter transferring him to Rome for a 3 years sabbatical. He was to leave in 3 months time.
He shared the news with Sr.Mary.
“Let us leave next week,” she told him.
He agreed and packed his things but lacked the final courage to walk out. He did not make it to their rendezvous – Matiliku Centre - and when they met again in the confessional, she gave him a tongue lashing.
“I did not know that you are such a coward,” she chided him.
“It is more of courage to stay on,” he defended himself.
“Do you or don’t you want to leave?” she asked him fiercely.
She took his silence as a sign of approval for their plans.
A week later, he again failed to make it and this time she, for the first time, screamed at him.
“You are wasting my time Fr. Joseph!” It is the first time in almost a year that she had ever referred to him as Fr. Joseph. She always called him Joe or Dear. He got the message.
The third time, just after mass, she walked out of his office with the parting words. “I am gone and this time I am not coming back.”
“Where will you go?” he asked her.
“To start a new life!” she replied as she looked at him. “At my cousin’s place in Matuu! I leave town at exactly 2pm!”
For the third time in as many months, Fr. Joseph packed his belongings. This time he knew he was going to leave – the heaviness in his heart was absent and the regrets were few!
He left the books, mementoes, the car and all worldly things he could think of. The Church compound was deserted as he walked out, through the metallic gate that was never manned. He locked the gate and walked to the roadside where he stopped a town bound matatu.
“Father, where is your collar today?” asked the matatu tout, who was one of the products of the Youth movement in Church.
Fr. Joseph smiled at the young man. “Today is my day off as a priest!”
The young man laughed.
The priest removed his bible and started reading.
Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, and always perseveres. Love never fails. But where there are prophecies, they will cease; where there are tongues, they will be stilled; where there is knowledge, it will pass away
It took less than an hour to reach the town centre. Fr. Joseph alighted from the vehicle, thanked both the driver and the tout for the smooth ride.
“Be blessed,” the tout replied, “and I promise to come for mass next Sunday!”
Fr. Joseph walked his way to Ukali building. There was a restaurant on the 1st floor. He slowly took to the stairs, wondering what the future had in store for him. It was 1:45 pm.
She was there. At the furthest corner, huddled over a book was the familiar figure of Sr. Mary. She was reading a book.
“Hi Mwende,” Fr. Joseph croaked.
“Hi Joe,” she smiled back, a genuine 180 degrees smile that almost knocked the priest off his feet. Gone was the veil and in its place was beautifully plaited African hair – just the way he loved it. In his sermons, he had always admonished fakeness and encouraged women to shun those ugly weaves and chemicals that made them look plastic.
Sr. Mary stood up and gave him a hug. He responded, a long and tight hug that seemed to summarise that turmoil over the years.
“Let us go,” she said as she held his hand and led him away out of the restaurant.
He followed her, just like Adam had followed Eve.
THE FIRST READING.
A READING FROM THE BOOK OF ECCLESIASTICUS VERSE 4 TO 9.
Two are better than one, because they have a good return for their work:
If one falls down, his friend can help him up. But pity the man who falls and has no one to help him up! Also, if two lie down together, they will keep warm. But how can one keep warm alone? Though one may be overpowered, two can defend themselves. A cord of three strands is not quickly broken.
It was the last Holy Mass that Fr. Joseph was presiding over. He looked at the congregation – his family as he fondly referred to them – and almost choked with love for them. They were simple rural folks who truly believed in God, which is where the problem lay for Fr.Joseph: he had long stopped believing in God.
“The Lord is with you,” the priest invoked, spreading his hands as he had done for the last 28 years.
“And also with you,” the congregation replied reverently, also spreading their hands to the heavens to reciprocate in kind.
“The mass is ended. Go in peace, to love and serve the Lord,” he said softly.
“Thanks be to God,” they all replied in unison. The choir took over to belt out the exit hymn
Nimeahidi Bwana Kukutumikia!
Wewe ubwana wangu
Urafiki pia…..
It was beautiful singing, as usual, the blending of the soprano, altor, tenor and bass reverberating on the walls of the building. The choir was one of the strongholds of the Church. Commitment came without say and Fr. Joseph had witnessed the growth in quality and variety of songs sang.
Fr. Joseph joined the procession of eight altar boys as they made their way out of church. He turned to bless the parishioners who made the sign of the cross as a way of acknowledging the priest’s blessings. When he reached the church’s outer door, he stopped to greet those who had left before him. He blessed rosaries scapulas, and small children who were just happy to be around him and be patted on the head. This took him some time but at least it was his best way of saying goodbye without a fuss.
After some 7 or so minutes of socializing, Fr. Joseph made way to the sacrist. Again here, he heartily shook the hands of each of the 8 altar boys and thanked them for their service and dedication to Mother Church.
The boys had already changed to their civilian clothes, a far contrast from the flowing white robes they had been wearing in church.
“Later, Father,” the boys shouted as they went to complete the rest of their Sunday routine. Only John, the head of altar boys did not move.
“Father, are you okay?” John asked softly. He was an orphan, 14 years of age and lived in one of the nearby informal settlings at the market with his uncle and three siblings. The Church, through Fr.Joseph’s initiative, took care of all John’s academic and material needs. The relationship between the two was a paternal - filial one.
There was a brief stint of silence as Fr. Joseph weighed his words. “Sorry John, some weighty matters are bogging me down my son!” He placed his right hand on the young boy’s shoulder. They were almost the same height. Their eyes locked.
John looked at the priest and said, “I will offer a decade of the rosary for you!” He extended his hand and the priest took it, squeezed it before letting go. He watched sadly as John sauntered off. How was he to tell the young man that today was his last day at the parish?
Fr. Joseph slowly made his way to his residence just within the church compound. Behind the priests’ residence, which housed 4 priests, was the convent of Sisters of Tradition – a congregation of sisters who had been rooting for the return of traditional rites within the church: priests should be in cassocks, collars at all official times; the clergy should dress differently from the laity. It was a battle the nuns had refused to give up on, despite the odds being overwhelmingly staked against them.
There was a knock on the door and the priest mumbled absent-mindedly. “Come in.” He did not turn to see who it was.
“How are you Father?” Sr. Mary asked softly. This time the priest turned and looked at Sr. Mary.
“I am not very fine Sister. I don’t think I can pull this off,” he told the Sister as he turned his gaze to the giant crucifixion picture which adorned the wall.
*
THE RESPONORIAL PSALM IS:
Faithful are the wounds of a friend,
But the kisses of an enemy are deceitful.
Make no friendship with a man given to anger, nor go with a wrathful man, or you will learn his ways and find a snare for yourself. RESPONSE
If you have find honey, eat just enough,
too much of it, and you will vomit. RESPONSE
Seldom set foot in your neighbor's house—
too much of you, and he will hate you.
RESPONSE
Better is open rebuke
Than love that is concealed.
Faithful are the wounds of a friend,
But deceitful are the kisses of an enemy. RESPONSE
*
At 48 years old, Sister Mary – born Mwende Musyoki - had been with the Order her entire life. She was born and brought up at the doorsteps of the convent because her mother – a single parent - for many years worked as a gardener at the Convent. Mwende was a constant companion to the nuns right from the moment she learnt how to walk and talk. She would accompany her mother to the convent where the nuns immediately fell in love with her, and she with them. The nuns’ angelic singing, immaculate robes made a life long impression on the small girl.
“I want to be a nun when I grow up,” was a constant song in the house.
Mwende grew up in a strict Catholic upbringing. She attended Catholic schools, spent her holidays and free time working in the Convent. When she completed her secondary schooling, she shunned a college offer to join the Order as a novitiate. Her mother was ecstatic.
*
Sr. Mary put her hand on Fr. Joseph’s shoulder. His face relaxed, a sign of the effect that she had on him.
“We have been through this so many times, Father. It’s now or never!” she firmly asserted. “You will find me at the town centre – Ukali Building – in an hours time. Please don’t let me down this time!”
She walked out of the room, her immaculate white robes swaying sideways as she moved out. Fr. Joseph stood up and walked towards the picture of Mary, the mother of Jesus, and muttered: “Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for me a sinner, now and at the hour of my death. Amen!”
Twice he had developed cold feet at the crucial time. After 4 years, how could he just walk out of the parish and leave it orphaned? He who had preached in the pulpit about virtues, vices, the 7 deadly sins was now walking out. He who had inspired boys to become priests, girls to become nuns and poor parents to improve their skills was now giving up. He who had taken on politicians head on and made them accountable for injustices was now giving up. What would happen to all those self help projects, like boreholes, irrigation schemes, saving schemes, he had instituted?
Yes, he Fr.Joseph, was spiritually bankrupt, and was shedding his priestly robe to join the laity in the world. It had been a tough 4 years in which he had wrestled with his conscience and his creator. Each year, he had stayed on, only to suffer sleepless nights, tossing around on whether it was better to hang on or to walk out.
The solution had come, surprisingly, in a confession box two years back.
*
THE SECOND READING:
A READING FROM THE BOOK OF
“Bless me Father for I have sinned. My last confession was yesterday,” came the voice which Fr.Joseph had no problem placing as Sr.Mary’s, the Convent’s Vice Superior.
“The Lord has blessed you, my daughter,” the priest invoked.
“I have lost my Faith and my vocation is in trouble,” replied Sr. Mary.
“For how long has this been going on?” the priest probed, shocked that there was someone who was going through the same tribulations like him.
“For close to three years now,” Sr. Mary replied.
“Pray to Our Lady for guidance. You have come a long way to and you will go a longer way,” Fr. Joseph advised, though he felt his words ringing hollow.
“I want to leave the Order!” Sr.Mary muttered softly.
There was silence as Fr. Joseph looked at the woman who had just stolen the words from his mouth.
“And go where? Do what?” the priest asked, more to himself than to the nun.
“I want to get married, have my own children and serve God in a different capacity,” she affirmed.
“Pray more about it,” was all the priest could say.
“I have prayed about it and I am now convinced that this is my path. I shall leave in a month’s time,” were her parting words.
When she left the confession box, Fr. Joseph was in turmoil, his heart pounding with excitement and confusion. Maybe his prayers had been answered. Fr. Joseph did not hear the next person confessing his sins.
The following day Sr. Mary was there again in the confession box. This time she skipped the formalities.
“I did not sleep last night,” she told him. “I kept on seeing this beautiful baby boy calling out to me and saying ‘mummy’! It was so lovely!”
The priest did not tell her that even he had not slept a wink.
“Father, you know I have seen your unhappiness in the last two years and I think you should also leave,” she spoke as an expert.
“Who told you that I am unhappy?” Fr. Joseph asked defensively.
“You are not the same fire brand priest that you were when you came here. You look more troubled,” she continued.
“I will pray about it!” he said weakly.
GOSPEL READING.
A READING FROM THE BOOK OF John 15:12-15
This is My commandment, that you love one another as I have loved you. Greater love has no one than this, than to lay down one’s life for his friends. You are My friends if you do whatever I command you. No longer do I call you servants, for a servant does not know what his master is doing; but I have called you friends, for all things that I heard from My Father I have made known to you.
*
Sr. Mary’s words haunted Fr. Joseph for the next two years that the two sparred, the priest always succeeding in convincing the nun that the tribulations were part and parcel of their vocation.
But the priest had his own share of self disbelief, his words ringing hollow each time. Each year was worse than the previous ones. The retreats did not help and the final straw came when he received a letter transferring him to Rome for a 3 years sabbatical. He was to leave in 3 months time.
He shared the news with Sr.Mary.
“Let us leave next week,” she told him.
He agreed and packed his things but lacked the final courage to walk out. He did not make it to their rendezvous – Matiliku Centre - and when they met again in the confessional, she gave him a tongue lashing.
“I did not know that you are such a coward,” she chided him.
“It is more of courage to stay on,” he defended himself.
“Do you or don’t you want to leave?” she asked him fiercely.
She took his silence as a sign of approval for their plans.
A week later, he again failed to make it and this time she, for the first time, screamed at him.
“You are wasting my time Fr. Joseph!” It is the first time in almost a year that she had ever referred to him as Fr. Joseph. She always called him Joe or Dear. He got the message.
The third time, just after mass, she walked out of his office with the parting words. “I am gone and this time I am not coming back.”
“Where will you go?” he asked her.
“To start a new life!” she replied as she looked at him. “At my cousin’s place in Matuu! I leave town at exactly 2pm!”
For the third time in as many months, Fr. Joseph packed his belongings. This time he knew he was going to leave – the heaviness in his heart was absent and the regrets were few!
He left the books, mementoes, the car and all worldly things he could think of. The Church compound was deserted as he walked out, through the metallic gate that was never manned. He locked the gate and walked to the roadside where he stopped a town bound matatu.
“Father, where is your collar today?” asked the matatu tout, who was one of the products of the Youth movement in Church.
Fr. Joseph smiled at the young man. “Today is my day off as a priest!”
The young man laughed.
The priest removed his bible and started reading.
Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, and always perseveres. Love never fails. But where there are prophecies, they will cease; where there are tongues, they will be stilled; where there is knowledge, it will pass away
It took less than an hour to reach the town centre. Fr. Joseph alighted from the vehicle, thanked both the driver and the tout for the smooth ride.
“Be blessed,” the tout replied, “and I promise to come for mass next Sunday!”
Fr. Joseph walked his way to Ukali building. There was a restaurant on the 1st floor. He slowly took to the stairs, wondering what the future had in store for him. It was 1:45 pm.
She was there. At the furthest corner, huddled over a book was the familiar figure of Sr. Mary. She was reading a book.
“Hi Mwende,” Fr. Joseph croaked.
“Hi Joe,” she smiled back, a genuine 180 degrees smile that almost knocked the priest off his feet. Gone was the veil and in its place was beautifully plaited African hair – just the way he loved it. In his sermons, he had always admonished fakeness and encouraged women to shun those ugly weaves and chemicals that made them look plastic.
Sr. Mary stood up and gave him a hug. He responded, a long and tight hug that seemed to summarise that turmoil over the years.
“Let us go,” she said as she held his hand and led him away out of the restaurant.
He followed her, just like Adam had followed Eve.
KAUZI.COM
KAUZI.COM
What’s ours is ours; what’s yours is also ours.
Three buddies – Kariz, Onyi and Kip - grew up in the compound of Thika Prison: their parents were prison wardens. The three boys interacted and ran errands for some of the death row inmates, often being paid handsomely for petty errands. The valuable lessons they learnt as children paid dividends years later.
Behind the three hardened thugs, is a serious obsession with the women in their lives.
Wedding Bells.
Thomas Kariz Kariuki – 25 year old budding musician, though he is more into stealing other peoples lyrics and beats. He has a turbulent relationship with his childhood sweetheart – Caroline Nafula.
Friday.
“How are you Kariuki?” the priest asked the nervous groom, who kept on checking his watch and his phone.
“I am not fine, Fr.Charles! This will be the fifth time the wedding is bouncing,” replied Kariz as he turned and looked at his older cousin, Mwangi ‘Mwas’, his best man at the wedding. They were only the two of them, Kariz’s bosom buddies in crime, Kip and Doc all having other tight schedules that did not allow them to attend the wedding. Doc had dismissed the wedding from the first day, telling Kariz to just move in with the girl. But Caroline’s parents had insisted on a wedding. And a big one for that matter.
“The other four were all because of your missions or mishoni as you call them,” replied the priest who had seen the young man grow up inside the walls of a prison. He knew him from confessions as well, though it was quite a long time since he came for confession.
“You call her,” Kariz told the priest, “since she is not picking my calls!”
The priest tried but could not succeed.
“It’s now more than an hour. Shall we call it off?” the priest asked practically, well aware of the on off relationship that Kariz and Caroline had was not about to end soon.
“Sure!” Kariz asked as he motioned Mwas to follow him. It was time to go back to business.
“Tomorrow I have some mishoni in Nairobi,” Kariz told Mwas as they entered the car and drove out of the Church compound to the Town centre.
Socrates ‘Dr.’ Onyango – 26 year old Msc in criminology. Pursuing his Phd in the same field. The master mind in the group. His older brother, Odhiambo, is a cop and they have a love hate relationship which tends to spill over. He is very attached to his mom, Appolonia Apondi, who is suffering from breast cancer.
“What are the results?” Doc asked the doctor on duty at the Aga Khan Hospital Kisumu.
The doctor spread the x-rays on the panel and showed him the places the cancer had spread to.
“It is quite advanced,” he said solemnly.
“Will she die?” Doc asked, afraid that he would lose his mum.
The doctor kept quiet before philosophically adding, “We all will die one day. She might even outlive some of us!”
Doc held the doctor’s sleeves fiercely. “If she dies, you and your family die as well!”
The two looked at each other and the doctor, who did not know Doc’s reputation, yanked his sleeves and shouted at him.
“Don’t you ever threaten me!”
The shouting attracted the security guards who came running into the room. They all knew Doc very well.
“What’s up Doc?” the security man asked, ignoring the real doctor.
The two docs spoke at the same time.
“Nothing, I was just finishing with daktari!”
“He threatened me!” stammered the doctor.
Doc walked out of the room and went to see his mum in the wards.
Doc opened the door to the private room his mum was in. He walked in only to come face to face with Odhiambo, his older brother who was the District Police Commissioner in charge of Nakuru District .
“What are you doing here?” Doc barked his dislike for his brother quite evident.
“I have come to see my mother if you do care to remember,” Odhiambo answered coolly.
“Stop it you two,” the mother managed to whisper, her face contorted with both physical and emotional pain.
“I will see you tomorrow. I have to rush to Nairobi to complete some business,” Doc told the mother.
“Legal business I hope,” Odhiambo replied.
Doc did not answer. He banged the door and left the hospital.
Kiprono ‘Kip’ Mutai – 24 year old marathon champion who wins money on the road but always messes. He dropped out of school in std.6 to pursue his running career. He has a restraining order from FIDA not to move within 100 metres from his girlfriend – the mother of his 4 year old daughter. He’ll do anything to get his daughter back.
The bell had just rang and the children screamed at the prospect of the end of the day and the beginning of the weekend.
Kip slid past the eager parents and went to the classroom. The teachers all knew him.
Chemutai saw her dad and immediately ran towards him. “Hi Papa!” she squealed as she jumped onto him. Kip was happy as he carried his daughter to the on waiting taxi.
“Mr. Kip,” a voice called behind him. He turned to face the headteacher of The Alphabet Nursery school. She was a matronly figure, generously endowed with flesh in all areas.
“Yes, madam!” Kip replied knowing very well that a fight was about to take place.
“I have instructions from your wife that you are not to take Chemutai anywhere,” the headteacher said as she showed him the letter.
“Is it a court order?” he asked.
“No,” replied the headteacher who did not look amused at having been drawn into these endless couple squabbles.
“Goodbye,” Kip said as he got into the taxi and zoomed off with his daughter.
“Where are we going?” Chemutai asked.
“To see grandma,” Kip replied.
“Yipee, I love grandma, especially her stories of how prisoners behave,” Chemutai replied.
Kip’s phone rang. His girlfriend Carol was on the line. He ignored the call.
Saturday.
The three kauzis were at Socrates’ place in Makongeni Estate, Thika, finalising their mission. They were seated round the exquisitely furnished dining table, sipping soft drinks. Socrates did not believe in drinking while at work
“Please go over the plan once more,” Socrates ordered Kariz, the executor of all hatched plans.
“Come on Doc, we have been through this a million times. It’s time for action. And this juice is very bitter, can’t we have a tot,” Kip complained.
“Kip, this is not like stealing chicken in the village,” Kariz shot.
Kip was hurt knowing that it will be very hard to shake off the tag of chicken thief.
“A thief is a thief,” Kip declared, “whether from a wedding party or from a chicken’s roost.”
Kariz ignored him and quickly went through the drills.
“There are 12 targeted weddings in Nairobi today. Wedding gifts start arriving from as early as 11am and go all the way to almost 7pm. All the transporters should be at the go down latest 8pm.”
Doc rubbed his temple. “What about the transport managers?”
“They all are taken care of. They will be kept busy. My girls are on site,” replied Kariz.
Doc looked at his watch. It was 4:25pm. “Okay, let us move to the go down.”
Kip was still brooding. “A thief is a thief!” he muttered as the three childhood buddies moved to the parking lot and boarded Doc’s state of the art car.
Kariz made the follow up calls and by the time they reached the warehouse, all 12 sites had confirmed being in control. They passed by MoW Sports Club in South C to check on the proceedings. The lorry was well packed behind the gifts tent and the driver was busy recording all the gifts being put in.
“Hi baby,” Kip told one of the ushers.
“Hi!” she replied coyly. “Can I show you around?”
“Sure. Why not?” Kip relied.
And with than Kip parted ways with his busy buddies who were inspecting the grounds.
It took about five minutes for Doc and Kariz to realise Kip’s absence.
“Where is Kip?” Doc asked. “Call him, we better be on our way to the go down!”
“The first batch is on its way – there were too many gifts so he has to make two trips,” Kariz reported. “Kip is not picking his phone!”
“Bloody fool! We set women on our victims and he is the first one to take a bite! Let’s look for him,” Doc said.
Kip was found at the car park waxing lyrical to the bemused girl.
“Come on Kip, let’s jog out of here!” Doc commanded as Kariz held Kip’s hand and pulled him away from the beauty.
“I will call you,” Kip blew a kiss at her. He entered the car and then turned on his friends. “What is the meaning of pulling me out?”
“We have a job to do and that girl is not that job,” replied Doc.
By 5pm, the first consignment had reached. Another three were on its way.
The lorry carrying the assortment of gifts was quickly emptied and the driver given his share of loot, which he counted carefully.
“Two sites have run into problems as the transport managers have insisted on accompanying the vehicles,” Kariz reported.
“Let them come here we roast them,” Kip, who believed in direct confrontation, declared.
“No,” chipped in Doc, “call Johnny and tell him where to be.” Johnny was a renowned carjacker.
By 7pm, eleven lorries had docked their wares at the go down. One more to go. Johnny had met his end of the bargain.
“One is missing,” Doc complained. “Who is it?”
“Bob,” Kariz replied.
“Call him,” ordered Doc.
“He is mteja.”
Kip laughed. “He has stolen from thieves. I told you, a thief is a thief!”
Doc rubbed his temple again. “Set Johnny on him. No one steals from us!”
“On the wife and kids or on his aged parents?” Kariz asked.
Kip bolted. “Don’t touch the kids. You two don’t know what it means to lose your own child!”
Doc ignored him. “Set on the kids first, it hurts the most!”
“No,” screamed Kip.
They both ignored Kip as Kariz went ahead and dialled Johnny’s number.
“Kaloleni estate Block K15,” Kariz gave the directions of Bob’s house.
“Kip, call the supermarket manager and tell him his loot is ready.” Doc ordered. Kip was still brooding muttering to himself over and over.
Within two hours, four huge unmarked lorries had cleared all the wares and paid for the goods in hard cash.
“Bob’s family moved out today in the morning,” Kariz relayed Johnny’s message.
“We’ll get him. Kenya is a village,” Doc replied.
The three retired to their hideout neutral place in South B – a 3 bedroomed house.
They spent the next hour counting and recounting their loot. It was a hoping Kshs.6 million exact in shs.1000 notes.
“We split the money equally,” Kip reminded them.
“We always do that,” Kariz confirmed.
Doc’s phone rang. He looked at it.
“My brother,” he whispered. “Yes Police Commissioner,” Doc mocked his brother.
His brother went straight to the point. “We have arrested a lorry full of wedding gifts in Naivasha on its way to Busia.”
Doc put the phone on speaker phone. “Why call me?”
“The driver, Bob, says he was running an errand for you.”
“He cannot prove it,” Doc told his brother.
“Here is the deal, brother, you release all the goods that you have taken and I won’t press charges,” Doc’s brother said.
