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.

Three Thundering Roars.

Three thundering roars.

The heavily expectant woman walked in with her husband, Lenku, by her side. Lenku was clad in full masai gear, complete with a rungu. This was early morning war.
Student Sr.Mary was there to receive them at the casualty.
“Please bring a wheel chair,” Lenku barked at the orderlies. “My wife is in labour.
Sr.June, the sister in charge, looked at Lenku and understood the anxiety that the man was going through. Very few locals used the hospital facilities for delivery purposes. They preferred their TBA (Traditional Birth Attendants). The campaign to use the hospital facilities seemed to bearing some fruit.
“Is this your first baby?”
“In my tribe, we do not count children,” he replied, his eyes avoiding Sr.June’s.
The wheel chair was brought and again Lenku took charge, pushing it rather quickly to where his wife was.
“Slowly, one leg at a time,” he cooed as the wife struggled to transfer from the bench to the wheelchair. A few curious patients sympathised with her.
“She will be okay,” Sr. June told Lenku. “Please wait here as we take her to the observation room!”
“No!” shouted Lenku, holding his club as if ready to fight. “I don’t want my wife to die here. I will be with her until the baby is born.” Lenku took charge of the wheel chair and pushed it to the observation room himself. The wife groaned.
Dr. Yiapan was the one on duty. He was one of the success stories of the community. He was born and schooled in all the local schools up until university. After graduating, he had come back to serve in the missionary hospital.
The doctor came with a six students – two of them male.
“Who are all these?” Lenku asked. “This is not a film show!” he admonished Sr. June. “Go away,” Lenku ordered.
“They are student nurses and fellow doctors ready to learn and help at the same time,” the doctor assured Lenku.
“I don’t want other men seeing my wife’s nakedness. Only one is enough,” asserted Lenku with authority and finality.
They all respected the old man’s wish. The two student doctors left the room without a huff.
“A vaginal examination stat,” Dr. Yiapan instructed Sr.June.
“Will you wait inside here or outside there?” Dr.Yiapan asked Lenku.
“A warrior does not abandon his flock in time of need,” Lenku replied.
Dr.Yiapan understood and as the V.E was being done, the doctor engaged the old man in local genealogy. With the mention of each prominent person, Lenku would get excited and give the young doctor a past history of the mentioned family.
“Your father belongs my age-set,” he told Dr.Yiapan. “But he chose to chase paper lions while we chose to chase the real lions in the bush.” Dr. Yiapan knew about morans who abandoned their traditional lifestyles for the elusively ‘richer’ urban areas, only to come back to their motherland after years of toiling as night guards. They often had nothing to show for their stay in the cities and were a constant butt of many crude jokes. Lenku was no exception.
“6 inches!” declared Sr.June, giving her feedback on the extent of dilation.
The doctor explained what 6 inches meant.
“Foetal heartbeat please!” instructed the doctor as he went back to community politics. Lenku’s eyes, however, did not move from the nurse. He was invited to listen to the heartbeats.
“Doctor, there is more than one foetal heart beat,” reported Sr.June.
“What does that mean?” Dr.Lenku turned to his five student nurses.
Sr.Mary was the first one to respond. “It means multiple births – either twins or triplets.”
“Good,” the doctor responded but he was interrupted by Lenku.
“Ai? Twins?” shrieked Lenku. “No twins please. Twins are a curse!”
The doctor let out a long hooting laughter that shocked all in the room.
“Who said that? I am a triplet, all boys. One is a lecturer at the university, another one is the area MP and then there is me,” said the doctor.
Another groan from the woman distracted the group.
“Prepare theatre please,” ordered the doctor to Sr.June, “and call your twin sister for the old man to see.”
Jean, Sr.June’s twin sister, was a tutor at the Teacher’s Training College just across the road. Though twins, the two sisters led a completely separate and independent life. June was training to be a Catholic nun, while Jean was an outgoing worldly and fun loving person.
“I need you as an exhibit,” Sr.June joked.
Within three minutes, Jean and June were standing in front of Lenku.
He laughed. “Aiye, you are as alike as the buttocks of one person!” They all laughed.
Lenku’s wife was wheeled to theatre ready for procedure. Dr.Yiapan explained to Lenku that the hospital regulations did not allow lay people into the operation ward.
“Wait here. It will take about an hour,” Lenku was assured.
The procedure went on well and within an hour, three bouncing baby boys had been delivered successfully.
Lenku was called into the nursery and the moment he saw his sons, he went on his knees and cried. “Thank you God! Thank you for these wonderful people! Thank you for my wife!”
Lenku held his first son and looked into his eyes. “Oloibon Lenana, saviour of the Masai people, and warrior of warriors – you will grow up in courage and out roar all the lions in the forest!
“Oloibon Leshan – you who roars like thundering water from the sky, you will grow to outroar all the waterfalls of the world.
“Oloibon Moipei – you who roar louder than thunder from the sky, you will grow to be president of this country.”
*
The following morning just after 6am, Sr.Mary was woken up by the bleating of goats and angry shouting at the hospital gate.
It was Lenku arguing with the guard. Dr.Yiapan had just reported on duty had to go and sort it out.
“These are for you and your people for bringing in 3 warriors into the world. That he-goat, one she-goat and this cockerel are yours. The rest you will give to the students,” Lenku instructed Dr.Yiapan.
“The he-goat is called Osama. He is tough headed, brave and very clever – just like you doctor. You brought in 3 warriors at one go!” Lenku continued.
In African culture, one does not decline any gifts, however lavish they are.
“It is well, Lenku,” Dr.Yiapan accepted the gifts as he walked with the old man to the ward to see mother and children.

Cycle Of Life

Cycle of Life….

The two girls met outside Julie’s compound. Same height, same built, same age. Julie, the neater and more presentable of the two was riding her old rickety bike and had ventured outside the gate. Rule number one had been broken.
“I am going to tell on you!” Julie’s younger sister shouted as Julie’s small bike clattered outside the gate.
Julie had to brake hard using her legs on the ground to avoid hitting the girl who had suddenly appeared in front. Julie had seen the girl so many times before. She came from the neighbouring ‘kijiji’ and always joined in a group of children who hovered around Julie’s block of flats.
“Hi Julie,” the girl said in a clear voice.
“Hi,” Julie replied, surprised that the girl knew her name. Julie extended her hand and the two shook hands.
“My name is Susan,” she said, her eyes firmly on Julie’s bike.
“Do you want a ride?” Julie asked. She knew what the answer would be but before Susan could answer, Julie’s sister screamed from the balcony.
“I am going to phone mom right away and tell her you are out of the gate!” Julie ignored her sister’s tantrums. Threats, blackmails, coaxing, making up was part of their daily life.
Susan hesitated but when Julie dismounted and motioned her, Susan took the cue and mounted the bike.
“Confidence comes first. Focus on the road and not on the handle bar,” Julie instructed Susan. A group of curious ‘kijiji’ children gathered to witness the two girls. There were giggles and laughter as Susan tired her desperate best to at least ride 10 or so meters without falling.
“You can do it!” Julie’s firm assurance gave Susan hope that she could do it. After about 15 minutes of balance drills, the two decided to take a break.
“Tomorrow is Christmas day,” Susan said, sweat dripping down her forehead. “I am going to wear my new dress!” The smile and joy on Susan’s face melted Julie’s heart. For the first time, Julie noticed Susan’s tattered clothes