“And here is the deal, brother, you release the lorry and the driver and I won’t send your pictures in Mombasa to your wife and children.”
There was a pause.
“Fuck you,” Doc’s brother said.
“I have the brains brother, better get used to that. I want that lorry and drive delivered to me in an hour’s time.”
Doc hang up.
What’s ours is ours; what’s yours is also ours.
Three buddies – Kariz, Onyi and Kip - grew up in the compound of Thika Prison: their parents were prison wardens. The three boys interacted and ran errands for some of the death row inmates, often being paid handsomely for petty errands. The valuable lessons they learnt as children paid dividends years later.
Behind the three hardened thugs, is a serious obsession with the women in their lives.
Wedding Bells.
Thomas Kariz Kariuki – 25 year old budding musician, though he is more into stealing other peoples lyrics and beats. He has a turbulent relationship with his childhood sweetheart – Caroline Nafula.
Friday.
“How are you Kariuki?” the priest asked the nervous groom, who kept on checking his watch and his phone.
“I am not fine, Fr.Charles! This will be the fifth time the wedding is bouncing,” replied Kariz as he turned and looked at his older cousin, Mwangi ‘Mwas’, his best man at the wedding. They were only the two of them, Kariz’s bosom buddies in crime, Kip and Doc all having other tight schedules that did not allow them to attend the wedding. Doc had dismissed the wedding from the first day, telling Kariz to just move in with the girl. But Caroline’s parents had insisted on a wedding. And a big one for that matter.
“The other four were all because of your missions or mishoni as you call them,” replied the priest who had seen the young man grow up inside the walls of a prison. He knew him from confessions as well, though it was quite a long time since he came for confession.
“You call her,” Kariz told the priest, “since she is not picking my calls!”
The priest tried but could not succeed.
“It’s now more than an hour. Shall we call it off?” the priest asked practically, well aware of the on off relationship that Kariz and Caroline had was not about to end soon.
“Sure!” Kariz asked as he motioned Mwas to follow him. It was time to go back to business.
“Tomorrow I have some mishoni in Nairobi,” Kariz told Mwas as they entered the car and drove out of the Church compound to the Town centre.
Socrates ‘Dr.’ Onyango – 26 year old Msc in criminology. Pursuing his Phd in the same field. The master mind in the group. His older brother, Odhiambo, is a cop and they have a love hate relationship which tends to spill over. He is very attached to his mom, Appolonia Apondi, who is suffering from breast cancer.
“What are the results?” Doc asked the doctor on duty at the Aga Khan Hospital Kisumu.
The doctor spread the x-rays on the panel and showed him the places the cancer had spread to.
“It is quite advanced,” he said solemnly.
“Will she die?” Doc asked, afraid that he would lose his mum.
The doctor kept quiet before philosophically adding, “We all will die one day. She might even outlive some of us!”
Doc held the doctor’s sleeves fiercely. “If she dies, you and your family die as well!”
The two looked at each other and the doctor, who did not know Doc’s reputation, yanked his sleeves and shouted at him.
“Don’t you ever threaten me!”
The shouting attracted the security guards who came running into the room. They all knew Doc very well.
“What’s up Doc?” the security man asked, ignoring the real doctor.
The two docs spoke at the same time.
“Nothing, I was just finishing with daktari!”
“He threatened me!” stammered the doctor.
Doc walked out of the room and went to see his mum in the wards.
Doc opened the door to the private room his mum was in. He walked in only to come face to face with Odhiambo, his older brother who was the District Police Commissioner in charge of Nakuru District .
“What are you doing here?” Doc barked his dislike for his brother quite evident.
“I have come to see my mother if you do care to remember,” Odhiambo answered coolly.
“Stop it you two,” the mother managed to whisper, her face contorted with both physical and emotional pain.
“I will see you tomorrow. I have to rush to Nairobi to complete some business,” Doc told the mother.
“Legal business I hope,” Odhiambo replied.
Doc did not answer. He banged the door and left the hospital.
Kiprono ‘Kip’ Mutai – 24 year old marathon champion who wins money on the road but always messes. He dropped out of school in std.6 to pursue his running career. He has a restraining order from FIDA not to move within 100 metres from his girlfriend – the mother of his 4 year old daughter. He’ll do anything to get his daughter back.
The bell had just rang and the children screamed at the prospect of the end of the day and the beginning of the weekend.
Kip slid past the eager parents and went to the classroom. The teachers all knew him.
Chemutai saw her dad and immediately ran towards him. “Hi Papa!” she squealed as she jumped onto him. Kip was happy as he carried his daughter to the on waiting taxi.
“Mr. Kip,” a voice called behind him. He turned to face the headteacher of The Alphabet Nursery school. She was a matronly figure, generously endowed with flesh in all areas.
“Yes, madam!” Kip replied knowing very well that a fight was about to take place.
“I have instructions from your wife that you are not to take Chemutai anywhere,” the headteacher said as she showed him the letter.
“Is it a court order?” he asked.
“No,” replied the headteacher who did not look amused at having been drawn into these endless couple squabbles.
“Goodbye,” Kip said as he got into the taxi and zoomed off with his daughter.
“Where are we going?” Chemutai asked.
“To see grandma,” Kip replied.
“Yipee, I love grandma, especially her stories of how prisoners behave,” Chemutai replied.
Kip’s phone rang. His girlfriend Carol was on the line. He ignored the call.
Saturday.
The three kauzis were at Socrates’ place in Makongeni Estate, Thika, finalising their mission. They were seated round the exquisitely furnished dining table, sipping soft drinks. Socrates did not believe in drinking while at work
“Please go over the plan once more,” Socrates ordered Kariz, the executor of all hatched plans.
“Come on Doc, we have been through this a million times. It’s time for action. And this juice is very bitter, can’t we have a tot,” Kip complained.
“Kip, this is not like stealing chicken in the village,” Kariz shot.
Kip was hurt knowing that it will be very hard to shake off the tag of chicken thief.
“A thief is a thief,” Kip declared, “whether from a wedding party or from a chicken’s roost.”
Kariz ignored him and quickly went through the drills.
“There are 12 targeted weddings in Nairobi today. Wedding gifts start arriving from as early as 11am and go all the way to almost 7pm. All the transporters should be at the go down latest 8pm.”
Doc rubbed his temple. “What about the transport managers?”
“They all are taken care of. They will be kept busy. My girls are on site,” replied Kariz.
Doc looked at his watch. It was 4:25pm. “Okay, let us move to the go down.”
Kip was still brooding. “A thief is a thief!” he muttered as the three childhood buddies moved to the parking lot and boarded Doc’s state of the art car.
Kariz made the follow up calls and by the time they reached the warehouse, all 12 sites had confirmed being in control. They passed by MoW Sports Club in South C to check on the proceedings. The lorry was well packed behind the gifts tent and the driver was busy recording all the gifts being put in.
“Hi baby,” Kip told one of the ushers.
“Hi!” she replied coyly. “Can I show you around?”
“Sure. Why not?” Kip relied.
And with than Kip parted ways with his busy buddies who were inspecting the grounds.
It took about five minutes for Doc and Kariz to realise Kip’s absence.
“Where is Kip?” Doc asked. “Call him, we better be on our way to the go down!”
“The first batch is on its way – there were too many gifts so he has to make two trips,” Kariz reported. “Kip is not picking his phone!”
“Bloody fool! We set women on our victims and he is the first one to take a bite! Let’s look for him,” Doc said.
Kip was found at the car park waxing lyrical to the bemused girl.
“Come on Kip, let’s jog out of here!” Doc commanded as Kariz held Kip’s hand and pulled him away from the beauty.
“I will call you,” Kip blew a kiss at her. He entered the car and then turned on his friends. “What is the meaning of pulling me out?”
“We have a job to do and that girl is not that job,” replied Doc.
By 5pm, the first consignment had reached. Another three were on its way.
The lorry carrying the assortment of gifts was quickly emptied and the driver given his share of loot, which he counted carefully.
“Two sites have run into problems as the transport managers have insisted on accompanying the vehicles,” Kariz reported.
“Let them come here we roast them,” Kip, who believed in direct confrontation, declared.
“No,” chipped in Doc, “call Johnny and tell him where to be.” Johnny was a renowned carjacker.
By 7pm, eleven lorries had docked their wares at the go down. One more to go. Johnny had met his end of the bargain.
“One is missing,” Doc complained. “Who is it?”
“Bob,” Kariz replied.
“Call him,” ordered Doc.
“He is mteja.”
Kip laughed. “He has stolen from thieves. I told you, a thief is a thief!”
Doc rubbed his temple again. “Set Johnny on him. No one steals from us!”
“On the wife and kids or on his aged parents?” Kariz asked.
Kip bolted. “Don’t touch the kids. You two don’t know what it means to lose your own child!”
Doc ignored him. “Set on the kids first, it hurts the most!”
“No,” screamed Kip.
They both ignored Kip as Kariz went ahead and dialled Johnny’s number.
“Kaloleni estate Block K15,” Kariz gave the directions of Bob’s house.
“Kip, call the supermarket manager and tell him his loot is ready.” Doc ordered. Kip was still brooding muttering to himself over and over.
Within two hours, four huge unmarked lorries had cleared all the wares and paid for the goods in hard cash.
“Bob’s family moved out today in the morning,” Kariz relayed Johnny’s message.
“We’ll get him. Kenya is a village,” Doc replied.
The three retired to their hideout neutral place in South B – a 3 bedroomed house.
They spent the next hour counting and recounting their loot. It was a hoping Kshs.6 million exact in shs.1000 notes.
“We split the money equally,” Kip reminded them.
“We always do that,” Kariz confirmed.
Doc’s phone rang. He looked at it.
“My brother,” he whispered. “Yes Police Commissioner,” Doc mocked his brother.
His brother went straight to the point. “We have arrested a lorry full of wedding gifts in Naivasha on its way to Busia.”
Doc put the phone on speaker phone. “Why call me?”
“The driver, Bob, says he was running an errand for you.”
“He cannot prove it,” Doc told his brother.
“Here is the deal, brother, you release all the goods that you have taken and I won’t press charges,” Doc’s brother said.
“And here is the deal, brother, you release the lorry and the driver and I won’t send your pictures in Mombasa to your wife and children.”
There was a pause.
“Fuck you,” Doc’s brother said.
“I have the brains brother, better get used to that. I want that lorry and drive delivered to me in an hour’s time.”
Doc hang up.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
41 reasons why I am 41 years old!
41 reasons why I am 41 years old.
1) All dogs come from bitches. Bitching is, therefore, the mother of dogging. Consequently, the ratio of dogging to bitching is 1:5.
2) Your dreams are inversely proportional to your achievement. Hence your life is a nightmare.
3) However much you earn, the bloke next door seems to earn more and seems a lot happier than you.
4) Some things like smiling, laughing, parenting, making love can not be taught.
5) That your parents never told you their problems does not mean that they did not have any. You only realize the shit they went through once you become a parent.
6) Living with someone who is not your relative for the rest of your life is either the bravest or most foolish thing ever done by a human being.
7) Bitching about your boss in public is like scratching your balls in public – embarrassingly satisfying.
8) Spouses earning will never be the same. As a result, the one earning less will always take advantage of situations.
9) It’s easier to curse than to praise.
10) Your mum drummed into your head that men never grow up. Your dad did not stop singing that women are like children. That makes you the offspring of a child and an underage man.
11) The fuel tank, gas cylinder, phone credit, ATM cards, and children all seem to have a common name: CONSPIRE.
12) Even the guy who has lent you some chums had to borrow from someone who had to borrow…. We all are in debts.
13) When we were kids, we envied adults. Now that we are adults, we envy kids.
14) The most influential people in my life have been: (a) My dad for his visionary thinking; (b) My late bro for his endless humour and positivity; (c) My Strathmore teachers for their selflessness. All these had one thing in common – they did not have much but they were MUCH.
15) The least influential people in my life are politicians.
16) Men will bitch about a langa during daytime only to hover around her abode at night.
17) Men mutter the words “I love you” because not saying them will lead to a ‘never ending war’.
18) Majority sometimes means that all fools are on one side.
19) Your wallet is always full of everything else but money.
20) Publicly we all loathe politicians but secretly we would not mind being paid so much for doing so little.
21) The end of month pay day euphoria usually lasts for less than 24 hours. Reality checks in and the cycle begins.
22) Men were born unlucky. You cannot fake an orgasm; you are never sure if the kids are yours, alimony applies only to men and we are poor at arguing.
23) All our parents are shagsmondozz. That makes you a shagsmondozz-in-law.
24) Your spouse and your relatives are mutually exclusive.
25) The best part of dogging is being caught. Beating the system or trying to beat it is always the exciting part of the game.
26) You are only well dressed when you wear the clothes she bought.
27) You start living the moment you realize that you will die soon.
28) Great minds listen to ideas; great hearts listen to people.
29) Money cannot buy intelligence, but it can hire intelligent people.
30) That he is ‘small’ is a comment made by those who are ‘wide’. And vice versa.
31) However long a log stays in water, it will never become a crocodile. If you are bilaz, you are bilaz.
32) The people who hurt you the most are the people closest to you.
33) What do politicians tell their children when they are going to school?
34) Burying a loved one is the biggest pain ever invented by God. It hurts sooooo much that 10 years later the wounds are still there.
35) That we all seem to favour the paths of least resistance;
36) Technological advances seem to expose more of man’s weaknesses than strength. Cellphones, remote controls, computers;
37) At your age, where were your parents. At my age, my dad was a father of 5 and I was 4 years old. He seemed ancient.
38) Let he who has no sin cast the first stone. Don’t utter such words in a mjengo.
39) If you can win the arguing battles of the sexes, then rest assured that your relationship wont last. Girls have to win.
40) In the end we all die and then other fools take over to make the same mistakes that we made in life.
41) Kila Mtu Ni Celeb.
1) All dogs come from bitches. Bitching is, therefore, the mother of dogging. Consequently, the ratio of dogging to bitching is 1:5.
2) Your dreams are inversely proportional to your achievement. Hence your life is a nightmare.
3) However much you earn, the bloke next door seems to earn more and seems a lot happier than you.
4) Some things like smiling, laughing, parenting, making love can not be taught.
5) That your parents never told you their problems does not mean that they did not have any. You only realize the shit they went through once you become a parent.
6) Living with someone who is not your relative for the rest of your life is either the bravest or most foolish thing ever done by a human being.
7) Bitching about your boss in public is like scratching your balls in public – embarrassingly satisfying.
8) Spouses earning will never be the same. As a result, the one earning less will always take advantage of situations.
9) It’s easier to curse than to praise.
10) Your mum drummed into your head that men never grow up. Your dad did not stop singing that women are like children. That makes you the offspring of a child and an underage man.
11) The fuel tank, gas cylinder, phone credit, ATM cards, and children all seem to have a common name: CONSPIRE.
12) Even the guy who has lent you some chums had to borrow from someone who had to borrow…. We all are in debts.
13) When we were kids, we envied adults. Now that we are adults, we envy kids.
14) The most influential people in my life have been: (a) My dad for his visionary thinking; (b) My late bro for his endless humour and positivity; (c) My Strathmore teachers for their selflessness. All these had one thing in common – they did not have much but they were MUCH.
15) The least influential people in my life are politicians.
16) Men will bitch about a langa during daytime only to hover around her abode at night.
17) Men mutter the words “I love you” because not saying them will lead to a ‘never ending war’.
18) Majority sometimes means that all fools are on one side.
19) Your wallet is always full of everything else but money.
20) Publicly we all loathe politicians but secretly we would not mind being paid so much for doing so little.
21) The end of month pay day euphoria usually lasts for less than 24 hours. Reality checks in and the cycle begins.
22) Men were born unlucky. You cannot fake an orgasm; you are never sure if the kids are yours, alimony applies only to men and we are poor at arguing.
23) All our parents are shagsmondozz. That makes you a shagsmondozz-in-law.
24) Your spouse and your relatives are mutually exclusive.
25) The best part of dogging is being caught. Beating the system or trying to beat it is always the exciting part of the game.
26) You are only well dressed when you wear the clothes she bought.
27) You start living the moment you realize that you will die soon.
28) Great minds listen to ideas; great hearts listen to people.
29) Money cannot buy intelligence, but it can hire intelligent people.
30) That he is ‘small’ is a comment made by those who are ‘wide’. And vice versa.
31) However long a log stays in water, it will never become a crocodile. If you are bilaz, you are bilaz.
32) The people who hurt you the most are the people closest to you.
33) What do politicians tell their children when they are going to school?
34) Burying a loved one is the biggest pain ever invented by God. It hurts sooooo much that 10 years later the wounds are still there.
35) That we all seem to favour the paths of least resistance;
36) Technological advances seem to expose more of man’s weaknesses than strength. Cellphones, remote controls, computers;
37) At your age, where were your parents. At my age, my dad was a father of 5 and I was 4 years old. He seemed ancient.
38) Let he who has no sin cast the first stone. Don’t utter such words in a mjengo.
39) If you can win the arguing battles of the sexes, then rest assured that your relationship wont last. Girls have to win.
40) In the end we all die and then other fools take over to make the same mistakes that we made in life.
41) Kila Mtu Ni Celeb.
Rest In Piss
THE GRAVEDIGGER.
You start dying the day you are born.
Kamau has been a grave digger at Nairobi’s Langata Cemetery for the last 21 years. He has seen it all, from the high and mighty humbled by death to the low and lowly finding their moment of fame at the cemetery.
Rest In Piss.
It was close to 7pm and Kamau was about to call it quits. Saturdays were the busiest days for him. On this particular day he had overseen over 50 burials and he could remember all of them. The uniqueness of each, from the dressing to the coffins, was permanently etched in his mind.
As Kamau locked the door to his weather-beaten office at Langata Public Cemetery, a shabbily dressed man staggered in past the rickety dirty white gate and went straight to Kamau’s office.
“How are you?” the man slurred.
Kamau remembered the face too clearly. He had been present during one of the earlier controversial yet colourful burials of a church Pastor.
“What can I do for you?” Kamau asked, hoping that it was not one of those coffin robbers he had to deal with. On a number of occasions, a few had tried bribing him to get coffins but he had remained firm: the dead also needed respect.
The man opened his wallet and produced a shs.1000 note. “Take me to his grave,” he told Kamau.
Kamau knew the grave too well. It was one of those he had to dig personally after disputes from the deceased’s parents, his legal wife and two mistresses who had appeared on the burial date, threatening to stop the burial if they did not get a share of the man’s estate.
“We are also his wives and have children with him,” one of the vocal ones was heard saying.
Some Church elders had called the women aside and whispered something to them. The animated discussion had delayed the service by a couple of minutes but it seemed like a consensus had finally been reached.
The parents of the deceased wanted the grave to face the gate, claiming that a man who had died without building a permanent house upcountry had to be buried in that position.
The legal wife wanted the grave on the right hand side of the main gate.
“This side, unfortunately, is full and there is nothing I can do about it,” Kamau had told her.
“How much?” she had asked Kamau.
“Nothing, unless you want him buried on top of other graves,” had been Kamaus reply.
Finally Kamau’s orders had prevailed and he had gone ahead to personally dig the grave. He also made it a point to be there at the time of burial. The church members, both male and female, were dressed in snow white long robes with a green belt and green sashes. The coffin was also white in colour.
It had come as a shock to Kamau to note that during the burial service, amidst the crying and wailing, one smiling man, in a grey suit and loose hanging tie, had stood out. It was a first one for Kamau. He had never in his 21 years service to the dead seen a happier face at a burial.
The man’s smile had grown wider as the body was being lowered. Kamau gaze had not left the man.
It was therefore shocking and amusing that less than three hours after the burial, the same smiling man was back at the cemetery.
“You know your way?” Kamau asked, not sure what had brought the man back.
“Yes,” he replied as he staggered towards the freshly filled grave, a 50m distance from the Kamau’s office. Kamau followed him, but from a distance.
The man reached the site and to Kamau’s horror he unzipped his trouser and started peeing on the grave, the piss hammering the soil with the fury of a jilted Kenyan hailstorm. As he did so, he kept chanting and Kamau had to strain to hear what he was saying. “Malaya wewe!”
It was the longest pee Kamau had ever seen, the slurping sound decreasing to a gentle trickle. The guy just didn’t seem to run out of piss. He made sure that he had peed on each and every corner of the grave. He vigorously and furiously shook his manhood to make sure that the last drops found their mark of permanency on the grave.
When he was through, the man farted loudly and then staggered away without saying a word. Kamau followed him and watched as the man boarded a matatu and melted away into the city.
The following day, a group of ladies from the Pastor’s church came to tend to the grave and replace the flowers. Kamau was there to observe them. One particular grieving lady stayed longer than the rest, continuously shaking her head and clicking. “Why?” she kept on asking, tears streaming down her cheeks. She was not amongst the ladies who had harassed Kamau about the burial spot. She was the last one left and Kamau, accustomed to emotional breakdowns at the cemetery, approached her.
“Is he a relative?” Kamau asked.
The lady paused before replying, “He is the father of my three sons!” Kamau did not understand but he did not want to be too pushy. So he let it be.
“My husband does not perform,” the lady started in a whisper, her eyes fixed on the fresh grave.
“He is a certified alcoholic, a committed daily drinking officer and this has affected our sexual life. I cannot forget how he humiliated me one day. As usual, he came home in the middle of the night and demanded his conjugal rights. In the process, he lost direction and ended up screwing the old tattered mattress that we slept on.
“Wow that is the best sex I’ve had in ages! What did you put down there?” he had slurred.
Kamau’s face turned in shock. He did not believe that there were such men still dotting the surface of the earth.
“I cried and he thought it was because of the great sex we had had. I shared this with the Pastor and he was very sympathetic. Too sympathetic to father my three sons! I miss him,” the lady concluded, wiping tears off her face.
Kamau remained mute.
For the next five days, the peeing ritual was repeated, each time the peeing session getting longer and the abuses getting more and more colourful. As long as the man did not touch the grave, Kamau did not mind. After all, he was getting his daily cut.
Finally on the sixth day, the man came late, as usual. He was driving an old pick up. By now Kamau had become accustomed to the man’s timing. This time, however, he came with an epitaph. It was too dark for Kamau to read the inscription on the epitaph.
The peeing and abusing ritual was repeated just like before. When the man was done, he turned to Kamau and spoke for the first time in many days. “Today is the last day I am coming here. Thanks for your help,” he slurred.
Finally Kamau got to ask the question. “Why?”
The man laughed a dry one. “He is the father of my three sons!
“My wife joined this church some 5 years ago and became fanatical about it, dedicating every ounce of her energy to the church and pastor. That was the last time we had any meaningful relationship. I took to heavy drinking because many things were not working. I neglected my wife and myself. Then she conceived and things became worse. We drifted way apart, the child taking my entire wife’s time and the drinks taking all my time.
A year passed and she conceived again. Another boy. By this time my businesses had started picking up and I could afford some luxuries in life. But my wife refused to let me into her life, still preferring the warmth of the church. Two years later and another boy was born.”
Kamau was itching to ask another question but he let the man talk.
“She only slept with me three times in 5 years and those three times apparently led to her conceiving,” the man continued.
“Then one day I came across this letter.” The man removed a crumpled letter from his pocket. “It is too dark to read it but I know its contents.”
“It’s a letter from the Pastor to my wife explaining the tough financial situations that had rocked the church and how he wanted them to elope to the US after he had secured a green card!
“The letter also told my wife that the passports were ready and she could go ahead and destroy the ‘fake’ birth certificates that were in my house!”
The man took a swing of the drink he was carrying. Kamau was very interested in what happened next.
“I called one of the thugs I grew up with and told him that the Pastor was sleeping with his girlfriend.”
Kamau gasped.
“Two days later, the Pastor was found murdered. He had been lured to a drinking den in Kawangware. The rest, as they say, is History!
It took time for the message to sink to Kamau.
“Does your wife know all these?” Kamau asked.
“No! I don’t know about the children and the USA trip and she doesn’t know about the pastor. We are even!”
With the help of Kamau, the man went ahead to fix the epitaph. Finally he looked at the grave one more time and left.
The following morning, the same group of women from church were there to tend to the grave. The same woman who had talked to Kamau called out. It was more of a scream than a call.
“What is this?” she demanded as she pointed at the epitaph that had been installed the previous day.
Kamau bent down to check on the inscription on the epitaph. It read: R.I.P M.B.A. Below was a fine print which read. Rest In Piss Malaya Bila Aibu.
Kamau chuckled.
You start dying the day you are born.
Kamau has been a grave digger at Nairobi’s Langata Cemetery for the last 21 years. He has seen it all, from the high and mighty humbled by death to the low and lowly finding their moment of fame at the cemetery.
Rest In Piss.
It was close to 7pm and Kamau was about to call it quits. Saturdays were the busiest days for him. On this particular day he had overseen over 50 burials and he could remember all of them. The uniqueness of each, from the dressing to the coffins, was permanently etched in his mind.
As Kamau locked the door to his weather-beaten office at Langata Public Cemetery, a shabbily dressed man staggered in past the rickety dirty white gate and went straight to Kamau’s office.
“How are you?” the man slurred.
Kamau remembered the face too clearly. He had been present during one of the earlier controversial yet colourful burials of a church Pastor.
“What can I do for you?” Kamau asked, hoping that it was not one of those coffin robbers he had to deal with. On a number of occasions, a few had tried bribing him to get coffins but he had remained firm: the dead also needed respect.
The man opened his wallet and produced a shs.1000 note. “Take me to his grave,” he told Kamau.
Kamau knew the grave too well. It was one of those he had to dig personally after disputes from the deceased’s parents, his legal wife and two mistresses who had appeared on the burial date, threatening to stop the burial if they did not get a share of the man’s estate.
“We are also his wives and have children with him,” one of the vocal ones was heard saying.
Some Church elders had called the women aside and whispered something to them. The animated discussion had delayed the service by a couple of minutes but it seemed like a consensus had finally been reached.
The parents of the deceased wanted the grave to face the gate, claiming that a man who had died without building a permanent house upcountry had to be buried in that position.
The legal wife wanted the grave on the right hand side of the main gate.
“This side, unfortunately, is full and there is nothing I can do about it,” Kamau had told her.
“How much?” she had asked Kamau.
“Nothing, unless you want him buried on top of other graves,” had been Kamaus reply.
Finally Kamau’s orders had prevailed and he had gone ahead to personally dig the grave. He also made it a point to be there at the time of burial. The church members, both male and female, were dressed in snow white long robes with a green belt and green sashes. The coffin was also white in colour.
It had come as a shock to Kamau to note that during the burial service, amidst the crying and wailing, one smiling man, in a grey suit and loose hanging tie, had stood out. It was a first one for Kamau. He had never in his 21 years service to the dead seen a happier face at a burial.
The man’s smile had grown wider as the body was being lowered. Kamau gaze had not left the man.
It was therefore shocking and amusing that less than three hours after the burial, the same smiling man was back at the cemetery.
“You know your way?” Kamau asked, not sure what had brought the man back.
“Yes,” he replied as he staggered towards the freshly filled grave, a 50m distance from the Kamau’s office. Kamau followed him, but from a distance.
The man reached the site and to Kamau’s horror he unzipped his trouser and started peeing on the grave, the piss hammering the soil with the fury of a jilted Kenyan hailstorm. As he did so, he kept chanting and Kamau had to strain to hear what he was saying. “Malaya wewe!”
It was the longest pee Kamau had ever seen, the slurping sound decreasing to a gentle trickle. The guy just didn’t seem to run out of piss. He made sure that he had peed on each and every corner of the grave. He vigorously and furiously shook his manhood to make sure that the last drops found their mark of permanency on the grave.
When he was through, the man farted loudly and then staggered away without saying a word. Kamau followed him and watched as the man boarded a matatu and melted away into the city.
The following day, a group of ladies from the Pastor’s church came to tend to the grave and replace the flowers. Kamau was there to observe them. One particular grieving lady stayed longer than the rest, continuously shaking her head and clicking. “Why?” she kept on asking, tears streaming down her cheeks. She was not amongst the ladies who had harassed Kamau about the burial spot. She was the last one left and Kamau, accustomed to emotional breakdowns at the cemetery, approached her.
“Is he a relative?” Kamau asked.
The lady paused before replying, “He is the father of my three sons!” Kamau did not understand but he did not want to be too pushy. So he let it be.
“My husband does not perform,” the lady started in a whisper, her eyes fixed on the fresh grave.
“He is a certified alcoholic, a committed daily drinking officer and this has affected our sexual life. I cannot forget how he humiliated me one day. As usual, he came home in the middle of the night and demanded his conjugal rights. In the process, he lost direction and ended up screwing the old tattered mattress that we slept on.
“Wow that is the best sex I’ve had in ages! What did you put down there?” he had slurred.
Kamau’s face turned in shock. He did not believe that there were such men still dotting the surface of the earth.
“I cried and he thought it was because of the great sex we had had. I shared this with the Pastor and he was very sympathetic. Too sympathetic to father my three sons! I miss him,” the lady concluded, wiping tears off her face.
Kamau remained mute.
For the next five days, the peeing ritual was repeated, each time the peeing session getting longer and the abuses getting more and more colourful. As long as the man did not touch the grave, Kamau did not mind. After all, he was getting his daily cut.
Finally on the sixth day, the man came late, as usual. He was driving an old pick up. By now Kamau had become accustomed to the man’s timing. This time, however, he came with an epitaph. It was too dark for Kamau to read the inscription on the epitaph.
The peeing and abusing ritual was repeated just like before. When the man was done, he turned to Kamau and spoke for the first time in many days. “Today is the last day I am coming here. Thanks for your help,” he slurred.
Finally Kamau got to ask the question. “Why?”
The man laughed a dry one. “He is the father of my three sons!
“My wife joined this church some 5 years ago and became fanatical about it, dedicating every ounce of her energy to the church and pastor. That was the last time we had any meaningful relationship. I took to heavy drinking because many things were not working. I neglected my wife and myself. Then she conceived and things became worse. We drifted way apart, the child taking my entire wife’s time and the drinks taking all my time.
A year passed and she conceived again. Another boy. By this time my businesses had started picking up and I could afford some luxuries in life. But my wife refused to let me into her life, still preferring the warmth of the church. Two years later and another boy was born.”
Kamau was itching to ask another question but he let the man talk.
“She only slept with me three times in 5 years and those three times apparently led to her conceiving,” the man continued.
“Then one day I came across this letter.” The man removed a crumpled letter from his pocket. “It is too dark to read it but I know its contents.”
“It’s a letter from the Pastor to my wife explaining the tough financial situations that had rocked the church and how he wanted them to elope to the US after he had secured a green card!
“The letter also told my wife that the passports were ready and she could go ahead and destroy the ‘fake’ birth certificates that were in my house!”
The man took a swing of the drink he was carrying. Kamau was very interested in what happened next.
“I called one of the thugs I grew up with and told him that the Pastor was sleeping with his girlfriend.”
Kamau gasped.
“Two days later, the Pastor was found murdered. He had been lured to a drinking den in Kawangware. The rest, as they say, is History!
It took time for the message to sink to Kamau.
“Does your wife know all these?” Kamau asked.
“No! I don’t know about the children and the USA trip and she doesn’t know about the pastor. We are even!”
With the help of Kamau, the man went ahead to fix the epitaph. Finally he looked at the grave one more time and left.
The following morning, the same group of women from church were there to tend to the grave. The same woman who had talked to Kamau called out. It was more of a scream than a call.
“What is this?” she demanded as she pointed at the epitaph that had been installed the previous day.
Kamau bent down to check on the inscription on the epitaph. It read: R.I.P M.B.A. Below was a fine print which read. Rest In Piss Malaya Bila Aibu.
Kamau chuckled.
THE MISSING SEATS
OCCURRENCE BOOK (O.B)
Justice be our shield and defender…
Missing Seats.
There were five people already waiting outside, all seated on the bench just next to the flagpost. The blue, yellow and red colour of the police force dominated the serene compound. There was evident tension amongst them, punctuated with continuous accusations and counter accusations.
“What is the problem now?” the shorter and heftier policeman asked the crowd as he opened the gate to the counter. All five walked in behind the two smartly dressed policemen.
“Who came first?” the taller – though still short by military standards, asked.
An old man with a walking stick, straw hat and heavy boots rose up and spoke. “I was the first one here with this young boy.” He pointed at the ‘boy’ who did not look amused by the reference.
“State your problem,” the policeman invited.
The old man, like all villagers, started his story right from the beginning. “I have eight children, five male and four female.”
“Just state the problem omusakhulu, we don’t have the whole day,” cut in the taller policeman.
The old man looked hurt but he skipped the details. “We buried my daughter yesterday. And today these people claim that fifty of their plastic chairs are missing! He wants to be paid shs.50 000 for the missing chairs!”
“So the problem is the missing plastic seats,” concluded the first policeman as he turned to the ‘boy’.
“I am not through yet. Today, this ‘boy’ came to my village with ten men and took away two of my biggest bulls,” the old man added. “Mannerless young men with no respect for elders!”
The accused stood to defend himself, “I have my records here,” he interjected as he produced a neat exercise book.
“Who told you to talk?” the taller policeman peered at the man. He quickly apologised and sat down.
The policeman satisfied with his powers now declared, “Now you may speak! But first, is it true that you took away his bulls?”
The man produced his book. “Here are the records of the seats borrowed.”
“Young man, did you hear my question?” the policeman reminded him in a very low tone that spelt impatience.
“Yes, I had to take two of his bulls because 50 of my chairs are missing,” the young man defended himself.
“So you are now a policeman, prosecutor and judge? You have taken our job,” the taller policeman told the young man in the same tone as before.
In the village set up, there are very few secrets. Everyone knows everybody’s else’s story. Soon the other three who were waiting along joined in the debate.
“It is said that they hire out seats and then steal them so that you can pay for them,” one villager muttered as a matter fact.
This time the policemen did not interrupt. They seemed to know something as well.
Another woman joined in the fray. “Last month they claim to have lost a total of 250 seats during funerals, yet they still hire out more seats. Where do these seats come from?”
The accused was up to defend himself. “I replace them immediately. This is business and I have to survive!”
“Or you have your own people who steal the seats from the functions,” replied the lady. “You know, women talk and the women from your village are talking.”
The two policemen were definitely enjoying themselves. “And what have the women in the village been saying?”
The lady now buoyed by being the centre of attraction at the police station went on with her story. “Each time there is a function, men are contracted to steal the seats which they are paid for. The going rate is shs.100 per seat returned.”
The old man, who obviously had not heard such stories before, shot up. “I want my bulls right now!” he bellowed.
“You will get your bull omusakhulu,” the taller policeman assured him. He turned to the young man. “And how many people have you defrauded?”
“None!” he exclaimed. “I am a law abiding Kenyan and I swear by the grave of my mother that I have not stolen from anybody.”
“Should we lock you up and then go the village to investigate this matter?” the shorter policeman asked.
There was silence as the young man contemplated the prospects of being in cell.
The policeman took the silence as a sign of consent. “You have up to tomorrow evening to return all the money that you have collected from people illegally.”
“But let him start with my two bulls,” the old man pleaded.
“Of course, he will start with your bulls.”
And with that the party walked out of the police station to go and start the process of recovering stolen goods.
Justice be our shield and defender…
Missing Seats.
There were five people already waiting outside, all seated on the bench just next to the flagpost. The blue, yellow and red colour of the police force dominated the serene compound. There was evident tension amongst them, punctuated with continuous accusations and counter accusations.
“What is the problem now?” the shorter and heftier policeman asked the crowd as he opened the gate to the counter. All five walked in behind the two smartly dressed policemen.
“Who came first?” the taller – though still short by military standards, asked.
An old man with a walking stick, straw hat and heavy boots rose up and spoke. “I was the first one here with this young boy.” He pointed at the ‘boy’ who did not look amused by the reference.
“State your problem,” the policeman invited.
The old man, like all villagers, started his story right from the beginning. “I have eight children, five male and four female.”
“Just state the problem omusakhulu, we don’t have the whole day,” cut in the taller policeman.
The old man looked hurt but he skipped the details. “We buried my daughter yesterday. And today these people claim that fifty of their plastic chairs are missing! He wants to be paid shs.50 000 for the missing chairs!”
“So the problem is the missing plastic seats,” concluded the first policeman as he turned to the ‘boy’.
“I am not through yet. Today, this ‘boy’ came to my village with ten men and took away two of my biggest bulls,” the old man added. “Mannerless young men with no respect for elders!”
The accused stood to defend himself, “I have my records here,” he interjected as he produced a neat exercise book.
“Who told you to talk?” the taller policeman peered at the man. He quickly apologised and sat down.
The policeman satisfied with his powers now declared, “Now you may speak! But first, is it true that you took away his bulls?”
The man produced his book. “Here are the records of the seats borrowed.”
“Young man, did you hear my question?” the policeman reminded him in a very low tone that spelt impatience.
“Yes, I had to take two of his bulls because 50 of my chairs are missing,” the young man defended himself.
“So you are now a policeman, prosecutor and judge? You have taken our job,” the taller policeman told the young man in the same tone as before.
In the village set up, there are very few secrets. Everyone knows everybody’s else’s story. Soon the other three who were waiting along joined in the debate.
“It is said that they hire out seats and then steal them so that you can pay for them,” one villager muttered as a matter fact.
This time the policemen did not interrupt. They seemed to know something as well.
Another woman joined in the fray. “Last month they claim to have lost a total of 250 seats during funerals, yet they still hire out more seats. Where do these seats come from?”
The accused was up to defend himself. “I replace them immediately. This is business and I have to survive!”
“Or you have your own people who steal the seats from the functions,” replied the lady. “You know, women talk and the women from your village are talking.”
The two policemen were definitely enjoying themselves. “And what have the women in the village been saying?”
The lady now buoyed by being the centre of attraction at the police station went on with her story. “Each time there is a function, men are contracted to steal the seats which they are paid for. The going rate is shs.100 per seat returned.”
The old man, who obviously had not heard such stories before, shot up. “I want my bulls right now!” he bellowed.
“You will get your bull omusakhulu,” the taller policeman assured him. He turned to the young man. “And how many people have you defrauded?”
“None!” he exclaimed. “I am a law abiding Kenyan and I swear by the grave of my mother that I have not stolen from anybody.”
“Should we lock you up and then go the village to investigate this matter?” the shorter policeman asked.
There was silence as the young man contemplated the prospects of being in cell.
The policeman took the silence as a sign of consent. “You have up to tomorrow evening to return all the money that you have collected from people illegally.”
“But let him start with my two bulls,” the old man pleaded.
“Of course, he will start with your bulls.”
And with that the party walked out of the police station to go and start the process of recovering stolen goods.
JEZEBEL'S DIARY
JEZEBEL’S DIARY.
You start dying the day you are born.
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. My mission is simple – to give back to society what it gave me.
WEEK 1.
Monday.
It was bound to happen but I did not expect it this soon. Today I receive my termination letter from my immediate boss, a woman of small stature but fiery tempers.
“Please come to my office right now,” is the message I receive when she calls my extension. It is the first thing in the morning and I have not even unpacked.
I make way to the ivory tower, knock, let myself in and wait to be told to sit down. The offer does not come and the woman does not move her gaze from the computer.
“Take your letter,” she says coldly. “Pass by the accounts office to get your dues.” The month has just begun and there are hardly any dues.
I gather courage. “I hope this is not about the rumours that have been going round about me hitting on your hubby,” I say.
She swivels her chair and for the first time turns to face me. She stands up, hardly any height to talk about, but the fire in her eyes make up for the lack of height. The skirt suits make her look executive but the brown sun tanned weave on her head lets her down immensely.
“Get out before I call security. You are no longer an employee in this firm,” she hisses.
I get the message and walk out slowly but being one to always have the last word, I turn and shout, “I will get him. And I will make you suffer.” It is a promise, not a threat. It is not my fault that the hubby has been making passes at me! I did not ask to be born beautiful.
I bang the door and walk to my station. Two security men are already there to make sure that I do not take anything belonging to the company.
“Cowards, why two of you?”
They keep quiet and watch as I put all my belongings in a Nakumatt paper bag. Off I go, ending seven months as a receptionist in the firm.
I make a call to the hubby, Mr.Matano. “I have just been fired because of you! Will you pay my rent?”
“Please call me later, I am in a meeting,” he lies easily, just like all men when they are cornered.
Sooner than later, I will get you my friend. The world is a marble.
Tuesday.
The landlord has sent the caretaker to remind me that the rent is overdue. I have already exhausted my one month deposit as agreed in the rules and regulations.
The poorly built and hurriedly finished block of 32 flats are a nightmare: water shortages, power surges, electricity rationing, cracks in the wall, broken pipes characterise the flats. It is only poverty that makes one stick to a cramped one bedroomed house.
“It’s bad,” I tell the caretaker as he looks pityingly at me. “I lost my job yesterday.”
“Sorry about that but I am just following instructions,” he tells me. Nice fellow, a rare thing in Kenya nowadays.
“Mom,” the screeching voice of Didi, my 4 year old son cuts across the house. “When are we going to start school?”
“Yes!” screeches Titi, Didi’s twin sister, “we are the only children in this area who do not go to school.”
“Tomorrow,” I lie to them.
Titi is the first one to counter. “Everyday you say tomorrow, tomorrow. Ai!”
I have to do something. This is beyond embarrassing.
Tomorrow I will take them to at least three schools and tell them to choose the best one. That will buy me time.
I am tempted to call the kids father to assist with the payment of the twins’ school fees. But what is the use of calling someone who has never bothered with his kids ever since conception?
“That is not my pregnancy,” were his words when I told him that I had missed my periods.
“You are the only man I have been sleeping with,” I had told him.
“What proof is there?”
That had sealed our fate. I just do not understand men. So sweet when they want to bed but so beastly when it comes to responsibility. It is something that has made me very wary of them.
I hesitate before dialling his number off head since I deleted it from my phone book but for whatever reason, the number is still within my system
As quickly as I dial the number, I cancel it. My pride will not allow me to stoop that low. Maybe some day I will fix him. For now, I will tough it out with whatever there is.
“Mum!” shrills Titi again. “There is no bread or sugar!”
I move to the kitchen to survey the situation. It is worse than Kalahari Desert.
“Wait here, I will come back with something,” I tell the kids. I walk out to oblivion.
Wednesday.
Kids choose the wrong time to be sick. Didi has a throat infection, judging from the chesty cough he is producing. His fever is rising. A look at my house infirmary reveals only empty bottles that cannot even be squeezed for a quarter teaspoon of medication.
I send a ‘Please Call Me’ to Mariam, a cousin and bosom friend who has seen me through thick and thin. She calls me back on the office line.
“I need some money to buy medicine for Didi,” I tell Mariam.
“No problem, pass by the office any time,” she responds.
Anytime for me is right away. But I don’t even have a single coin in my handbag.
I go for the kid’s piggy bank. Didi hears me meddling with the bank.
“Mom, you have not paid back the money you took the other yesterday!” he hoarsely shouts from the living room. True, I have not refunded the kids’ money but I will do so one fine day. Promise.
Within half an hour I am in Mariam’s office and she gives shs.1000 which is more than enough. Mariam is God sent. Apart from her crazy lifestyle and her preference of dating women instead of men, Mariam has a heart of gold.
“Call this number. They, Poverty Line, are looking for a receptionist immediately,” Mariam tells me. “Good luck Jezzie!”
I debate on whether to go to that place right away but my dressing does not allow. I trudge back home with the kids’ medicine and food under wraps.
While at home, my mum ‘flashes’. I know what she wants.
“Yes mum,” I call her.
“I am not well. My blood pressure medicine is finished and I need to buy another stock,” she tells me.
I am the one who is always burdened with these problems.
My siblings are just a messy disgrace. My three brothers, all over 25 and still living in mum’s house, are a total manifestation and classical case study of what useless men are. They do not have jobs, cannot keep any job that you get for them, depend on women for upkeep (my mum, their girlfriends and I) and worst is that they feel nothing about it.
I have one brother who is studying for priesthood. He is different, though financially he is out of the family equation of contribution.
Then there is my nephew, my sister’s 19 year old son, who has joined his uncles in this state of utter worthlessness. He has gone a step further and is now selling stuff from my mother’s house.
“Okay mum, I will come and sort out the medicine. But you need to kick those grandfathers from your house,” I tell her.
She is quiet. One of these days I will come and physically throw them out. Watch me.
Thursday.
The caretaker is back and this time he looks stressed. He is wearing the same clothes he had yesterday. His hair is uncombed and I guess it has to do with the stress.
“The landlord says he’ll bring auctioneers on Saturday,” he tells me solemnly, his eyes not meeting mine.
“I will have something by then. Trust me!”
He pities me; I know how mean and merciless the auctioneers are. I have seen them in action before and it is not a pretty sight.
The job offer from Mariam is still pending. They said they will get back to me to fix an interview time and date. But if they needed someone straight away, why wait? Maybe I should call them, just to find out if the position has been filled. It is the same story of silence from the other places.
Wa, I need money badly!
“Mama Didi, there is no food for dinner,” announces my house girl, whom I am yet to pay last month’s salary. She looks fed up but I guess she has no where to go at the moment. I am lucky that so far she does not have many relatives around. Apart from her Sunday church going and her visits to her grandmother after that, she is generally content with staying indoors. But I have seen house girls come and go and I know their ‘use by date’ is not more than six months.
I cannot go to the kiosk man for more credit because I have not settled last month’s bill. In fact I have been using a different route to get to the house, but I know that will come to an end soon. The kiosk man will pay me a visit and demand his dues. He has done that before.
The day is coming to an end and still no phone call from any of the places I had applied. I cannot sleep.
“Mom, we don’t eat mean any more, why?” Shouts Didi.
“The housemaid says the cows are on strike!” replies Titi.
“Moo, moo,” replies the naughty Didi. We all laugh.
Another ‘flashing’ from mum and this time I do not call. She flashes again and again but I neither have credit to call nor money to buy her the medicine. I dare not place my phone on mute lest the interview call comes.
I await the call.
Friday.
Morning. I look at my phone’s screen awaiting that call. They have to call! They have to! My face does not leave the screen, just in case.
The call finally comes at 9am and I jump almost throwing the phone away.
“Yes, this is Jessica speaking.” I try to be calm but my heart is racing faster than a MaClaren car.
“10am. One minute late and forget the job,” comes the lady’s voice on the other side.
I have no time for arguments. I shower, dress and leave the house within 15 minutes. Men are right when they say that women take too much time getting ready.
There is no lunch for the kids so this better be good.
I pray that there is no traffic jam, but usually from my place in Ganjoni to the CBD takes less than 15 minutes.
I am in the office by 9:45am.
The moment I walk into the office, the secretary sneers and I guess it must have to do with my stunning beauty – which I take after my mum, a former national beauty queen.
“What do you want?” she asks. Her dressing, contrasted to mine, is casual. A white sleeveless top exposing her gaping cleavage is what she has on show.
“ I am here to see Mr.Kombo,” I reply a bit nervously.
Another sneer, top to bottom inspection and I am ushered into Mr.Kombo’s expansive office. It is a red wall to wall carpeted room with matching curtains and black leather seats to complete the elegance. I am sure he did not design this office. It’s too feminine.
“Welcome my dear,” Mr.Kombo tells me as he puts his hand round my shoulder and guides me to the resting lounge of his office.
“Thank you,” I croak. I actually do have butterflies, my palms are sweaty and my lips dry. I try to act composed but it is not coming out right.
“I was expecting you yesterday at 10am,” he says casually.
I almost choke on my saliva.
“I got the call today at 9am,” I tell him nervously.
“It’s okay, at least you are here. Drink?” he asks as he opens the mini fridge in his office. An array of exotic hard and soft drinks line up the chests in the fridge.
“Apple juice will do.” Safe mode is best option here, though a black Smirnoff ice would definitely cool my nerves.
“So, Jessica, how much salary are you expecting?” Mr.Kombo asks.
Oops, I am not expecting that. Mariam has drilled me not to mention figures but to play a mind game. Not now, with the landlord breathing down my neck and the kids starving, I have to mention a figure.
“Shs.20 000,” I blurt out and almost regret it. That is three times what I was earning at my former place.
He does not flinch. Instead a cunning smile spreads across his face.
“You could earn more, you know? He half asks and half informs me.
“How?” I naively ask.
“You are a woman,” he says simply as he downs his drink.
I pause. Suddenly the sight of my starving twins appear in front of me. The house girl, the landlord, the size of the house, the meat all dance in front of my eyes.
“How much more?” I ask, quickly adapting his style of play!
He seems happy with himself that I have understood the nature of the game.
“Double,” he says. Another winning smile almost knocks me off the chair.
I want to jump in excitement but maintain the presence of mind to take him on.
“Triple,” I say jokingly looking at him sensuously, my pale thighs, crossing and uncrossing to give him a peek at my legs.
“Deal,” he says rather quickly either because he does not want the figure to go higher or because of other circumstances.
“You start today at 2pm. But I start now.”
He leads me to a back door where there is a tiny office with a bed, toilet and showers. And that is where I sign my contract, without protection. I do not care as I am shs.60 000 richer on a monthly basis. Who was it who said that 75% of NGOs money goes to paying salaries? Poverty Line is no exception.
Saturday:
I started work as a receptionist but had to ask for half my salary as an advance. Mr.Kombo agreed, though he said that the notice was too short. I explained to him the problem and he told me he would sort me out.
The caretaker, wearing the same clothes for the 3rd day in a row, comes in early in the morning with 5 mean and nasty looking goons. I am not sure whether the sweaty stench and tight T-shirts is part of the job. They stink. They scare. They are ugly. Why the shovels, pangas and crow bars? Crude Kenyans.
“I have the money,” I tell the caretaker as I place Kshs.7000 of crisp notes in his hands. He thanks me profusely and walks away a happy man, both for himself and myself. A rare Kenyan indeed.
“Please wait!” I instruct and go ahead to give him shs.1000 extra for himself and then place shs.200 in each of the 5 goons. The expression on their face is priceless.
“Thanks mum!” they at least have the decency to express their gratitude.
I reach the office by 9am and find Mr.Kombo alone. He explains to me that Saturdays is his day to be alone in the office and catch up with the paper work.
I like Mr. Kombo and it does not take much convincing to go to the back room where we spend the whole morning making love – minus protection. He is quite agile for a man his age.
I spend the afternoon moving houses. There isn’t much to pack and Mariam and a few of her friends come in handy in helping out.
The new houses are bigger, though the compound has only one block of 8 flats, with another separate smaller block of servant quarters, which, are not part of the deal.
The house is a 3 bedroomed master ensuite. Finally the kids do not have to share bedrooms with the housegirl.
Didi is excited at the prospects of a new and bigger house. Titi is over the moon about her new room.
“We can play football here, yes?” Titi says as she looks at the size of her room.
“Don’t you dare!” I jokingly shake my fist at her. It does not take long to set everything in place and I look at Mariam and give a hug.
“Careful my girl,” she warns me as my hug spills over to become a thank you expression.
“You don’t know what this means to me,” I tell her.
Sunday:
After many years of dodging the church, I finally find myself going to thank God for the heaven sent gift. It looks different, less men and more women. The dressing of the youth has changed a lot. And there is too much dancing and shouting. The songs are funkier, the youth rockier, and the dressing scantier. This is not the church that I left some ten years back.
After church, I take the kids out for lunch at Kenchic.
“Mom did you rob a bank?” asks Didi rather too loudly for everyone to hear.
“Mom, I want that naked hen,” shouts Titi as she points to the somersaulting chicken.
The kids eat heartily and after that I take a cab to Splash Waterworld for a swim. You don’t get a chance to spoil yourself so often.
I would not trade anything in life for the laughter and squealing of kids at play.
It is here that I meet Abdul, a talkative but extremely interesting character. I like him. He likes me. We exchange contacts and promise to get in touch.
It’s been a tough but rewarding week.
WEEK 2:
Monday:
A new office and I am the P.A, in charge of all the workers – actually only 3 of them: Pamba, the driver cum messenger, 65 year old Teresia, the tea girl cum cleaner, and Juma, the guard cum groundsman! The three look amused that being the youngest, I am their immediate supervisor.
Teresia possesses a genuine honesty that could shame a priest. She says it as she sees it. If something is ugly, she will say it without any reservations.
“Mwana, there is a funny rotten smell around here,” Teresia tells me frankly when she is in my office. “Have you bathed?”
Now, three things you should never tell a woman: she is old, she is ugly or she is dirty! That stings and I look incredulously at Teresia! Lady, did you say that?
She reads my silence as consent to continue. “You should shave your armpits daily, change your underwear after action! You know men don’t like dirty women!”
This time silence is not going to do me any good. So I snap. “What if it is you and not me?”
Teresia smiles at me, exposing her uneven teeth. “Because, my daughter, I no longer sleep with men!”
Suddenly it hits me – the itchiness down there that has been bothering me for the last couple of days, the excessive wetness! I would never imagine that it would turn out to be smelly.
I excuse myself and slither out to the washroom, with my f-bag to check my panty and true to Teresia’s words, the smell is from me! How embarrassing!
I unzip my f-bag, that bag that all women possess when going out to see a friend or to a party. It has everything that a woman needs at the drop of a hat – spare clothes, spare make up kit, pads, ob, shoes and just name it. I remove one of the underwear; clean myself, change quickly, then spray the room and myself.
My day and morning is already ruined. I cannot concentrate and when Mr. Kombo comes in, I excuse myself.
“I need to see a doctor – women’s problems,” I tell him. He chuckles about women’s problems that never seem to end.
I pass by Teresia, murmur a silent, “Thank you!” She glows at either having been helpful to me or just for seeing the humiliation on my face.
Mum has gone quiet. I guess that her medicine is working and that the boys are not misbehaving. I will pay her visit before the end of the week.
Abdul calls and I am happy that he has followed up our last meeting. He gives me a date, which I am not sure I can honour.
Tuesday:
I hate mornings. The house is always like a battlefield with my twin soldiers either armed to fight or losing their ammunition, in this case pencils, erasers, break tins, shoes, which clothes to wear. Come on, please introduce uniform to these 4 year olds!
“These shoes are finyaring me,” Didi screams when we are at the door. Just because he does not like those particular shoes does not mean that they are bad. After all, he is the one who chose them the last time we went shopping! Didi is back and his sister, Titi, decides that her stomach is misbehaving. She bends over and makes a face. “Okay, run but make it snappy, I will be out in a minute!”
Titi is back and jumps into the car and takes the back seat – nobody sits in front, a rule implemented after vicious fights and name callings that always characterise morning trips thus messing my morning and the day.
I am at the gate when Titi goes. “Oops!”
“What now?” I scream as I slam on the accelerator, determined not to go back to the house. Zoom!
“I forgot to wear a panty!” she meekly says. This time I slam on the brakes, reverse to the house and scream at the housegirl for not supervising the kids when in the toilet. We are already running late and very soon that notorious Tudor road will be clogged with cars!
I join the kids in singing their nursery rhymes. I love the kids’ energy, such a stress reliever in the morning.
The drive to their school is always something to look forward to. Charo, their sports teacher, is the reason the mornings are brighter. He is always there, a smiling warrior who does not know the power of that smile. He is there to carry the kids out of the car and to wish me a good morning. My legs go jelly each morning when he utters those words.
“Have a good day too,” I reply as I drive off in a daze. Who said that men do not show affection? Daily I look into Charo’s eyes and I am sure that what I see is affection – for me of course!
I drive to the office in a happy mood, just in time to get the call from my doctor. “Please come over when you are free. We need to talk.”
‘Tomorrow, 4pm after work,” I commit myself to the medical doctor.
Teresia tells me that the smell is not there anymore. What a relief!
A lady carrying a baby walks into the office and comes face to face with me.
“Where is Pamba?” she demands rather aggressively, looking around for Pamba.
“How are you?” I insist on greeting her. She does not reply to my greetings but eyes suspiciously.
“Are you one of his wives?” she asks, rather too crudely. I am offended but decide to ignore that jibe.
“No. I am his boss!” I tell her coolly. She sobers up and then starts ranting about being abandoned by Pamba despite having a three month old baby.
“Unfortunately these are matters to be discussed out there not in here,” I am firm with her. “I don’t know what you are trying to achieve by coming here with the baby.”
“He does not pay rent or buy milk for the baby and I am starving. Surely you can send some of his salary to me!” she defends her thesis.
“We don’t do that over here. Go and get a court order instructing us to do so. If it is embarrassing him, then you have made your mark. Please leave!”
She curses me as she leaves vowing to come back with policemen and policewomen to arrest Pamba.
By the way, where is he? I call his number and it goes unanswered. Enquiry from Juma the guard reveals that Pamba got a hint about the lady coming to create chaos.
“Who told him that his wife was coming here?” I ask Juma. I do not need answer about the collusion between the two men.
Wednesday.
Training details need to be completed. I look at my ‘To do’ list and almost everything is ready for the conference “Erase The Poverty Line” to take place at Hotel 7 Star. Most members of Parliament will be in attendance. It defies logic why they should fly down to Mombasa for a conference that can be held in a school’s dining hall! But I guess that is one of the reasons why the number of NGOs are more than the number of causes. 430 registered NGOs tackling poverty. Poor Kenyans.
“All set?” Mr. Kombo asks. He is trying too hard to keep his cool.
“Yes, Sir!” I also maintain the same formality.
Mr. Kombo and I leave the office in the official car. We both sit behind and idle in the country’s political situation, my heart racing at supersonic speed at the torture of being so close yet so far with the man who made me realise my dreams.
We are at Hotel 7 Star in less than ten minutes. We are the first ones to arrive; after all we are the organisers. It is 8:15 am and we are set to start at 9:00 am.
The phone calls start rolling. Two cabinet ministers will not be joining us. Neither will three Permanent Secretaries. They, however, will be represented by their assistants.
By 9:30 am, only a handful of the government representatives are in the hall. Most of those in the hall are from the private sector.
“Why don’t we start?” someone shouts from the back of the expansive hall.
After another 15 minutes, the conference gets underway and I excuse myself from the main hall to go and work on the PR.
“Why are you not in the hall?” a hand taps me and a voice that I try to place. I turn to see a youthful assistant minister who is supposed to be contributing to the conference’s main agenda.
I flash him my trademark killer smile. “Why are you not in the hall yourself?”
He gives me his card. “Let us get for drinks after the conference,” he tells me as he walks to the gents. His is the 7th card that I have received that morning, all from men, who I am sure have nothing to do with business. If two can play, why not have fun. I am game!
Mr. Kombo is hawk eyed and does not want me hovering around those men, especially the politicians. I will need to shake him off if I have to make it to any of those dates!
The conference progresses and before I know it, a call from my doctor lands reminding me of my appointment.
“Sorry, I am in the middle of a conference and cannot make it!” I try to sound busy but deep down I am worried by the doctor’s persistence. I have a bad feeling about this.
“It is your health,” he coldly tells me. A shiver runs down my spine.
The conference is almost over when Abdul pops in at the hotel to tell me about this mega deal that he has just clinched with the Council.
I am tense as he animatedly details his conquest. Several people are also waiting to have coffee with me.
“Abdul, let us meet in the evening to celebrate this deal of yours,” I politely tell him!
He is smart. He reads the mood and decides to step aside.
“To be continued,” he flashes me a smile. I watch him as he saunters out of the hall.
Abdul’s place is immediately taken over by the youthful MP, eager to make an impact on me. I hear him out as he outlines his vision – personal according to me – on the way forward for this country.
Mr. Kombo slithers out of the room, knowing that he does not want to interrupt what could be a determinant on whether or not Poverty Line scores highly in its PR.
Thursday.
Morning battles continue. This time Didi is on the offensive. “How come we don’t have a daddy to take us to school like the other children?” Why these questions pop during the early morning confusion, I just don’t know. I choose silence, but this does not seem to sink with the kids.
“Other children are dropped by both their daddies and mummies,” Titi joins in, of course on the side of her brother.
“Why we don’t have a daddy to drop us?”
“Can Mr. Charo be our daddy?”
Before I can open my mouth and put my big foot in it, both my phones ring, the jarring sound giving me a break from the grilling session.
“Have you seen the headlines in today’s papers?” Mr. Kombo shouts on the phone. Beast, what happened to hallo or good morning?
“No,” I go limp as I place the other phone on mute. “Let me drop the kids then we can talk about this!”
I quickly usher the kids into the car, ignoring the second call. It must be something about yesterday. Didi seems to have a solution to my problems. “Why don’t you just get a daddy to drop us to school?”
My nerves are frayed and if Didi continues with this story, I will have no option but go and abandon them at their father’s place.
“Or you can go to that supermarket and buy one daddy and get another free!” shrills Titi. That gets me and I smile.
At the roundabout, I slow down and double park just after the first lane. The newspaper man comes running with newspapers. I settle for the two leading dailies as the man casts looks at me. My window slides up to shut him out of my world.
“MP IN GUN DRAMA OVER WOMAN!” screams one headline.
“WASTE OF TAX PAYERS MONEY!” screams the other headline, of course out to outdo their competitors. My picture is right there holding the MPs as he brandishes a gun!
“We are getting late,” Titi complains.
“Sorry mum,” I mutter as I gather my guts and start driving. The morning radio talk shows all dwell on the issue – calling the girl in the picture a prostitute and the MP a disgrace!
“They should have morality laws in parliament,” suggests one caller.
“Why are you condemning just the MP? Even the woman who lured him is part of the rot in the society,” remark another one.
My day is ruined so early. Even as I drop the kids at school, I wonder if my Mr. Charo has read the papers or heard the story.
I drive into the office to meet a furious Mr. Kombo and a sympathetic Teresia.
“What were you thinking of while going out with that politician?” he screams at me.
I hate it when someone screams at me. It reminds me of my childhood when my father used to scream at my mother and then end up beating her up! It took some of my aunts’ courage to drag mum out of the abusive marriage. But Dad did not stop there. He followed mum to her new residence and came to beat her up. One of my brothers, hardly 13, is the one who rescued the situation with a virtuoso solo performance of hammering a hockey stick on dad’s left leg, thus breaking it instantly. Had it not been for mum’s hysterical screaming, my brother would have gone ahead to smash Dad’s head.
Mr. Kombo’s screaming scares me. Will he hit me?
“You shall not go to the conference today,” he orders me. I hope he does not fire me. I am in tears as Mr. Kombo walks out of the office.
Teresia comes to my aid. “You are still young and very pretty. Use your beauty and brains to advance yourself in life!” Empty words, but much better than the screaming.
“Thanks Teresia.”
I call the MP and his gracious enough to take my call.
“Don’t worry my dear. I will sort out the journalist who covered that story.”
What’s the use? My name has already been dragged into murky waters of politics.
Abdul calls me but I refuse to take the call. What I am going to tell him about official duty?
Friday.
“Please come for your HIV results,” the text message from the doctor’s office reads. I get a sinking feeling. Today is the third day that I have forgotten about my results. I decide to call the doctor’s direct line.
“Hi doc. I will be there at lunch time,” I assure him.
“Best seller of a song! Please keep time,” he chides me. He sounds jolly, so I assume that my HIV results cannot be bad. Consolation.
Another call on my mobile. This time it is from Didi’s school. Another sinking feeling. I dread phone calls from my kid’s school – I always fear the worst.
“Please avail yourself in school in the next 15 minutes to show case why your son should not be expelled from school,” comes the commanding and husky voice of the headmistress.
Didi fighting? That is a new one. “Who is speaking?” I cheekily ask, of course trying to buy time and to cool down tempers.
“Me!” she simply says. “In ten minutes time, your son will be outside the watchman’s shed!” Click. And I know that mannerless headmistress means business.
Being the last day of the conference, and having been stopped from attending the sessions, going to my child’s school does not raise any eyebrows from my boss.
“Please go,” Mr. Kombo tells me over the phone, summarily dismissing me. Since my scandal with the MP, Mr. Kombo has been rather cold with me! Maybe I should warm him up again.
I reach my son’s school in less than 7 minutes. I find my son outside the headmistress office, his head bowed down, and his bag next to him.
“Hi papa,” I jolt him from his slumber.
“Mum, that boy called you a prostitute, so I cut his ears with a scissors!” Didi starts his defence straight away. “And they chased Titi away because she wanted to be with me!”
Ouch! That hurts deep inside. It goes to the core of mother hood and I feel my umbilical cord tingling with anger and pain. I look at my 4 year old son and all the emotions he has been going through in the last number of days. I feel the pain of not living with his father, as the children would have loved. Any child. My heart aches for my little boy, my prince in armour.
“Come in!” the headmistress commands! I follow her into the small cramped office where she goes and places herself on the swivelling chair. I sit before I am told to because I know I will not be told to. She is not amused. Her attempt to look official by dressing in a skirt suit does not impress me. Her short hair makes her head look more like a cooking pot.
“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t expel your son,” she repeats, her red biro pen firmly placed on her yellowed teeth.
I look at her, already angry at what my son has told me. My judgement is too clouded and I try to mentally paraphrase my answer so that it does not come out as heavy and rude.
“And give me one good reason why he should be expelled for defending his mother. In fact he should be rewarded by the government!” I hit back, the last bit coming out rather forcefully.
“He cut another child with a pair of scissors!” she repeats to me slowly as if she is talking to her students. It seems like her mind is also made up!
“He cut the other child for calling me a prostitute!” my voice rises and I meet her gaze. Despite being almost my mother’s age, I do not fear raising my voice to defend my kids.
“Children do not use such language,” she shouts at me, “unless they see things at home and read stuff in the newspapers!” That’s it! It is the MP saga coming back to haunt me! The other kids know and they are now using it against my kids. Damn!
I stand up to leave the office, not caring where I will take my son. Just outside I meet a woman holding Didi’s hand and telling him off for cutting her son.
That’s it. There is a flash of lightning that crosses my eyes, a darkness consumes my heart and the rest is obscured in bizarre motions and screams that I do not remember. I yell, lunge at the woman and wrestle her to the ground with kicks, scratches, bites and insults. My son joins in the fight!
Saturday.
I wake up in a motel room. My head is clear, very clear. Next to me is a man, the OCPD of Panya Route Police station where I was booked for assault the previous day.
“You are quite a kitten,” he purrs unaware that I put in a performance of the century to reclaim my freedom and avoid those cells. The love bites on his neck are a testimony to my ferocious assault.
“Does that mean I am off the hook?” I ask meekly, terribly missing my kids.
“For now yes,” he says, quite satisfied with his conquest. “It will cost you several other performances to get you completely off the hook.”
“Can I go home? I need to see my kids badly,” I plead with him.
“Sure, but come back here at 6pm for another repeat performance,” he shamelessly tell me as he admires my killer figure. I know he wants more but I have drained the strength out of him and he needs time to recoup his energy. His spirit is indeed still willing!
I understand the game. I will be his night partner until he gets bored of me. My case depends solely on him.
“No problem officer. 6pm it shall be,” I reply as I dress, my chipped nails – courtesy of yesterday’s fight - getting into the way of my laced top.
I clear the room of the tissue paper and the one packet of condom that we used during the explosive encounter. He had underestimated my performance and when we were through with the three condoms in the packet, he had no option but to go live – for another three rounds.
I quickly take a cold shower to ‘wash away the sins and evil spirits of fornication’ as Mariam, my cousin, would put it. “Never take the bad spirits of olojo to your own house!” Five minutes and I am out. Mr. OCPD is snoring his head off. Ploughing is indeed a hard job.
I board a matatu to my residence, passing by a supermarket to get a bite for my kids. My phones, which have been off since I was arrested at my kids’ school, spring to life with endless text messages.
Mr. Kombo’s frantic effort to pull rank seems to have come to cropper. “The police boss is not co-operating but don’t worry I will get you the best lawyer!”
“You missed your appointment again!” the doctor’s message brings more misery to me. I have no answer to that one. Sorry doc, my life is too dramatic!
“I am at the cells and you are not there!” is Miriam, my cousin’s message. Miriam is a fighter of a girl who definitely needs to be informed of what is going on.
I am home in half an hour, just after 1pm. I knock on the door and guess who runs to meet me? Didi, my knight in armour.
“Mummy!” screams Didi. There is a scrumble and Titi, who must have been in the bathroom, comes bolting, soap all over her body and face. My tears flow freely as I hug the two most important people in my life.
“I missed you two so much,” I wail.
“Aunty said that the police came to take you,” Titi explains.
“Yes, but now I am back. No more police!”
Didi takes over and his excitement boils over. “Then mum jumped on the other mummy like that wrestler Stone Cold! Mum scratched and kicked her and called her bad names.” I am so embarrassed that my kids take fighting as a hounourable thing.
“It’s not good to fight,” I say weakly but both kids give me cheeky looks of ‘try another one mom’.
Another message from my phone and it is the MP sending me a randy message asking me if I can keep him company when he flies down in a week’s time. Right now my mind is tired and all that I want is to place my head somewhere and rest.
Sunday
I awake with a bolt at 6 am. Something is wrong, and I am in deep trouble. You see, yesterday after so many calls and messages, I decided to switch off my phones, instructed my housegirl and the kids not to disturb me as I took a snooze. In the process of sleeping, I forgot two appointments.
The doctor, whom I have been taking round and round, must be convinced that I am avoiding him. Far from the truth.
Then there is the OCPD who promised to quash my assault charges if I honoured his personal summons. The first one took place and the man now wants more.
I look at the two phones and debate whether or not I should switch them on. Damn if I do. Damn if I don’t.
I bite the bullet and switch on both phones and the light in my bedroom.
The messages come in thick and fast. I count a total of 26 messages from both phones. Time to start reading.
I start with the Zain line and go through each message. Most are from my buddies and family who want to know about my fate and if I am alive. Well, I am alive and kicking.
The last two messages which I have deliberately left out until now are the doctor’s message and the policeman’s. I start with the doctors, since I know it is lighter.
“Please find another doctor and clinic and don’t bother replying to this message!” Oops, seems like I am about to lose a good doctor and a friend.
The policeman’s message is even worse: “Can’t reach you on phone. Come to the police station tomorrow (Sunday) at 7am or else…..”
It is 6:20 am. Let me call him and explain what happened. One, two and three tries and his phone goes unanswered. Maybe he is ignoring me.
My other line has a mixed variety of messages but what stands out most is my long lost brother who is studying for priesthood. “I will offer mass for you today!” Simple and sweet, just like him. Memories of our childhood flash by and it occurs to me that he is the only person who I really miss in my family. The others are just rogues.
My phone rings and I hesitate to pick it, because it is the policeman.
“Hallo,” I say meekly.
“I am expecting you at the Police Station in half an hour’s time!” he barks at me.
“I can explain,” I start but he already has hung up! Come on, what is this with hanging up on someone? Be a man and talk and listen. These guys should marry robots.
Sunday is a crucially packed day for me. It is the day that I bond with my kids, going out to anywhere and everywhere. It is the day that we do not cook in the house – all our meals are taken out, partly to sample the exquisite dishes that are on offer in most restaurants but mainly to just eat out. Sunday is also the day that the house girl takes her day off – usually as early as 8am and comes back the following morning at 7am, just before the kids go to school.
I need to talk to the house girl first about the change of plans. “Aunty, can you possibly leave at 9am today? I have to report to the police station?”
“But my church service starts at 9am sharp and I cannot afford to be late,” she retorts, thinking that I am a devil incarnate out to make sure that she does not go to church – like me!
“I will be back by then and will drop you at church. I will also give you your tithe for this month,” I offer as a way of swaying her judgement.
It’s amazing but money always seems to melt even the hardest of hearts. She smiles and then brings me back to earth. “Okay, but at 9 am sharp I will have to leave with or without you!”
I am relieved and hurry to shower, change into my jeans and a T-shirt, hop into my car and madly drive to the police station.
I just make it but the OCPD is not at the station, though he has left strict orders with his juniors.
“We are under strict instructions to keep you in cell until the boss is back,” I am informed by a young fresh faced corporal, who is hardly out of his teens and looks like a mango in a banana plantation.
“Let me call someone to take care of my kids,” I plead with the two freshers. But policemen in this country possess some of the hardest skulls impregnable to logic.
“You should have done that before you came here,” the shorter one informs me. His chin is smoother than his forehead.
“Orders are to be followed not questioned,” motions the taller and darker one as he points towards the cells.
I ignore both of them and call Mariam my cousin telling her where I am and to go and rescue my kids.
“So you have decided to disobey my orders!” the taller policeman tells me menacingly, trying to act his height.
“Be careful young boy! I am here because I forgot to sleep with your boss yesterday. When he comes and decides that it is time to sleep with me, then I will tell him that you tried seducing me!” I move close to his smooth chin and look him straight in the eyes. That gets him and I see him cower a bit.
I am thrown in and meet some of the rowdiest women of Mombasa town: pimps, drunks, street girls. Name it.
The OCPD comes in at around 1pm and calls in for me. I am famished and I hate mind games.
“What is your story?” he asks me, his eyes firmly on my bust, the cleavage purposely teasing him. He licks his lips.
“I conked out yesterday. Honestly,” I plead my case. He twiddles with his biro pen, my fate about to be decided in seconds.
“Last chance,” he hisses. “Today 6pm sharp! Miss it and you are in court the first thing tomorrow, and this time I will make sure that your file does not disappear!”
“Yes, Sir!” I whisper. “Thank you very much!” I scamper out of his office aware that quite a number of cases are carried out outside the court rooms.
I call Mariam and she sounds to be in distress. “Jessica, I cannot trace the kids! The watchman was not there when the house girl left, so he does not know whether she went with them or not!
Damn! Where are my kids?
I drive madly to my house and find Mariam waiting for me.
“Let us start with her church,” Mariam is practical about it. The problem is I do not know which church she attends.
Phone call? She does not have a phone.
WEEK 3:
MONDAY:
I have not slept a wink the whole night. Mariam and I spent the whole night looking for the kids in all the possible corners we could: friends, family, enemies. For the first time in 4 years, I called their father.
“What type of a woman are you not to know where the kids are?” he asks rather crudely. “Wait till our next court case and I will use this against you!”
“Wrinkled balls!” I shout at him for taking advantage of a situation that calls for calm.
Finally at 7am, my maid troops into the house with my kids full of excitement and stories. I am speechless as I look at the house girl quite oblivious of the trauma she has put me through.
Mariam is the one who talks. “Where were you with the kids?”
The housegirl misses the sarcasm in the question. “We went to our church, then for a trip, then to my grandmother’s place!”
Didi takes over and tells me how they were treated like a king and a queen. Honestly, I am speechless.
“Mum, are we going to school today?” Titi asks in her shrilly voice.
Didi knows the answer even before my tired eyes and emotion take over. “No! You have forgotten that mummy was expelled for fighting,” Didi’s voice carries the tinge of pride at the fight I had.
“I don’t want the other mummy to hurt my prince,” I tell Didi but I know that they know the truth.
Mariam knows another school that we could try. Why not? The kids bathe and get ready for their new school – if they are accepted.
We drive off to a church kindergarten run by some nuns. I explain the dire situation to the headteacher and she has no problem accepting the kids. I pay the fees in cash.
“Please don’t tell anyone that mummy fought with another mummy,” I plead with my twin angels huddled snugly next to me. “This is our family secret and no one should ever know!”
There is a lump in my throat as I bid them goodbye. Such sweet angels going through a rough patch just because their mummy fought!
“Next?” I ask Mariam as she applies make up in the car.
“Police line, his house to meet his wife,” Mariam, in reference to the OCPD, replies without batting an eye lid.
I am not sure we are doing the right thing. My phone rings and I give it to Mariam.
“She is driving,” Mariam tells the caller. “What court case are you talking about?” again Mariam responds but rather too aggressively to my liking. The cursing that follows from Mariam makes me guess that the caller has hung up on her!
“What happened?” I ask, though I know the answer very well.
“He says that he is expecting you in court at 9am and that he will make sure that you are jailed,” she says calmly.
“Maybe we should go,” I tell Mariam, who lets out a long string of sarcastic laughter.
“The problem with you Jessica is that you are too soft – everywhere. Let me show you how to deal with these Mombasa policemen!”
We both laugh as my phone reminder goes off. Mariam checks it and reads: “Doctor’s appointment!” Oh no, not again!
We drive to the police’s residence just adjacent to the station – different gates though. Mariam alights and goes to find out the OCPD’s residence. Sure as rain, she finds it and comes back for me. We move, my heart beating rather too loud till my ears seem to be on a permanent vibrate mode.
“Hi, I am Mariam and have been sent by your husband to show you these gold chains and earrings,” Mariam starts right at the door.
We are ushered in by the graceful lady. Lovely house, lovely hostess. Makes your wonder what men never see in their houses and spouses.
“Please have a sit,” she tells us as she motions the housegirl to serve us tea.
Mariam displays the wares of the table and like all women, the glitter takes over our hostess.
“How much?” she asks warily.
“Your husband helped us with a difficult case,” starts Mariam, a master at making up stories, “so we shall give you the earring free of charge. The chain we shall sell to you at shs.500 a piece.” Mariam tactfully helps her to fit the earrings. My eyes cannot be deceiving me but I notice Mariam subtly rubbing her breasts against the woman’s shoulders. Mariam’s hands also linger on a bit too long on certain parts of the woman’s body.
My phone rings! It is 8:45 am and I know who it is.
“Where are you?” the barking comes from the other end. This time the tension in me has gone. Mariam is a real tactician.
“In your house, selling gold to your wife. Speak to her,” I rush the conversation so as not to be caught.
The wife blubbers on. “Thank you so much for the gold chains and earrings. I am so grateful, you don’t know what this means to me!”
From her expression, we guess that all is well. Within minutes he is at the door of his house. I am tense but Mariam is ice cool.
The officer expertly examines the gold chains. “They are genuine!” he declares as he forks out shs.1000 for two gold chains. I am unable to meet his gaze.
“Thank you officer for helping us out with that difficult case,” Mariam declares as she wraps everything. “You have a very beautiful wife and an exemplary house. The best I have ever seen in Mombasa!”
“Thank you!” he murmurs, his eyes hard on me. We leave the house rather hastily and make it to the car. Mariam is in fits of laughter.
“If you want to fix a man, just target his wife or kids,” she expertly tells me.
“What about the case?” I ask naively
“He won’t touch you! What we have done is to tie a string around his balls. He makes a move and we pull the string!” Mariam’s colourful language still baffles me.
“Were you by any chance seducing the policeman’s wife?” I ask in amusement.
Mariam lets out another long hooting laughter. “I have her. She enjoyed the touches. Watch me move for a kill!” This is getting a bit too complicated for me now!
We drive towards the CBD where I drop Mariam. I then go to the doctors. I might as well finish with him once and for all.
I park my car outside the building, take to the stairs, my thoughts all fixed on whether or not I am HIV positive. Tough thoughts.
I am at the reception. “Is the doctor in?” I ask nervously.
“No, he is on his ward rounds. He’ll be here in the afternoon,” the receptionist lets me know.
Damn.
TUESDAY:
Jonah is his name. Loud, cantankerous and annoying are his characteristics. He is my neighbour who lives in one of the servant quarters with a young woman whom I presume is his wife.
Jonah is colourful – far too colourful for a man. Everything around him is orange – in honour of the political party he subscribes to. Posters of his local and international political idols litter the outer walls of his house, thus making the flats look like an outside park. Efforts to get them removed always leads to loud and violent confrontations.
“Onge!” is the word he likes saying when he is angry, flailing his hands in the air. I later learn that it means ‘No Way!” It is one of those rare occasions where my knowledge of another language is not limited to greetings and swear words.
I hate politics and by extension politicians. That a fully grown man, like Jonah, can blindly subscribe to a politician’s rhetoric without thinking is to me the height of all stupidity.
It is not yet 6am and the crying of a young baby jolts me from my early slumber. This is followed by the raised angry voices of women arguing, or is it screaming, at the top of their voices.
A woman with three children in tattered clothes is hammering at Jonah’s orange door. She tears a poster of a presidential candidate that Jonah adores to the ground.
“Open this door or I will break it,” the woman shouts as she bangs on the door. The kids look bewildered.
The whole compound is now awake. Lights from the 8 main houses and the other four SQs are on.
I am one of those brave – or is it stupid- enough to venture out into the cauldron. Bring on the heat! I move to the woman who hardly looks 20 years old and the kids all looking younger than my twins. Must be the diet.
“What is the problem and why are you disturbing everyone’s peace?” I ask her, woman to woman.
She momentarily looks at me, of course trying to place whether or not I am one of the hubby’s toys.
“This man does not come home (upcountry), he does not send any money and does not even write letters. How am I supposed to feed three children plus his sick mother?” the torrent comes out, the anger in the voice difficult to match.
“Please do not shout,” I try to caution her as a means of respect to all around. This, however, falls on deaf ears.
“Now I am told that he has married another woman,” she concludes, still shouting. “So I’ve decided to bring him his children!
“Jonah, you can hide and sleep with all the Mombasa women but your children will not go back to Siaya with me!” she gives her final orders as she turns to address the kids.
“Wait for your father here!” The kids looking scared, hungry and confused all nod vigorously.
“Mijinga!” She gives the door one mighty kick and then takes a walk towards the gate.
What is it with women and dumping kids at a man’s place? When will women ever learn that a man’s job ends at the ploughing stage? The sowing, weeding and reaping will always remain a woman’s job. I cannot imagine dumping my lovely twins at their father’s place. Never!
Almost immediately, just before I turn to go to my flat, Jonah comes out bare-chested but with a towel wrapped around his waist. Disgusting piece of a human being! I spit.
“What are you looking at?” he hisses at me as if I am the architect of all his tribulations.
“The 8th Disaster of the Modern World!” I hiss back at him, contempt written all over my face. I doubt whether he has understood the joke.
“Take your children and learn to be a man!” I summarise as I walk away to my flat. I find my Titi and Didi wide awake, their eyes expectant with questions.
“Did you fight?” Titi asks in her shrilly voice. Bad reputation that I have made with my kids.
“No mum, I did not fight!” It is our neighbour who had a fight.” I explain to them.
“Whose kids are those?” Didi asks his excitement level up at the prospects of getting playmates.
“Jirani’s,” I tell him as I prepare them to get to school. It is hardly 7am and I am already tired.
The morning is slow, only the doctor has apologised for not being there when I came visiting.
“Tomorrow, I shall wait for you first thing in the morning,” he tells me. This is turning out to be one big farce. But that aside, it is an issue that I need to get out of the way, so the earlier the better!
Mariam passes by my office at around lunch time. I am excited to see her.
“Can I buy you lunch?” I tease her, well aware that it is that time of the month when lunch dates are rare.
“No my dear, I have a serious lunch date today,” she replies cooing with the excitement of a teenager who has just landed her first kiss.
“Who?”
“Guess?”
“Nooooo!”
“Yeeees!”
Mariam has her first date with the policeman’s wife!
“Keep me posted!” I tell her.
“I will need your help in distracting him,” she comes out honestly. Just when I thought I was through with the OCPD.
I feel awful about this. I am not sure I like the direction that all this is turning towards. But I know I owe Mariam, and so I smile sheepishly as she walks out of my office.
WEDNSESDAY
My kids like their school and the stories just never end – the names of new friends, teachers, and the bus driver just roll freely from their tongue. This makes my mornings hustle free thus improving my reporting time at the office.
We even pray before and after meals, a practice that had long ceased having meaning in my house. And comments like, “Mum close your eyes!” are quite common during prayers.
Nothing beats a good morning. Teresia, our tea lady cum cleaner, is always full of weird stories but never gossip. I have never heard talk about another colleague.
Today morning is, however, different. She is itching to tell me something.
“The boss’ daughter is on holiday from a college in Nairobi. She will be coming over to help around,” Teresia informs me.
“That is good for her,” I mumble not quite sure where the story is leading. “How do you know all this?”
Teresia does not lose her stride. “Oh, their housegirl and I are sisters. We come from the same village!”
Now I understand and thank her for the information. Teresia still looks like she wants to talk.
“You know her mother committed suicide last year when she found out that she had AIDS!” the decibel level goes lower as Teresia knows that she is treading on forbidden grounds.
A cold wind blows across and I involuntary quiver.
Teresia does not notice my discomfort and continues with her story. “I saw her just before she died. She came to the office and caused a scene threatening the husband with dire consequences for infecting her with AIDS!
“We were speechless and did not know how to pull her away from the office.
“When she finally left the office, she went over to Nyali bridge and jumped over. Her body was found some 80km downstream after three weeks of intense search.
“The story was even in the papers!” Teresia pauses. Some mental jogging does actually reveal that I read such a story some time back.
“Why are you telling me all this? I ask Teresia, my head already spinning.
Teresia seems to revel in her new role of story teller. Before replying to my question, she looks around and noticing no one, she dramatically swallows a chunk of saliva and then lowers her voice.
“After the wife’s death, rumours of the boss sleeping around with young girls started doing the rounds.” Another dramatic look around and another lowering of the voice. “Without a condom!”
“Who told you this?” I ask rather too loudly to Teresia’s aged ears.
“Shhh, not so loud. His housegirl, who is my sister, and the watchman, who is my cousin say that he brings young women to the house especially when his daughters are not there.
“They told me that there is a small black book in his bedroom where he writes all the women that he has infected with AIDS!” Teresia looks around to see if the walls have really heard her.
Suddenly it is too hot in the room and I go for a glass of water. This is too much for me, but again, what if it isn’t true? Mombasa women are known to be the greatest creators of tall tales like the one of the hoofed genies, cats turning to mermaids.
“Who has seen this book?” I ask Teresia, who surprisingly has mistaken my interest to be one of gossip for gossip’s sake.
“The housegirl has seen it. She even showed it to me but I cannot read,” she replies.
“I would like to see it, just to believe your story. Is that possible?”
“We can arrange that,” Teresia seems to be excited to have shown me how important she can be in my life.
She moves closer to me, puts her hand on my shoulder and tells me with all the love of a grandmother. “Please, don’t sleep with him without a condom!”
I look at her a bit sadly and reply with a croaking voice. “I won’t.”
Mr. Kombo walks in and there is a lull and conspiring silence as he greets us.
“I want to see you in my office now!” he informs me as he walk through the reception. Since the saga with the MP, Mr.Kombo has been a bit cold towards me.
“The company is going through some rough patches. Donor funding has reduced and we need to cut down on our expenses,” he tells me, his eyes avoiding mine.
“What is my exact position, Mr.Kombo?” I ask, still afraid of being sacked after such a short stint with the company.
“Everyone has to take a pay cut for now. When the funding returns to normalcy, then your salary will be adjusted,” he concludes.
I am too numb to respond and I leave the room with my head down only to meet with a girl outside the office. She is almost my age and height and for a moment I suspect her of being my replacement.
She flashes a smile at me. “You must be Jessica.” She extends her hand. “I am Susan, Mr.Kombo’s daughter.” This time I smile with relief as I greet her like a long lost sister.
“Welcome aboard,” I warmly tell her. She is very pretty and my first thoughts are on how Mariam will react on meeting Susan.
My phone rings and I look at the screen. “Hallo Daktari. This time you cannot blame me for failing.”
“Tomorrow lunch time without fail. I have cancelled all my engagements,” he tells me. I almost want to ask him if the pains he is going to means that my results are bad. But I bite my tongue.
“Sawa,” I croak.
Susan and I hit it off straight away and we are soon comparing notes on everything under the sun – poverty eradication, personal enrichment, Coastal tycoons, and finally male bashing.
“What’s your take on older men?” she asks me, giggling like a school girl who has just discovered that she is sitting on a gold mine.
Teresia is hovering around and I excuse myself to go and talk to her.
“Now, what do I tell my sister and cousin about the book?” Teresia asks me.
“I will pay shs.10 000 if that book is delivered to me.” Teresia looks horrified and I don’t know whether its because of the amount or the risk.
“What if he finds out?” her fears are immediately confirmed.
“I will photocopy it immediately and then return it,” I soothe her. She looks relaxed after that.
“Okay, tomorrow in the morning just before lunchtime,” she tells me.
I agree and go back to Susan to continue our male bashing.
Thursday.
A ruined morning. My make up kit is missing from its usual place. I search around the room and cannot remember removing it from its usual place.
“Aunty, where is my make up kit?” I cause at the disoriented house girl. After all, she is the one who stays behind, despite me locking the bedroom.
“I don’t know where it is,” her standard answer comes out. Since the day she disappeared with my kids, I have been hard on her and cannot wait to get a replacement, whether better or worse.
“By the time I come back from dropping the kids, I want that thing on the table. Understand?” I shout as a final look at my ever stocked f-bag reveals a depletion of my beauty products.
I drive off with the kids, feeling quite pale and pararad, unattractive and unladylike. Titi and Didi are uncharacteristically quiet in the car and it does not occur to me that something could be afoot.
“Are you kids sick?” I ask them.
“No,” replies Didi. His sister does not utter a word and when I reach school, she is the first one to run out of the car. Strange.
“Goodbye mum,” Didi gives me the traditional morning hug as his teacher comes towards me.
“Good morning Mama Terry,” the teacher greets me. I wonder why they insist on titles of mama so and so, Mrs so and so. It makes you feel so old and so official. Please call me Jessica or Jessie.
“Good morning Mwalimu,” I also play along, not addressing her by her name. The teacher hands me my full make up kit.
“Your daughter brought it to school yesterday. I took it from her and promised that I will not tell you about it!”
I am tongue tied, take my kit and beat a hasty retreat to work. Teresia is already there waiting for me. Susan has not yet reported, but being the boss’ daughter and working on voluntary basis, I know she can report in late.
“Do you have the money?” Teresia uncouthly dives into the issue without even greeting me.
“Do you have the book?” I sail along not greeting her.
“Not yet but she said she will get it just before lunch!”
“You get the book and I will get the money,” I tell her firmly, wondering how I will part with such a large some of money. There is the office petty cash which I can play around with, since it falls under my docket.
Some people are like small kids and should never be promised anything. Teresia is one such person. Maybe it is the money bringing out the worst in her because I have never seen her like this. Every two or three minutes she reminds me to make sure that I do not forget about the money.
I call the doctor to confirm the timing and he tells me between noon and 1pm.
Teresia appears again and this time I bite my tongue, grate my teeth, tighten by butt muscles and clench my fist. God help me not to scream at her.
“The book is ready,” she says. “Is the money ready?” My anger suddenly melts and turns to anxiety and then to panic.
“Yes, everything is set,” I tell her rather too rapidly. “Can we go now?”
She agrees. “But you have to return it by lunch time.” I excuse myself from the office, tell Susan to keep an eye. Teresia follows me from afar. My heart is pounding at a terrific vibration and I fear that all around me can hear it.
We drive to down town where Teresia’s sister is waiting at the back of an alley. As I am negotiating a parking, my phone rings and it is the doctor.
“I am waiting for you and will be out to the hospital in the next twenty minutes.”
“Okay doc, give me five minutes and I will be with you.” My voice is rushed.
The book is there. A small A5 black note book, actually exercise book with nothing hand written on top. The print says 200 pages. I wonder how the house girls stumbled across such an explosive dossier. My hands shake as I take the book and it takes the sharp nudging by Teresia to remind me that there is a part of the deal I have not honoured.
I unleash a wad of shs.10 000 legal tender to the bulging eyes of both sisters. They momentarily forget that they have to take the book back where they found it.
I quickly rush to a bureau and tell the lady to photocopy the book. She does it and I give Teresia’s sister the original book.
I have no time to glimpse at the book but I promise to do so after seeing the doctor. Ten more minutes.
I walk across the parking lot and take to the stairs and find myself in the all too familiar clinic. Dr. Njoroge is my personal physician and gynaecologist as well. He is the one who delivered my twins and four years down the line, I am yet to complete paying his bill.
“Have a seat,” the doctor tells me gently as he pulls out my file. The room is differently decorated meaning its long since we saw each other.
I sit down, my eyes firmly on the doctor.
“Finally, I have you!” he says but I am not sure what that really means. I smile nervously.
“Both Eliza and Western Blot tests were used to check your HIV status, with your consent of course,” he starts.
My mouth is dry.
The doctor rumbles on and my mind is totally switched off. Between the black book I have photocopied and my test results, the world completely ceases to exist.
All seems to be in slow motion as the doctor hands me a pink A4 paper with some typing.
“Read everything aloud for me,” he instructs me as my eyes try to quickly scan the paper to see if there is anywhere written negative or positive.
I start reading from the top.
Friday.
Positive.
A word that means optimistic, constructive, helpful, encouraging. Like positive attitude towards work or positive response to a disaster. Positive is something good?
Positive.
Since when has a word that is meant to be encouraging meant something totally different. How can being positive mean heartbreak, heartache, soul searching, lost, pain, more pain. Unbearable pain. Positive is something bad?
Positive.
The word reverberates from all corners of the world, my ears ringing endlessly with scary words, my eyes just focussed on misery, death and more death.
I do not remember what the good doctor told me yesterday in his clinic. All that I know is that I have been a walking zombie for the last 18 hours, which seem like 18 years to me.
Despite swallowing 6 sleeping pills last night, I have not slept a wink and my eyes are puffy. There is a knock on my bedroom door.
“Mum we are getting late for school,” shrills Titi, the one who is always the last one to get to the car. She now knows what it means to be late.
Who cares anymore?
Another shrill. “Mum, today is Ahmed’s birthday and there’s a party in school, another party tomorrow, and another one on Sunday!” goes Didi, almost in tears.
I slowly move my mass. “Okay, I am coming,” I croak as I slip into my jeans and T-shirt, an indication that I am not in the mood to go to the office. My phones have been off since yesterday.
I open the door and the two clowns run to give me a hug. I reciprocate.
“Let’s go,” I murmur dreamily, taking their bags and starting the walk to the car. My voice is hollow and sounds like a distant echo of someone I used to know. My feet are lead heavy and have to be dragged.
“But you haven’t bathed,” whines Didi looking embarrassed at my casual dressing.
“Wear that yellow suit that makes you look like a sunflower,” Titi gives me some unsolicited advice.
“Do you want to miss the party?” I ask them as I stop.
“No!” is the simultaneous response from both. “But please don’t come out of the car to escort us,” the vocal Didi makes it known that my dressing is below his approval rating.
It is a torturous drive to school, my mind, body and soul completely off. I am on autopilot and soon run into trouble at the junction of Mama Ngina drive where I unknowingly jump the traffic lights.
The incessant hooting that accompanies my mad move is a reminder that Kenya’s impatient drivers need training in courtesy. The colourful language and name calling do not make me feel any better. There is just a total disconnect in me.
“Mum, do you want to kill us?” Titi asks sadly and I realise that for the sake of the kids, I need to focus on the road and on their lives.
I drop them at school; obey their orders not to escort them to class or not to get out of the car. They quickly run away without a hug or a peck, close the car door, something that they never do. I get the message.
My mind wanders to the last 18 or so hours of my life. The news is still unbelievable. The doctor gave some fliers on various AIDS support groups that could help me out in my condition.
A gentle tap on my window reminds me that I have not moved from the dropping zone.
“Is everything okay?” the elderly nun asks me with motherly love. God bless you sister.
“All is well my dear. Just the usual heartaches of live,” I tell her as I start the car and drive off to nowhere.
I make my way to The Reef Zone, park outside the hotel and slowly walk to the reef itself. It is a cool 80ft above the sea level. The tide is high.
I walk, passing beach boys who shamelessly ogle at me and whistle to get my attention. I wonder what they would do if I stopped and offered them my womanhood. Good idea, I should actually do that. Offer them myself! I force a smile at such a wicked thought.
I make my way to the reef’s edge and sit down some four feet from the edge. I look at the ocean, the sun’s reflection hurting my eyes as I left my sunglasses in the car. The car? Sunglasses? I now remember Mr. Kombo’s black photocopied book and maybe I should go and get and read it. I try getting up but there is no strength left.
I sit and look at the horizon which has just released the sun from its slumber. I listen to the buffeting waves hammering at the reef with all the fury of an angry monster out to settle scores. But the reef stays put, though year by year the waves eat into the reef and soon there will be no reef. I listen to the whistling wind buzzing through the palm trees and making natural music only comparable to birds. I listen to the cawing of the sea gulls unaware, oblivious of my tormented soul. I smell the morning salty sea breeze that reminds you of coastal conquerors.
A lone ship drifts way past the shore to join the few fishermen who woke up early to eke out a living.
My tears flow freely, drip into my mouth to find home in my mouth.
I finally stand up and move to the edge of the cliff. The wind crashes against my chest and face and flashes of my life whiz past my mental frame – the kids, the job, my family, the doctor, my friends, the MP.
A strong voice tells me to jump and end it all. Why continue suffering when a split second decision can end it all? Why? Why?
I count up to ten then move forward to the edge of the reef.
“Mum,” I hear a soft voice, unmistakably a fusion of Didi’s and Titi’s voices. I stop and take two steps back. I turn slowly, very slowly.
There is no one.
Saturday.
My phones have been off for almost two days. I just don’t have the courage to face the world, but the world neither has patience nor time for me. And I vow not to switch the phones on.
A letter is delivered to me early in the morning. It is from my mother and she says that she cannot get through to me by phone, hence the letter writing.
Mum is sick and she needs to be attended to. I debate whether the trip to her place is worth making. It is a place that drains the energy out of anyone. Right now I doubt that I have the strength to fight with my brothers and my nephew – a crop of the most useless men I have ever come across.
“Tell mum that I will be there by lunch time,” I instruct the bearer of the note. He hesitates.
“She said that it is very serious,” he tells me. I scribble a note to mum. Forget calling, I am not ready to face the phones.
“I have a few things to work out first, and then I will be there.”
I drag myself out of the living room to the balcony to warm up to the world. I see Mariam coming up the stairs. Not so early in the morning please. I don’t think I have energy for anybody.
I move and meet her just at the door.
“Hey girl, where the hell have you been?” Mariam moves to give me a hard and long hug. “What happened to your phones?”
We move to the sitting room. “Life. Just want a breather, things are too hectic and I don’t want to drag everyone down!” I tell her.
Mariam shoots straight. “My date with the OCPD’s wife went very well. We are going out tonight,” she tells me with all the giggling of a teenager. I wish I had the same bubbly feeling towards life.
“That’s great!” I tell her but I am lifeless. Mariam notices but decides to push on.
“I need your help, Jessica!” Mariam uses my full name and I know that she really is in need. “Can you date the policeman tonight?”
“My periods started yesterday,” I tell Mariam who looks disappointed. “Something triggered them and they came early,” I offer a further explanation which I know is not necessary.
“I will think of something,” Mariam stands to leave. My effort to get her to take tea does not work. She seems disappointed.
After Mariam has left, I gear up to go to mum’s place. A shower and heavy breakfast later, I enter the car and the photocopy of the Mr. Kombo’s black book stare at me. I have not had a chance to read it.
I sit and open the first page. Printed in neat handwriting are the full names of a woman whom I presume was Mrs.Kombo. Detailed information of birth dates, working place, siblings details follow. Quite intriguing is the information on the all the love making styles that he had with her.
I love the way he starts entry. “The first time I met Jane was in a matatu on my way to Old Town…….”
A stone hits the window of my car and I come out only to see Jonah, my cantankerous neighbour’s kids, running away. Those Jonah kids need a spanking. Its hardly a week since they came and the number of windows that they have broken is increasing by the day. The walls – incidentally not on their side but ours - are full of charcoal drawings. And his father will hear nothing about their indiscipline.
I close the book and drive off to mum’s.
I am at mum’s place within ten minutes. I take to the stairs, knock at the door as it is opened by the housegirl, a strong and repulsive smell of alcohol hits my nose. I almost throw up.
“What smell is that?” I ask, though I know the answer very well. “Where is mum?” I ask the housegirl.
“In her room,” the girl replies. I go to the room and find mom shivering like a leaf.
“Get into the car!” I order her as I match out of her room to the opposite side with two other bedrooms. I yank open the door of the first bedroom and there asleep are several bodies. I target the women – two of them. I get a belt and start whipping them. They quickly get up, dress and leave the house in a huff, hurling insults at me. I do the same in the next room and within two minutes there is a shouting match between myself and the three men in the house.
“Shame on you!” I scream at them. “How can you sleep with prostitutes in your mother’s house?”
My ever drugged nephew slurs, “Kwani you want us to sleep with you?”
My eldest brother, the one who had smashed dad’s knee cap years back, moves menacingly towards me. I know he is a violent man and is capable of nastier stuff.
“You wait and you shall see fire,” I run to the car to find mum groaning in pain. What she has witnessed has just given her more pressure
“What happened to the TV and DVD I bought you last week?” I ask mum as I start the car.
“They disappeared,” she says softly, “when I was at the market!”
I know mum too well. “Which of those grandfathers sold it off this time?”
Mum is quiet, so I continue with my lecture. “This time I will teach them a lesson they will never forget. I will call the police and those grandfathers will have to return my TV and DVD!”
This time mum talks. “I will tell Omari to return it!”
“So you even know who stole it?” I ask mum, angry that she is letting such useless men like my nephew Omari to ruin her life.
We reach the clinic and I accompany mum to the doctor’s room. I know what the prescription will be.
“She needs to be admitted for observation,” the doctor tells me in front of my mum.
“How many days?” I ask the middle aged doctor who has been attending to my mum’s case for the last two years.
“Today and tomorrow. She should be out by Monday morning,” the doctor confirms.
Mum has no problems with checking in. I facilitate her admission which takes less than half an hour. I leave her at the hospital and drive straight to the police station. I need those grandfathers to be locked up and disciplined while mum is away.
Mr. OCPD, another favour is coming your way. Mariam, we are game tonight.
It’s time to switch on my phones and live. It’s time to rumble. Bring it on!
http://oluochcliff.wordpress.com/2009/06/04/jezebels-diary-week-1-2/
@ Clifford Oluoch 2009.
You start dying the day you are born.
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. My mission is simple – to give back to society what it gave me.
WEEK 1.
Monday.
It was bound to happen but I did not expect it this soon. Today I receive my termination letter from my immediate boss, a woman of small stature but fiery tempers.
“Please come to my office right now,” is the message I receive when she calls my extension. It is the first thing in the morning and I have not even unpacked.
I make way to the ivory tower, knock, let myself in and wait to be told to sit down. The offer does not come and the woman does not move her gaze from the computer.
“Take your letter,” she says coldly. “Pass by the accounts office to get your dues.” The month has just begun and there are hardly any dues.
I gather courage. “I hope this is not about the rumours that have been going round about me hitting on your hubby,” I say.
She swivels her chair and for the first time turns to face me. She stands up, hardly any height to talk about, but the fire in her eyes make up for the lack of height. The skirt suits make her look executive but the brown sun tanned weave on her head lets her down immensely.
“Get out before I call security. You are no longer an employee in this firm,” she hisses.
I get the message and walk out slowly but being one to always have the last word, I turn and shout, “I will get him. And I will make you suffer.” It is a promise, not a threat. It is not my fault that the hubby has been making passes at me! I did not ask to be born beautiful.
I bang the door and walk to my station. Two security men are already there to make sure that I do not take anything belonging to the company.
“Cowards, why two of you?”
They keep quiet and watch as I put all my belongings in a Nakumatt paper bag. Off I go, ending seven months as a receptionist in the firm.
I make a call to the hubby, Mr.Matano. “I have just been fired because of you! Will you pay my rent?”
“Please call me later, I am in a meeting,” he lies easily, just like all men when they are cornered.
Sooner than later, I will get you my friend. The world is a marble.
Tuesday.
The landlord has sent the caretaker to remind me that the rent is overdue. I have already exhausted my one month deposit as agreed in the rules and regulations.
The poorly built and hurriedly finished block of 32 flats are a nightmare: water shortages, power surges, electricity rationing, cracks in the wall, broken pipes characterise the flats. It is only poverty that makes one stick to a cramped one bedroomed house.
“It’s bad,” I tell the caretaker as he looks pityingly at me. “I lost my job yesterday.”
“Sorry about that but I am just following instructions,” he tells me. Nice fellow, a rare thing in Kenya nowadays.
“Mom,” the screeching voice of Didi, my 4 year old son cuts across the house. “When are we going to start school?”
“Yes!” screeches Titi, Didi’s twin sister, “we are the only children in this area who do not go to school.”
“Tomorrow,” I lie to them.
Titi is the first one to counter. “Everyday you say tomorrow, tomorrow. Ai!”
I have to do something. This is beyond embarrassing.
Tomorrow I will take them to at least three schools and tell them to choose the best one. That will buy me time.
I am tempted to call the kids father to assist with the payment of the twins’ school fees. But what is the use of calling someone who has never bothered with his kids ever since conception?
“That is not my pregnancy,” were his words when I told him that I had missed my periods.
“You are the only man I have been sleeping with,” I had told him.
“What proof is there?”
That had sealed our fate. I just do not understand men. So sweet when they want to bed but so beastly when it comes to responsibility. It is something that has made me very wary of them.
I hesitate before dialling his number off head since I deleted it from my phone book but for whatever reason, the number is still within my system
As quickly as I dial the number, I cancel it. My pride will not allow me to stoop that low. Maybe some day I will fix him. For now, I will tough it out with whatever there is.
“Mum!” shrills Titi again. “There is no bread or sugar!”
I move to the kitchen to survey the situation. It is worse than Kalahari Desert.
“Wait here, I will come back with something,” I tell the kids. I walk out to oblivion.
Wednesday.
Kids choose the wrong time to be sick. Didi has a throat infection, judging from the chesty cough he is producing. His fever is rising. A look at my house infirmary reveals only empty bottles that cannot even be squeezed for a quarter teaspoon of medication.
I send a ‘Please Call Me’ to Mariam, a cousin and bosom friend who has seen me through thick and thin. She calls me back on the office line.
“I need some money to buy medicine for Didi,” I tell Mariam.
“No problem, pass by the office any time,” she responds.
Anytime for me is right away. But I don’t even have a single coin in my handbag.
I go for the kid’s piggy bank. Didi hears me meddling with the bank.
“Mom, you have not paid back the money you took the other yesterday!” he hoarsely shouts from the living room. True, I have not refunded the kids’ money but I will do so one fine day. Promise.
Within half an hour I am in Mariam’s office and she gives shs.1000 which is more than enough. Mariam is God sent. Apart from her crazy lifestyle and her preference of dating women instead of men, Mariam has a heart of gold.
“Call this number. They, Poverty Line, are looking for a receptionist immediately,” Mariam tells me. “Good luck Jezzie!”
I debate on whether to go to that place right away but my dressing does not allow. I trudge back home with the kids’ medicine and food under wraps.
While at home, my mum ‘flashes’. I know what she wants.
“Yes mum,” I call her.
“I am not well. My blood pressure medicine is finished and I need to buy another stock,” she tells me.
I am the one who is always burdened with these problems.
My siblings are just a messy disgrace. My three brothers, all over 25 and still living in mum’s house, are a total manifestation and classical case study of what useless men are. They do not have jobs, cannot keep any job that you get for them, depend on women for upkeep (my mum, their girlfriends and I) and worst is that they feel nothing about it.
I have one brother who is studying for priesthood. He is different, though financially he is out of the family equation of contribution.
Then there is my nephew, my sister’s 19 year old son, who has joined his uncles in this state of utter worthlessness. He has gone a step further and is now selling stuff from my mother’s house.
“Okay mum, I will come and sort out the medicine. But you need to kick those grandfathers from your house,” I tell her.
She is quiet. One of these days I will come and physically throw them out. Watch me.
Thursday.
The caretaker is back and this time he looks stressed. He is wearing the same clothes he had yesterday. His hair is uncombed and I guess it has to do with the stress.
“The landlord says he’ll bring auctioneers on Saturday,” he tells me solemnly, his eyes not meeting mine.
“I will have something by then. Trust me!”
He pities me; I know how mean and merciless the auctioneers are. I have seen them in action before and it is not a pretty sight.
The job offer from Mariam is still pending. They said they will get back to me to fix an interview time and date. But if they needed someone straight away, why wait? Maybe I should call them, just to find out if the position has been filled. It is the same story of silence from the other places.
Wa, I need money badly!
“Mama Didi, there is no food for dinner,” announces my house girl, whom I am yet to pay last month’s salary. She looks fed up but I guess she has no where to go at the moment. I am lucky that so far she does not have many relatives around. Apart from her Sunday church going and her visits to her grandmother after that, she is generally content with staying indoors. But I have seen house girls come and go and I know their ‘use by date’ is not more than six months.
I cannot go to the kiosk man for more credit because I have not settled last month’s bill. In fact I have been using a different route to get to the house, but I know that will come to an end soon. The kiosk man will pay me a visit and demand his dues. He has done that before.
The day is coming to an end and still no phone call from any of the places I had applied. I cannot sleep.
“Mom, we don’t eat mean any more, why?” Shouts Didi.
“The housemaid says the cows are on strike!” replies Titi.
“Moo, moo,” replies the naughty Didi. We all laugh.
Another ‘flashing’ from mum and this time I do not call. She flashes again and again but I neither have credit to call nor money to buy her the medicine. I dare not place my phone on mute lest the interview call comes.
I await the call.
Friday.
Morning. I look at my phone’s screen awaiting that call. They have to call! They have to! My face does not leave the screen, just in case.
The call finally comes at 9am and I jump almost throwing the phone away.
“Yes, this is Jessica speaking.” I try to be calm but my heart is racing faster than a MaClaren car.
“10am. One minute late and forget the job,” comes the lady’s voice on the other side.
I have no time for arguments. I shower, dress and leave the house within 15 minutes. Men are right when they say that women take too much time getting ready.
There is no lunch for the kids so this better be good.
I pray that there is no traffic jam, but usually from my place in Ganjoni to the CBD takes less than 15 minutes.
I am in the office by 9:45am.
The moment I walk into the office, the secretary sneers and I guess it must have to do with my stunning beauty – which I take after my mum, a former national beauty queen.
“What do you want?” she asks. Her dressing, contrasted to mine, is casual. A white sleeveless top exposing her gaping cleavage is what she has on show.
“ I am here to see Mr.Kombo,” I reply a bit nervously.
Another sneer, top to bottom inspection and I am ushered into Mr.Kombo’s expansive office. It is a red wall to wall carpeted room with matching curtains and black leather seats to complete the elegance. I am sure he did not design this office. It’s too feminine.
“Welcome my dear,” Mr.Kombo tells me as he puts his hand round my shoulder and guides me to the resting lounge of his office.
“Thank you,” I croak. I actually do have butterflies, my palms are sweaty and my lips dry. I try to act composed but it is not coming out right.
“I was expecting you yesterday at 10am,” he says casually.
I almost choke on my saliva.
“I got the call today at 9am,” I tell him nervously.
“It’s okay, at least you are here. Drink?” he asks as he opens the mini fridge in his office. An array of exotic hard and soft drinks line up the chests in the fridge.
“Apple juice will do.” Safe mode is best option here, though a black Smirnoff ice would definitely cool my nerves.
“So, Jessica, how much salary are you expecting?” Mr.Kombo asks.
Oops, I am not expecting that. Mariam has drilled me not to mention figures but to play a mind game. Not now, with the landlord breathing down my neck and the kids starving, I have to mention a figure.
“Shs.20 000,” I blurt out and almost regret it. That is three times what I was earning at my former place.
He does not flinch. Instead a cunning smile spreads across his face.
“You could earn more, you know? He half asks and half informs me.
“How?” I naively ask.
“You are a woman,” he says simply as he downs his drink.
I pause. Suddenly the sight of my starving twins appear in front of me. The house girl, the landlord, the size of the house, the meat all dance in front of my eyes.
“How much more?” I ask, quickly adapting his style of play!
He seems happy with himself that I have understood the nature of the game.
“Double,” he says. Another winning smile almost knocks me off the chair.
I want to jump in excitement but maintain the presence of mind to take him on.
“Triple,” I say jokingly looking at him sensuously, my pale thighs, crossing and uncrossing to give him a peek at my legs.
“Deal,” he says rather quickly either because he does not want the figure to go higher or because of other circumstances.
“You start today at 2pm. But I start now.”
He leads me to a back door where there is a tiny office with a bed, toilet and showers. And that is where I sign my contract, without protection. I do not care as I am shs.60 000 richer on a monthly basis. Who was it who said that 75% of NGOs money goes to paying salaries? Poverty Line is no exception.
Saturday:
I started work as a receptionist but had to ask for half my salary as an advance. Mr.Kombo agreed, though he said that the notice was too short. I explained to him the problem and he told me he would sort me out.
The caretaker, wearing the same clothes for the 3rd day in a row, comes in early in the morning with 5 mean and nasty looking goons. I am not sure whether the sweaty stench and tight T-shirts is part of the job. They stink. They scare. They are ugly. Why the shovels, pangas and crow bars? Crude Kenyans.
“I have the money,” I tell the caretaker as I place Kshs.7000 of crisp notes in his hands. He thanks me profusely and walks away a happy man, both for himself and myself. A rare Kenyan indeed.
“Please wait!” I instruct and go ahead to give him shs.1000 extra for himself and then place shs.200 in each of the 5 goons. The expression on their face is priceless.
“Thanks mum!” they at least have the decency to express their gratitude.
I reach the office by 9am and find Mr.Kombo alone. He explains to me that Saturdays is his day to be alone in the office and catch up with the paper work.
I like Mr. Kombo and it does not take much convincing to go to the back room where we spend the whole morning making love – minus protection. He is quite agile for a man his age.
I spend the afternoon moving houses. There isn’t much to pack and Mariam and a few of her friends come in handy in helping out.
The new houses are bigger, though the compound has only one block of 8 flats, with another separate smaller block of servant quarters, which, are not part of the deal.
The house is a 3 bedroomed master ensuite. Finally the kids do not have to share bedrooms with the housegirl.
Didi is excited at the prospects of a new and bigger house. Titi is over the moon about her new room.
“We can play football here, yes?” Titi says as she looks at the size of her room.
“Don’t you dare!” I jokingly shake my fist at her. It does not take long to set everything in place and I look at Mariam and give a hug.
“Careful my girl,” she warns me as my hug spills over to become a thank you expression.
“You don’t know what this means to me,” I tell her.
Sunday:
After many years of dodging the church, I finally find myself going to thank God for the heaven sent gift. It looks different, less men and more women. The dressing of the youth has changed a lot. And there is too much dancing and shouting. The songs are funkier, the youth rockier, and the dressing scantier. This is not the church that I left some ten years back.
After church, I take the kids out for lunch at Kenchic.
“Mom did you rob a bank?” asks Didi rather too loudly for everyone to hear.
“Mom, I want that naked hen,” shouts Titi as she points to the somersaulting chicken.
The kids eat heartily and after that I take a cab to Splash Waterworld for a swim. You don’t get a chance to spoil yourself so often.
I would not trade anything in life for the laughter and squealing of kids at play.
It is here that I meet Abdul, a talkative but extremely interesting character. I like him. He likes me. We exchange contacts and promise to get in touch.
It’s been a tough but rewarding week.
WEEK 2:
Monday:
A new office and I am the P.A, in charge of all the workers – actually only 3 of them: Pamba, the driver cum messenger, 65 year old Teresia, the tea girl cum cleaner, and Juma, the guard cum groundsman! The three look amused that being the youngest, I am their immediate supervisor.
Teresia possesses a genuine honesty that could shame a priest. She says it as she sees it. If something is ugly, she will say it without any reservations.
“Mwana, there is a funny rotten smell around here,” Teresia tells me frankly when she is in my office. “Have you bathed?”
Now, three things you should never tell a woman: she is old, she is ugly or she is dirty! That stings and I look incredulously at Teresia! Lady, did you say that?
She reads my silence as consent to continue. “You should shave your armpits daily, change your underwear after action! You know men don’t like dirty women!”
This time silence is not going to do me any good. So I snap. “What if it is you and not me?”
Teresia smiles at me, exposing her uneven teeth. “Because, my daughter, I no longer sleep with men!”
Suddenly it hits me – the itchiness down there that has been bothering me for the last couple of days, the excessive wetness! I would never imagine that it would turn out to be smelly.
I excuse myself and slither out to the washroom, with my f-bag to check my panty and true to Teresia’s words, the smell is from me! How embarrassing!
I unzip my f-bag, that bag that all women possess when going out to see a friend or to a party. It has everything that a woman needs at the drop of a hat – spare clothes, spare make up kit, pads, ob, shoes and just name it. I remove one of the underwear; clean myself, change quickly, then spray the room and myself.
My day and morning is already ruined. I cannot concentrate and when Mr. Kombo comes in, I excuse myself.
“I need to see a doctor – women’s problems,” I tell him. He chuckles about women’s problems that never seem to end.
I pass by Teresia, murmur a silent, “Thank you!” She glows at either having been helpful to me or just for seeing the humiliation on my face.
Mum has gone quiet. I guess that her medicine is working and that the boys are not misbehaving. I will pay her visit before the end of the week.
Abdul calls and I am happy that he has followed up our last meeting. He gives me a date, which I am not sure I can honour.
Tuesday:
I hate mornings. The house is always like a battlefield with my twin soldiers either armed to fight or losing their ammunition, in this case pencils, erasers, break tins, shoes, which clothes to wear. Come on, please introduce uniform to these 4 year olds!
“These shoes are finyaring me,” Didi screams when we are at the door. Just because he does not like those particular shoes does not mean that they are bad. After all, he is the one who chose them the last time we went shopping! Didi is back and his sister, Titi, decides that her stomach is misbehaving. She bends over and makes a face. “Okay, run but make it snappy, I will be out in a minute!”
Titi is back and jumps into the car and takes the back seat – nobody sits in front, a rule implemented after vicious fights and name callings that always characterise morning trips thus messing my morning and the day.
I am at the gate when Titi goes. “Oops!”
“What now?” I scream as I slam on the accelerator, determined not to go back to the house. Zoom!
“I forgot to wear a panty!” she meekly says. This time I slam on the brakes, reverse to the house and scream at the housegirl for not supervising the kids when in the toilet. We are already running late and very soon that notorious Tudor road will be clogged with cars!
I join the kids in singing their nursery rhymes. I love the kids’ energy, such a stress reliever in the morning.
The drive to their school is always something to look forward to. Charo, their sports teacher, is the reason the mornings are brighter. He is always there, a smiling warrior who does not know the power of that smile. He is there to carry the kids out of the car and to wish me a good morning. My legs go jelly each morning when he utters those words.
“Have a good day too,” I reply as I drive off in a daze. Who said that men do not show affection? Daily I look into Charo’s eyes and I am sure that what I see is affection – for me of course!
I drive to the office in a happy mood, just in time to get the call from my doctor. “Please come over when you are free. We need to talk.”
‘Tomorrow, 4pm after work,” I commit myself to the medical doctor.
Teresia tells me that the smell is not there anymore. What a relief!
A lady carrying a baby walks into the office and comes face to face with me.
“Where is Pamba?” she demands rather aggressively, looking around for Pamba.
“How are you?” I insist on greeting her. She does not reply to my greetings but eyes suspiciously.
“Are you one of his wives?” she asks, rather too crudely. I am offended but decide to ignore that jibe.
“No. I am his boss!” I tell her coolly. She sobers up and then starts ranting about being abandoned by Pamba despite having a three month old baby.
“Unfortunately these are matters to be discussed out there not in here,” I am firm with her. “I don’t know what you are trying to achieve by coming here with the baby.”
“He does not pay rent or buy milk for the baby and I am starving. Surely you can send some of his salary to me!” she defends her thesis.
“We don’t do that over here. Go and get a court order instructing us to do so. If it is embarrassing him, then you have made your mark. Please leave!”
She curses me as she leaves vowing to come back with policemen and policewomen to arrest Pamba.
By the way, where is he? I call his number and it goes unanswered. Enquiry from Juma the guard reveals that Pamba got a hint about the lady coming to create chaos.
“Who told him that his wife was coming here?” I ask Juma. I do not need answer about the collusion between the two men.
Wednesday.
Training details need to be completed. I look at my ‘To do’ list and almost everything is ready for the conference “Erase The Poverty Line” to take place at Hotel 7 Star. Most members of Parliament will be in attendance. It defies logic why they should fly down to Mombasa for a conference that can be held in a school’s dining hall! But I guess that is one of the reasons why the number of NGOs are more than the number of causes. 430 registered NGOs tackling poverty. Poor Kenyans.
“All set?” Mr. Kombo asks. He is trying too hard to keep his cool.
“Yes, Sir!” I also maintain the same formality.
Mr. Kombo and I leave the office in the official car. We both sit behind and idle in the country’s political situation, my heart racing at supersonic speed at the torture of being so close yet so far with the man who made me realise my dreams.
We are at Hotel 7 Star in less than ten minutes. We are the first ones to arrive; after all we are the organisers. It is 8:15 am and we are set to start at 9:00 am.
The phone calls start rolling. Two cabinet ministers will not be joining us. Neither will three Permanent Secretaries. They, however, will be represented by their assistants.
By 9:30 am, only a handful of the government representatives are in the hall. Most of those in the hall are from the private sector.
“Why don’t we start?” someone shouts from the back of the expansive hall.
After another 15 minutes, the conference gets underway and I excuse myself from the main hall to go and work on the PR.
“Why are you not in the hall?” a hand taps me and a voice that I try to place. I turn to see a youthful assistant minister who is supposed to be contributing to the conference’s main agenda.
I flash him my trademark killer smile. “Why are you not in the hall yourself?”
He gives me his card. “Let us get for drinks after the conference,” he tells me as he walks to the gents. His is the 7th card that I have received that morning, all from men, who I am sure have nothing to do with business. If two can play, why not have fun. I am game!
Mr. Kombo is hawk eyed and does not want me hovering around those men, especially the politicians. I will need to shake him off if I have to make it to any of those dates!
The conference progresses and before I know it, a call from my doctor lands reminding me of my appointment.
“Sorry, I am in the middle of a conference and cannot make it!” I try to sound busy but deep down I am worried by the doctor’s persistence. I have a bad feeling about this.
“It is your health,” he coldly tells me. A shiver runs down my spine.
The conference is almost over when Abdul pops in at the hotel to tell me about this mega deal that he has just clinched with the Council.
I am tense as he animatedly details his conquest. Several people are also waiting to have coffee with me.
“Abdul, let us meet in the evening to celebrate this deal of yours,” I politely tell him!
He is smart. He reads the mood and decides to step aside.
“To be continued,” he flashes me a smile. I watch him as he saunters out of the hall.
Abdul’s place is immediately taken over by the youthful MP, eager to make an impact on me. I hear him out as he outlines his vision – personal according to me – on the way forward for this country.
Mr. Kombo slithers out of the room, knowing that he does not want to interrupt what could be a determinant on whether or not Poverty Line scores highly in its PR.
Thursday.
Morning battles continue. This time Didi is on the offensive. “How come we don’t have a daddy to take us to school like the other children?” Why these questions pop during the early morning confusion, I just don’t know. I choose silence, but this does not seem to sink with the kids.
“Other children are dropped by both their daddies and mummies,” Titi joins in, of course on the side of her brother.
“Why we don’t have a daddy to drop us?”
“Can Mr. Charo be our daddy?”
Before I can open my mouth and put my big foot in it, both my phones ring, the jarring sound giving me a break from the grilling session.
“Have you seen the headlines in today’s papers?” Mr. Kombo shouts on the phone. Beast, what happened to hallo or good morning?
“No,” I go limp as I place the other phone on mute. “Let me drop the kids then we can talk about this!”
I quickly usher the kids into the car, ignoring the second call. It must be something about yesterday. Didi seems to have a solution to my problems. “Why don’t you just get a daddy to drop us to school?”
My nerves are frayed and if Didi continues with this story, I will have no option but go and abandon them at their father’s place.
“Or you can go to that supermarket and buy one daddy and get another free!” shrills Titi. That gets me and I smile.
At the roundabout, I slow down and double park just after the first lane. The newspaper man comes running with newspapers. I settle for the two leading dailies as the man casts looks at me. My window slides up to shut him out of my world.
“MP IN GUN DRAMA OVER WOMAN!” screams one headline.
“WASTE OF TAX PAYERS MONEY!” screams the other headline, of course out to outdo their competitors. My picture is right there holding the MPs as he brandishes a gun!
“We are getting late,” Titi complains.
“Sorry mum,” I mutter as I gather my guts and start driving. The morning radio talk shows all dwell on the issue – calling the girl in the picture a prostitute and the MP a disgrace!
“They should have morality laws in parliament,” suggests one caller.
“Why are you condemning just the MP? Even the woman who lured him is part of the rot in the society,” remark another one.
My day is ruined so early. Even as I drop the kids at school, I wonder if my Mr. Charo has read the papers or heard the story.
I drive into the office to meet a furious Mr. Kombo and a sympathetic Teresia.
“What were you thinking of while going out with that politician?” he screams at me.
I hate it when someone screams at me. It reminds me of my childhood when my father used to scream at my mother and then end up beating her up! It took some of my aunts’ courage to drag mum out of the abusive marriage. But Dad did not stop there. He followed mum to her new residence and came to beat her up. One of my brothers, hardly 13, is the one who rescued the situation with a virtuoso solo performance of hammering a hockey stick on dad’s left leg, thus breaking it instantly. Had it not been for mum’s hysterical screaming, my brother would have gone ahead to smash Dad’s head.
Mr. Kombo’s screaming scares me. Will he hit me?
“You shall not go to the conference today,” he orders me. I hope he does not fire me. I am in tears as Mr. Kombo walks out of the office.
Teresia comes to my aid. “You are still young and very pretty. Use your beauty and brains to advance yourself in life!” Empty words, but much better than the screaming.
“Thanks Teresia.”
I call the MP and his gracious enough to take my call.
“Don’t worry my dear. I will sort out the journalist who covered that story.”
What’s the use? My name has already been dragged into murky waters of politics.
Abdul calls me but I refuse to take the call. What I am going to tell him about official duty?
Friday.
“Please come for your HIV results,” the text message from the doctor’s office reads. I get a sinking feeling. Today is the third day that I have forgotten about my results. I decide to call the doctor’s direct line.
“Hi doc. I will be there at lunch time,” I assure him.
“Best seller of a song! Please keep time,” he chides me. He sounds jolly, so I assume that my HIV results cannot be bad. Consolation.
Another call on my mobile. This time it is from Didi’s school. Another sinking feeling. I dread phone calls from my kid’s school – I always fear the worst.
“Please avail yourself in school in the next 15 minutes to show case why your son should not be expelled from school,” comes the commanding and husky voice of the headmistress.
Didi fighting? That is a new one. “Who is speaking?” I cheekily ask, of course trying to buy time and to cool down tempers.
“Me!” she simply says. “In ten minutes time, your son will be outside the watchman’s shed!” Click. And I know that mannerless headmistress means business.
Being the last day of the conference, and having been stopped from attending the sessions, going to my child’s school does not raise any eyebrows from my boss.
“Please go,” Mr. Kombo tells me over the phone, summarily dismissing me. Since my scandal with the MP, Mr. Kombo has been rather cold with me! Maybe I should warm him up again.
I reach my son’s school in less than 7 minutes. I find my son outside the headmistress office, his head bowed down, and his bag next to him.
“Hi papa,” I jolt him from his slumber.
“Mum, that boy called you a prostitute, so I cut his ears with a scissors!” Didi starts his defence straight away. “And they chased Titi away because she wanted to be with me!”
Ouch! That hurts deep inside. It goes to the core of mother hood and I feel my umbilical cord tingling with anger and pain. I look at my 4 year old son and all the emotions he has been going through in the last number of days. I feel the pain of not living with his father, as the children would have loved. Any child. My heart aches for my little boy, my prince in armour.
“Come in!” the headmistress commands! I follow her into the small cramped office where she goes and places herself on the swivelling chair. I sit before I am told to because I know I will not be told to. She is not amused. Her attempt to look official by dressing in a skirt suit does not impress me. Her short hair makes her head look more like a cooking pot.
“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t expel your son,” she repeats, her red biro pen firmly placed on her yellowed teeth.
I look at her, already angry at what my son has told me. My judgement is too clouded and I try to mentally paraphrase my answer so that it does not come out as heavy and rude.
“And give me one good reason why he should be expelled for defending his mother. In fact he should be rewarded by the government!” I hit back, the last bit coming out rather forcefully.
“He cut another child with a pair of scissors!” she repeats to me slowly as if she is talking to her students. It seems like her mind is also made up!
“He cut the other child for calling me a prostitute!” my voice rises and I meet her gaze. Despite being almost my mother’s age, I do not fear raising my voice to defend my kids.
“Children do not use such language,” she shouts at me, “unless they see things at home and read stuff in the newspapers!” That’s it! It is the MP saga coming back to haunt me! The other kids know and they are now using it against my kids. Damn!
I stand up to leave the office, not caring where I will take my son. Just outside I meet a woman holding Didi’s hand and telling him off for cutting her son.
That’s it. There is a flash of lightning that crosses my eyes, a darkness consumes my heart and the rest is obscured in bizarre motions and screams that I do not remember. I yell, lunge at the woman and wrestle her to the ground with kicks, scratches, bites and insults. My son joins in the fight!
Saturday.
I wake up in a motel room. My head is clear, very clear. Next to me is a man, the OCPD of Panya Route Police station where I was booked for assault the previous day.
“You are quite a kitten,” he purrs unaware that I put in a performance of the century to reclaim my freedom and avoid those cells. The love bites on his neck are a testimony to my ferocious assault.
“Does that mean I am off the hook?” I ask meekly, terribly missing my kids.
“For now yes,” he says, quite satisfied with his conquest. “It will cost you several other performances to get you completely off the hook.”
“Can I go home? I need to see my kids badly,” I plead with him.
“Sure, but come back here at 6pm for another repeat performance,” he shamelessly tell me as he admires my killer figure. I know he wants more but I have drained the strength out of him and he needs time to recoup his energy. His spirit is indeed still willing!
I understand the game. I will be his night partner until he gets bored of me. My case depends solely on him.
“No problem officer. 6pm it shall be,” I reply as I dress, my chipped nails – courtesy of yesterday’s fight - getting into the way of my laced top.
I clear the room of the tissue paper and the one packet of condom that we used during the explosive encounter. He had underestimated my performance and when we were through with the three condoms in the packet, he had no option but to go live – for another three rounds.
I quickly take a cold shower to ‘wash away the sins and evil spirits of fornication’ as Mariam, my cousin, would put it. “Never take the bad spirits of olojo to your own house!” Five minutes and I am out. Mr. OCPD is snoring his head off. Ploughing is indeed a hard job.
I board a matatu to my residence, passing by a supermarket to get a bite for my kids. My phones, which have been off since I was arrested at my kids’ school, spring to life with endless text messages.
Mr. Kombo’s frantic effort to pull rank seems to have come to cropper. “The police boss is not co-operating but don’t worry I will get you the best lawyer!”
“You missed your appointment again!” the doctor’s message brings more misery to me. I have no answer to that one. Sorry doc, my life is too dramatic!
“I am at the cells and you are not there!” is Miriam, my cousin’s message. Miriam is a fighter of a girl who definitely needs to be informed of what is going on.
I am home in half an hour, just after 1pm. I knock on the door and guess who runs to meet me? Didi, my knight in armour.
“Mummy!” screams Didi. There is a scrumble and Titi, who must have been in the bathroom, comes bolting, soap all over her body and face. My tears flow freely as I hug the two most important people in my life.
“I missed you two so much,” I wail.
“Aunty said that the police came to take you,” Titi explains.
“Yes, but now I am back. No more police!”
Didi takes over and his excitement boils over. “Then mum jumped on the other mummy like that wrestler Stone Cold! Mum scratched and kicked her and called her bad names.” I am so embarrassed that my kids take fighting as a hounourable thing.
“It’s not good to fight,” I say weakly but both kids give me cheeky looks of ‘try another one mom’.
Another message from my phone and it is the MP sending me a randy message asking me if I can keep him company when he flies down in a week’s time. Right now my mind is tired and all that I want is to place my head somewhere and rest.
Sunday
I awake with a bolt at 6 am. Something is wrong, and I am in deep trouble. You see, yesterday after so many calls and messages, I decided to switch off my phones, instructed my housegirl and the kids not to disturb me as I took a snooze. In the process of sleeping, I forgot two appointments.
The doctor, whom I have been taking round and round, must be convinced that I am avoiding him. Far from the truth.
Then there is the OCPD who promised to quash my assault charges if I honoured his personal summons. The first one took place and the man now wants more.
I look at the two phones and debate whether or not I should switch them on. Damn if I do. Damn if I don’t.
I bite the bullet and switch on both phones and the light in my bedroom.
The messages come in thick and fast. I count a total of 26 messages from both phones. Time to start reading.
I start with the Zain line and go through each message. Most are from my buddies and family who want to know about my fate and if I am alive. Well, I am alive and kicking.
The last two messages which I have deliberately left out until now are the doctor’s message and the policeman’s. I start with the doctors, since I know it is lighter.
“Please find another doctor and clinic and don’t bother replying to this message!” Oops, seems like I am about to lose a good doctor and a friend.
The policeman’s message is even worse: “Can’t reach you on phone. Come to the police station tomorrow (Sunday) at 7am or else…..”
It is 6:20 am. Let me call him and explain what happened. One, two and three tries and his phone goes unanswered. Maybe he is ignoring me.
My other line has a mixed variety of messages but what stands out most is my long lost brother who is studying for priesthood. “I will offer mass for you today!” Simple and sweet, just like him. Memories of our childhood flash by and it occurs to me that he is the only person who I really miss in my family. The others are just rogues.
My phone rings and I hesitate to pick it, because it is the policeman.
“Hallo,” I say meekly.
“I am expecting you at the Police Station in half an hour’s time!” he barks at me.
“I can explain,” I start but he already has hung up! Come on, what is this with hanging up on someone? Be a man and talk and listen. These guys should marry robots.
Sunday is a crucially packed day for me. It is the day that I bond with my kids, going out to anywhere and everywhere. It is the day that we do not cook in the house – all our meals are taken out, partly to sample the exquisite dishes that are on offer in most restaurants but mainly to just eat out. Sunday is also the day that the house girl takes her day off – usually as early as 8am and comes back the following morning at 7am, just before the kids go to school.
I need to talk to the house girl first about the change of plans. “Aunty, can you possibly leave at 9am today? I have to report to the police station?”
“But my church service starts at 9am sharp and I cannot afford to be late,” she retorts, thinking that I am a devil incarnate out to make sure that she does not go to church – like me!
“I will be back by then and will drop you at church. I will also give you your tithe for this month,” I offer as a way of swaying her judgement.
It’s amazing but money always seems to melt even the hardest of hearts. She smiles and then brings me back to earth. “Okay, but at 9 am sharp I will have to leave with or without you!”
I am relieved and hurry to shower, change into my jeans and a T-shirt, hop into my car and madly drive to the police station.
I just make it but the OCPD is not at the station, though he has left strict orders with his juniors.
“We are under strict instructions to keep you in cell until the boss is back,” I am informed by a young fresh faced corporal, who is hardly out of his teens and looks like a mango in a banana plantation.
“Let me call someone to take care of my kids,” I plead with the two freshers. But policemen in this country possess some of the hardest skulls impregnable to logic.
“You should have done that before you came here,” the shorter one informs me. His chin is smoother than his forehead.
“Orders are to be followed not questioned,” motions the taller and darker one as he points towards the cells.
I ignore both of them and call Mariam my cousin telling her where I am and to go and rescue my kids.
“So you have decided to disobey my orders!” the taller policeman tells me menacingly, trying to act his height.
“Be careful young boy! I am here because I forgot to sleep with your boss yesterday. When he comes and decides that it is time to sleep with me, then I will tell him that you tried seducing me!” I move close to his smooth chin and look him straight in the eyes. That gets him and I see him cower a bit.
I am thrown in and meet some of the rowdiest women of Mombasa town: pimps, drunks, street girls. Name it.
The OCPD comes in at around 1pm and calls in for me. I am famished and I hate mind games.
“What is your story?” he asks me, his eyes firmly on my bust, the cleavage purposely teasing him. He licks his lips.
“I conked out yesterday. Honestly,” I plead my case. He twiddles with his biro pen, my fate about to be decided in seconds.
“Last chance,” he hisses. “Today 6pm sharp! Miss it and you are in court the first thing tomorrow, and this time I will make sure that your file does not disappear!”
“Yes, Sir!” I whisper. “Thank you very much!” I scamper out of his office aware that quite a number of cases are carried out outside the court rooms.
I call Mariam and she sounds to be in distress. “Jessica, I cannot trace the kids! The watchman was not there when the house girl left, so he does not know whether she went with them or not!
Damn! Where are my kids?
I drive madly to my house and find Mariam waiting for me.
“Let us start with her church,” Mariam is practical about it. The problem is I do not know which church she attends.
Phone call? She does not have a phone.
WEEK 3:
MONDAY:
I have not slept a wink the whole night. Mariam and I spent the whole night looking for the kids in all the possible corners we could: friends, family, enemies. For the first time in 4 years, I called their father.
“What type of a woman are you not to know where the kids are?” he asks rather crudely. “Wait till our next court case and I will use this against you!”
“Wrinkled balls!” I shout at him for taking advantage of a situation that calls for calm.
Finally at 7am, my maid troops into the house with my kids full of excitement and stories. I am speechless as I look at the house girl quite oblivious of the trauma she has put me through.
Mariam is the one who talks. “Where were you with the kids?”
The housegirl misses the sarcasm in the question. “We went to our church, then for a trip, then to my grandmother’s place!”
Didi takes over and tells me how they were treated like a king and a queen. Honestly, I am speechless.
“Mum, are we going to school today?” Titi asks in her shrilly voice.
Didi knows the answer even before my tired eyes and emotion take over. “No! You have forgotten that mummy was expelled for fighting,” Didi’s voice carries the tinge of pride at the fight I had.
“I don’t want the other mummy to hurt my prince,” I tell Didi but I know that they know the truth.
Mariam knows another school that we could try. Why not? The kids bathe and get ready for their new school – if they are accepted.
We drive off to a church kindergarten run by some nuns. I explain the dire situation to the headteacher and she has no problem accepting the kids. I pay the fees in cash.
“Please don’t tell anyone that mummy fought with another mummy,” I plead with my twin angels huddled snugly next to me. “This is our family secret and no one should ever know!”
There is a lump in my throat as I bid them goodbye. Such sweet angels going through a rough patch just because their mummy fought!
“Next?” I ask Mariam as she applies make up in the car.
“Police line, his house to meet his wife,” Mariam, in reference to the OCPD, replies without batting an eye lid.
I am not sure we are doing the right thing. My phone rings and I give it to Mariam.
“She is driving,” Mariam tells the caller. “What court case are you talking about?” again Mariam responds but rather too aggressively to my liking. The cursing that follows from Mariam makes me guess that the caller has hung up on her!
“What happened?” I ask, though I know the answer very well.
“He says that he is expecting you in court at 9am and that he will make sure that you are jailed,” she says calmly.
“Maybe we should go,” I tell Mariam, who lets out a long string of sarcastic laughter.
“The problem with you Jessica is that you are too soft – everywhere. Let me show you how to deal with these Mombasa policemen!”
We both laugh as my phone reminder goes off. Mariam checks it and reads: “Doctor’s appointment!” Oh no, not again!
We drive to the police’s residence just adjacent to the station – different gates though. Mariam alights and goes to find out the OCPD’s residence. Sure as rain, she finds it and comes back for me. We move, my heart beating rather too loud till my ears seem to be on a permanent vibrate mode.
“Hi, I am Mariam and have been sent by your husband to show you these gold chains and earrings,” Mariam starts right at the door.
We are ushered in by the graceful lady. Lovely house, lovely hostess. Makes your wonder what men never see in their houses and spouses.
“Please have a sit,” she tells us as she motions the housegirl to serve us tea.
Mariam displays the wares of the table and like all women, the glitter takes over our hostess.
“How much?” she asks warily.
“Your husband helped us with a difficult case,” starts Mariam, a master at making up stories, “so we shall give you the earring free of charge. The chain we shall sell to you at shs.500 a piece.” Mariam tactfully helps her to fit the earrings. My eyes cannot be deceiving me but I notice Mariam subtly rubbing her breasts against the woman’s shoulders. Mariam’s hands also linger on a bit too long on certain parts of the woman’s body.
My phone rings! It is 8:45 am and I know who it is.
“Where are you?” the barking comes from the other end. This time the tension in me has gone. Mariam is a real tactician.
“In your house, selling gold to your wife. Speak to her,” I rush the conversation so as not to be caught.
The wife blubbers on. “Thank you so much for the gold chains and earrings. I am so grateful, you don’t know what this means to me!”
From her expression, we guess that all is well. Within minutes he is at the door of his house. I am tense but Mariam is ice cool.
The officer expertly examines the gold chains. “They are genuine!” he declares as he forks out shs.1000 for two gold chains. I am unable to meet his gaze.
“Thank you officer for helping us out with that difficult case,” Mariam declares as she wraps everything. “You have a very beautiful wife and an exemplary house. The best I have ever seen in Mombasa!”
“Thank you!” he murmurs, his eyes hard on me. We leave the house rather hastily and make it to the car. Mariam is in fits of laughter.
“If you want to fix a man, just target his wife or kids,” she expertly tells me.
“What about the case?” I ask naively
“He won’t touch you! What we have done is to tie a string around his balls. He makes a move and we pull the string!” Mariam’s colourful language still baffles me.
“Were you by any chance seducing the policeman’s wife?” I ask in amusement.
Mariam lets out another long hooting laughter. “I have her. She enjoyed the touches. Watch me move for a kill!” This is getting a bit too complicated for me now!
We drive towards the CBD where I drop Mariam. I then go to the doctors. I might as well finish with him once and for all.
I park my car outside the building, take to the stairs, my thoughts all fixed on whether or not I am HIV positive. Tough thoughts.
I am at the reception. “Is the doctor in?” I ask nervously.
“No, he is on his ward rounds. He’ll be here in the afternoon,” the receptionist lets me know.
Damn.
TUESDAY:
Jonah is his name. Loud, cantankerous and annoying are his characteristics. He is my neighbour who lives in one of the servant quarters with a young woman whom I presume is his wife.
Jonah is colourful – far too colourful for a man. Everything around him is orange – in honour of the political party he subscribes to. Posters of his local and international political idols litter the outer walls of his house, thus making the flats look like an outside park. Efforts to get them removed always leads to loud and violent confrontations.
“Onge!” is the word he likes saying when he is angry, flailing his hands in the air. I later learn that it means ‘No Way!” It is one of those rare occasions where my knowledge of another language is not limited to greetings and swear words.
I hate politics and by extension politicians. That a fully grown man, like Jonah, can blindly subscribe to a politician’s rhetoric without thinking is to me the height of all stupidity.
It is not yet 6am and the crying of a young baby jolts me from my early slumber. This is followed by the raised angry voices of women arguing, or is it screaming, at the top of their voices.
A woman with three children in tattered clothes is hammering at Jonah’s orange door. She tears a poster of a presidential candidate that Jonah adores to the ground.
“Open this door or I will break it,” the woman shouts as she bangs on the door. The kids look bewildered.
The whole compound is now awake. Lights from the 8 main houses and the other four SQs are on.
I am one of those brave – or is it stupid- enough to venture out into the cauldron. Bring on the heat! I move to the woman who hardly looks 20 years old and the kids all looking younger than my twins. Must be the diet.
“What is the problem and why are you disturbing everyone’s peace?” I ask her, woman to woman.
She momentarily looks at me, of course trying to place whether or not I am one of the hubby’s toys.
“This man does not come home (upcountry), he does not send any money and does not even write letters. How am I supposed to feed three children plus his sick mother?” the torrent comes out, the anger in the voice difficult to match.
“Please do not shout,” I try to caution her as a means of respect to all around. This, however, falls on deaf ears.
“Now I am told that he has married another woman,” she concludes, still shouting. “So I’ve decided to bring him his children!
“Jonah, you can hide and sleep with all the Mombasa women but your children will not go back to Siaya with me!” she gives her final orders as she turns to address the kids.
“Wait for your father here!” The kids looking scared, hungry and confused all nod vigorously.
“Mijinga!” She gives the door one mighty kick and then takes a walk towards the gate.
What is it with women and dumping kids at a man’s place? When will women ever learn that a man’s job ends at the ploughing stage? The sowing, weeding and reaping will always remain a woman’s job. I cannot imagine dumping my lovely twins at their father’s place. Never!
Almost immediately, just before I turn to go to my flat, Jonah comes out bare-chested but with a towel wrapped around his waist. Disgusting piece of a human being! I spit.
“What are you looking at?” he hisses at me as if I am the architect of all his tribulations.
“The 8th Disaster of the Modern World!” I hiss back at him, contempt written all over my face. I doubt whether he has understood the joke.
“Take your children and learn to be a man!” I summarise as I walk away to my flat. I find my Titi and Didi wide awake, their eyes expectant with questions.
“Did you fight?” Titi asks in her shrilly voice. Bad reputation that I have made with my kids.
“No mum, I did not fight!” It is our neighbour who had a fight.” I explain to them.
“Whose kids are those?” Didi asks his excitement level up at the prospects of getting playmates.
“Jirani’s,” I tell him as I prepare them to get to school. It is hardly 7am and I am already tired.
The morning is slow, only the doctor has apologised for not being there when I came visiting.
“Tomorrow, I shall wait for you first thing in the morning,” he tells me. This is turning out to be one big farce. But that aside, it is an issue that I need to get out of the way, so the earlier the better!
Mariam passes by my office at around lunch time. I am excited to see her.
“Can I buy you lunch?” I tease her, well aware that it is that time of the month when lunch dates are rare.
“No my dear, I have a serious lunch date today,” she replies cooing with the excitement of a teenager who has just landed her first kiss.
“Who?”
“Guess?”
“Nooooo!”
“Yeeees!”
Mariam has her first date with the policeman’s wife!
“Keep me posted!” I tell her.
“I will need your help in distracting him,” she comes out honestly. Just when I thought I was through with the OCPD.
I feel awful about this. I am not sure I like the direction that all this is turning towards. But I know I owe Mariam, and so I smile sheepishly as she walks out of my office.
WEDNSESDAY
My kids like their school and the stories just never end – the names of new friends, teachers, and the bus driver just roll freely from their tongue. This makes my mornings hustle free thus improving my reporting time at the office.
We even pray before and after meals, a practice that had long ceased having meaning in my house. And comments like, “Mum close your eyes!” are quite common during prayers.
Nothing beats a good morning. Teresia, our tea lady cum cleaner, is always full of weird stories but never gossip. I have never heard talk about another colleague.
Today morning is, however, different. She is itching to tell me something.
“The boss’ daughter is on holiday from a college in Nairobi. She will be coming over to help around,” Teresia informs me.
“That is good for her,” I mumble not quite sure where the story is leading. “How do you know all this?”
Teresia does not lose her stride. “Oh, their housegirl and I are sisters. We come from the same village!”
Now I understand and thank her for the information. Teresia still looks like she wants to talk.
“You know her mother committed suicide last year when she found out that she had AIDS!” the decibel level goes lower as Teresia knows that she is treading on forbidden grounds.
A cold wind blows across and I involuntary quiver.
Teresia does not notice my discomfort and continues with her story. “I saw her just before she died. She came to the office and caused a scene threatening the husband with dire consequences for infecting her with AIDS!
“We were speechless and did not know how to pull her away from the office.
“When she finally left the office, she went over to Nyali bridge and jumped over. Her body was found some 80km downstream after three weeks of intense search.
“The story was even in the papers!” Teresia pauses. Some mental jogging does actually reveal that I read such a story some time back.
“Why are you telling me all this? I ask Teresia, my head already spinning.
Teresia seems to revel in her new role of story teller. Before replying to my question, she looks around and noticing no one, she dramatically swallows a chunk of saliva and then lowers her voice.
“After the wife’s death, rumours of the boss sleeping around with young girls started doing the rounds.” Another dramatic look around and another lowering of the voice. “Without a condom!”
“Who told you this?” I ask rather too loudly to Teresia’s aged ears.
“Shhh, not so loud. His housegirl, who is my sister, and the watchman, who is my cousin say that he brings young women to the house especially when his daughters are not there.
“They told me that there is a small black book in his bedroom where he writes all the women that he has infected with AIDS!” Teresia looks around to see if the walls have really heard her.
Suddenly it is too hot in the room and I go for a glass of water. This is too much for me, but again, what if it isn’t true? Mombasa women are known to be the greatest creators of tall tales like the one of the hoofed genies, cats turning to mermaids.
“Who has seen this book?” I ask Teresia, who surprisingly has mistaken my interest to be one of gossip for gossip’s sake.
“The housegirl has seen it. She even showed it to me but I cannot read,” she replies.
“I would like to see it, just to believe your story. Is that possible?”
“We can arrange that,” Teresia seems to be excited to have shown me how important she can be in my life.
She moves closer to me, puts her hand on my shoulder and tells me with all the love of a grandmother. “Please, don’t sleep with him without a condom!”
I look at her a bit sadly and reply with a croaking voice. “I won’t.”
Mr. Kombo walks in and there is a lull and conspiring silence as he greets us.
“I want to see you in my office now!” he informs me as he walk through the reception. Since the saga with the MP, Mr.Kombo has been a bit cold towards me.
“The company is going through some rough patches. Donor funding has reduced and we need to cut down on our expenses,” he tells me, his eyes avoiding mine.
“What is my exact position, Mr.Kombo?” I ask, still afraid of being sacked after such a short stint with the company.
“Everyone has to take a pay cut for now. When the funding returns to normalcy, then your salary will be adjusted,” he concludes.
I am too numb to respond and I leave the room with my head down only to meet with a girl outside the office. She is almost my age and height and for a moment I suspect her of being my replacement.
She flashes a smile at me. “You must be Jessica.” She extends her hand. “I am Susan, Mr.Kombo’s daughter.” This time I smile with relief as I greet her like a long lost sister.
“Welcome aboard,” I warmly tell her. She is very pretty and my first thoughts are on how Mariam will react on meeting Susan.
My phone rings and I look at the screen. “Hallo Daktari. This time you cannot blame me for failing.”
“Tomorrow lunch time without fail. I have cancelled all my engagements,” he tells me. I almost want to ask him if the pains he is going to means that my results are bad. But I bite my tongue.
“Sawa,” I croak.
Susan and I hit it off straight away and we are soon comparing notes on everything under the sun – poverty eradication, personal enrichment, Coastal tycoons, and finally male bashing.
“What’s your take on older men?” she asks me, giggling like a school girl who has just discovered that she is sitting on a gold mine.
Teresia is hovering around and I excuse myself to go and talk to her.
“Now, what do I tell my sister and cousin about the book?” Teresia asks me.
“I will pay shs.10 000 if that book is delivered to me.” Teresia looks horrified and I don’t know whether its because of the amount or the risk.
“What if he finds out?” her fears are immediately confirmed.
“I will photocopy it immediately and then return it,” I soothe her. She looks relaxed after that.
“Okay, tomorrow in the morning just before lunchtime,” she tells me.
I agree and go back to Susan to continue our male bashing.
Thursday.
A ruined morning. My make up kit is missing from its usual place. I search around the room and cannot remember removing it from its usual place.
“Aunty, where is my make up kit?” I cause at the disoriented house girl. After all, she is the one who stays behind, despite me locking the bedroom.
“I don’t know where it is,” her standard answer comes out. Since the day she disappeared with my kids, I have been hard on her and cannot wait to get a replacement, whether better or worse.
“By the time I come back from dropping the kids, I want that thing on the table. Understand?” I shout as a final look at my ever stocked f-bag reveals a depletion of my beauty products.
I drive off with the kids, feeling quite pale and pararad, unattractive and unladylike. Titi and Didi are uncharacteristically quiet in the car and it does not occur to me that something could be afoot.
“Are you kids sick?” I ask them.
“No,” replies Didi. His sister does not utter a word and when I reach school, she is the first one to run out of the car. Strange.
“Goodbye mum,” Didi gives me the traditional morning hug as his teacher comes towards me.
“Good morning Mama Terry,” the teacher greets me. I wonder why they insist on titles of mama so and so, Mrs so and so. It makes you feel so old and so official. Please call me Jessica or Jessie.
“Good morning Mwalimu,” I also play along, not addressing her by her name. The teacher hands me my full make up kit.
“Your daughter brought it to school yesterday. I took it from her and promised that I will not tell you about it!”
I am tongue tied, take my kit and beat a hasty retreat to work. Teresia is already there waiting for me. Susan has not yet reported, but being the boss’ daughter and working on voluntary basis, I know she can report in late.
“Do you have the money?” Teresia uncouthly dives into the issue without even greeting me.
“Do you have the book?” I sail along not greeting her.
“Not yet but she said she will get it just before lunch!”
“You get the book and I will get the money,” I tell her firmly, wondering how I will part with such a large some of money. There is the office petty cash which I can play around with, since it falls under my docket.
Some people are like small kids and should never be promised anything. Teresia is one such person. Maybe it is the money bringing out the worst in her because I have never seen her like this. Every two or three minutes she reminds me to make sure that I do not forget about the money.
I call the doctor to confirm the timing and he tells me between noon and 1pm.
Teresia appears again and this time I bite my tongue, grate my teeth, tighten by butt muscles and clench my fist. God help me not to scream at her.
“The book is ready,” she says. “Is the money ready?” My anger suddenly melts and turns to anxiety and then to panic.
“Yes, everything is set,” I tell her rather too rapidly. “Can we go now?”
She agrees. “But you have to return it by lunch time.” I excuse myself from the office, tell Susan to keep an eye. Teresia follows me from afar. My heart is pounding at a terrific vibration and I fear that all around me can hear it.
We drive to down town where Teresia’s sister is waiting at the back of an alley. As I am negotiating a parking, my phone rings and it is the doctor.
“I am waiting for you and will be out to the hospital in the next twenty minutes.”
“Okay doc, give me five minutes and I will be with you.” My voice is rushed.
The book is there. A small A5 black note book, actually exercise book with nothing hand written on top. The print says 200 pages. I wonder how the house girls stumbled across such an explosive dossier. My hands shake as I take the book and it takes the sharp nudging by Teresia to remind me that there is a part of the deal I have not honoured.
I unleash a wad of shs.10 000 legal tender to the bulging eyes of both sisters. They momentarily forget that they have to take the book back where they found it.
I quickly rush to a bureau and tell the lady to photocopy the book. She does it and I give Teresia’s sister the original book.
I have no time to glimpse at the book but I promise to do so after seeing the doctor. Ten more minutes.
I walk across the parking lot and take to the stairs and find myself in the all too familiar clinic. Dr. Njoroge is my personal physician and gynaecologist as well. He is the one who delivered my twins and four years down the line, I am yet to complete paying his bill.
“Have a seat,” the doctor tells me gently as he pulls out my file. The room is differently decorated meaning its long since we saw each other.
I sit down, my eyes firmly on the doctor.
“Finally, I have you!” he says but I am not sure what that really means. I smile nervously.
“Both Eliza and Western Blot tests were used to check your HIV status, with your consent of course,” he starts.
My mouth is dry.
The doctor rumbles on and my mind is totally switched off. Between the black book I have photocopied and my test results, the world completely ceases to exist.
All seems to be in slow motion as the doctor hands me a pink A4 paper with some typing.
“Read everything aloud for me,” he instructs me as my eyes try to quickly scan the paper to see if there is anywhere written negative or positive.
I start reading from the top.
Friday.
Positive.
A word that means optimistic, constructive, helpful, encouraging. Like positive attitude towards work or positive response to a disaster. Positive is something good?
Positive.
Since when has a word that is meant to be encouraging meant something totally different. How can being positive mean heartbreak, heartache, soul searching, lost, pain, more pain. Unbearable pain. Positive is something bad?
Positive.
The word reverberates from all corners of the world, my ears ringing endlessly with scary words, my eyes just focussed on misery, death and more death.
I do not remember what the good doctor told me yesterday in his clinic. All that I know is that I have been a walking zombie for the last 18 hours, which seem like 18 years to me.
Despite swallowing 6 sleeping pills last night, I have not slept a wink and my eyes are puffy. There is a knock on my bedroom door.
“Mum we are getting late for school,” shrills Titi, the one who is always the last one to get to the car. She now knows what it means to be late.
Who cares anymore?
Another shrill. “Mum, today is Ahmed’s birthday and there’s a party in school, another party tomorrow, and another one on Sunday!” goes Didi, almost in tears.
I slowly move my mass. “Okay, I am coming,” I croak as I slip into my jeans and T-shirt, an indication that I am not in the mood to go to the office. My phones have been off since yesterday.
I open the door and the two clowns run to give me a hug. I reciprocate.
“Let’s go,” I murmur dreamily, taking their bags and starting the walk to the car. My voice is hollow and sounds like a distant echo of someone I used to know. My feet are lead heavy and have to be dragged.
“But you haven’t bathed,” whines Didi looking embarrassed at my casual dressing.
“Wear that yellow suit that makes you look like a sunflower,” Titi gives me some unsolicited advice.
“Do you want to miss the party?” I ask them as I stop.
“No!” is the simultaneous response from both. “But please don’t come out of the car to escort us,” the vocal Didi makes it known that my dressing is below his approval rating.
It is a torturous drive to school, my mind, body and soul completely off. I am on autopilot and soon run into trouble at the junction of Mama Ngina drive where I unknowingly jump the traffic lights.
The incessant hooting that accompanies my mad move is a reminder that Kenya’s impatient drivers need training in courtesy. The colourful language and name calling do not make me feel any better. There is just a total disconnect in me.
“Mum, do you want to kill us?” Titi asks sadly and I realise that for the sake of the kids, I need to focus on the road and on their lives.
I drop them at school; obey their orders not to escort them to class or not to get out of the car. They quickly run away without a hug or a peck, close the car door, something that they never do. I get the message.
My mind wanders to the last 18 or so hours of my life. The news is still unbelievable. The doctor gave some fliers on various AIDS support groups that could help me out in my condition.
A gentle tap on my window reminds me that I have not moved from the dropping zone.
“Is everything okay?” the elderly nun asks me with motherly love. God bless you sister.
“All is well my dear. Just the usual heartaches of live,” I tell her as I start the car and drive off to nowhere.
I make my way to The Reef Zone, park outside the hotel and slowly walk to the reef itself. It is a cool 80ft above the sea level. The tide is high.
I walk, passing beach boys who shamelessly ogle at me and whistle to get my attention. I wonder what they would do if I stopped and offered them my womanhood. Good idea, I should actually do that. Offer them myself! I force a smile at such a wicked thought.
I make my way to the reef’s edge and sit down some four feet from the edge. I look at the ocean, the sun’s reflection hurting my eyes as I left my sunglasses in the car. The car? Sunglasses? I now remember Mr. Kombo’s black photocopied book and maybe I should go and get and read it. I try getting up but there is no strength left.
I sit and look at the horizon which has just released the sun from its slumber. I listen to the buffeting waves hammering at the reef with all the fury of an angry monster out to settle scores. But the reef stays put, though year by year the waves eat into the reef and soon there will be no reef. I listen to the whistling wind buzzing through the palm trees and making natural music only comparable to birds. I listen to the cawing of the sea gulls unaware, oblivious of my tormented soul. I smell the morning salty sea breeze that reminds you of coastal conquerors.
A lone ship drifts way past the shore to join the few fishermen who woke up early to eke out a living.
My tears flow freely, drip into my mouth to find home in my mouth.
I finally stand up and move to the edge of the cliff. The wind crashes against my chest and face and flashes of my life whiz past my mental frame – the kids, the job, my family, the doctor, my friends, the MP.
A strong voice tells me to jump and end it all. Why continue suffering when a split second decision can end it all? Why? Why?
I count up to ten then move forward to the edge of the reef.
“Mum,” I hear a soft voice, unmistakably a fusion of Didi’s and Titi’s voices. I stop and take two steps back. I turn slowly, very slowly.
There is no one.
Saturday.
My phones have been off for almost two days. I just don’t have the courage to face the world, but the world neither has patience nor time for me. And I vow not to switch the phones on.
A letter is delivered to me early in the morning. It is from my mother and she says that she cannot get through to me by phone, hence the letter writing.
Mum is sick and she needs to be attended to. I debate whether the trip to her place is worth making. It is a place that drains the energy out of anyone. Right now I doubt that I have the strength to fight with my brothers and my nephew – a crop of the most useless men I have ever come across.
“Tell mum that I will be there by lunch time,” I instruct the bearer of the note. He hesitates.
“She said that it is very serious,” he tells me. I scribble a note to mum. Forget calling, I am not ready to face the phones.
“I have a few things to work out first, and then I will be there.”
I drag myself out of the living room to the balcony to warm up to the world. I see Mariam coming up the stairs. Not so early in the morning please. I don’t think I have energy for anybody.
I move and meet her just at the door.
“Hey girl, where the hell have you been?” Mariam moves to give me a hard and long hug. “What happened to your phones?”
We move to the sitting room. “Life. Just want a breather, things are too hectic and I don’t want to drag everyone down!” I tell her.
Mariam shoots straight. “My date with the OCPD’s wife went very well. We are going out tonight,” she tells me with all the giggling of a teenager. I wish I had the same bubbly feeling towards life.
“That’s great!” I tell her but I am lifeless. Mariam notices but decides to push on.
“I need your help, Jessica!” Mariam uses my full name and I know that she really is in need. “Can you date the policeman tonight?”
“My periods started yesterday,” I tell Mariam who looks disappointed. “Something triggered them and they came early,” I offer a further explanation which I know is not necessary.
“I will think of something,” Mariam stands to leave. My effort to get her to take tea does not work. She seems disappointed.
After Mariam has left, I gear up to go to mum’s place. A shower and heavy breakfast later, I enter the car and the photocopy of the Mr. Kombo’s black book stare at me. I have not had a chance to read it.
I sit and open the first page. Printed in neat handwriting are the full names of a woman whom I presume was Mrs.Kombo. Detailed information of birth dates, working place, siblings details follow. Quite intriguing is the information on the all the love making styles that he had with her.
I love the way he starts entry. “The first time I met Jane was in a matatu on my way to Old Town…….”
A stone hits the window of my car and I come out only to see Jonah, my cantankerous neighbour’s kids, running away. Those Jonah kids need a spanking. Its hardly a week since they came and the number of windows that they have broken is increasing by the day. The walls – incidentally not on their side but ours - are full of charcoal drawings. And his father will hear nothing about their indiscipline.
I close the book and drive off to mum’s.
I am at mum’s place within ten minutes. I take to the stairs, knock at the door as it is opened by the housegirl, a strong and repulsive smell of alcohol hits my nose. I almost throw up.
“What smell is that?” I ask, though I know the answer very well. “Where is mum?” I ask the housegirl.
“In her room,” the girl replies. I go to the room and find mom shivering like a leaf.
“Get into the car!” I order her as I match out of her room to the opposite side with two other bedrooms. I yank open the door of the first bedroom and there asleep are several bodies. I target the women – two of them. I get a belt and start whipping them. They quickly get up, dress and leave the house in a huff, hurling insults at me. I do the same in the next room and within two minutes there is a shouting match between myself and the three men in the house.
“Shame on you!” I scream at them. “How can you sleep with prostitutes in your mother’s house?”
My ever drugged nephew slurs, “Kwani you want us to sleep with you?”
My eldest brother, the one who had smashed dad’s knee cap years back, moves menacingly towards me. I know he is a violent man and is capable of nastier stuff.
“You wait and you shall see fire,” I run to the car to find mum groaning in pain. What she has witnessed has just given her more pressure
“What happened to the TV and DVD I bought you last week?” I ask mum as I start the car.
“They disappeared,” she says softly, “when I was at the market!”
I know mum too well. “Which of those grandfathers sold it off this time?”
Mum is quiet, so I continue with my lecture. “This time I will teach them a lesson they will never forget. I will call the police and those grandfathers will have to return my TV and DVD!”
This time mum talks. “I will tell Omari to return it!”
“So you even know who stole it?” I ask mum, angry that she is letting such useless men like my nephew Omari to ruin her life.
We reach the clinic and I accompany mum to the doctor’s room. I know what the prescription will be.
“She needs to be admitted for observation,” the doctor tells me in front of my mum.
“How many days?” I ask the middle aged doctor who has been attending to my mum’s case for the last two years.
“Today and tomorrow. She should be out by Monday morning,” the doctor confirms.
Mum has no problems with checking in. I facilitate her admission which takes less than half an hour. I leave her at the hospital and drive straight to the police station. I need those grandfathers to be locked up and disciplined while mum is away.
Mr. OCPD, another favour is coming your way. Mariam, we are game tonight.
It’s time to switch on my phones and live. It’s time to rumble. Bring it on!
http://oluochcliff.wordpress.com/2009/06/04/jezebels-diary-week-1-2/
@ Clifford Oluoch 2009.
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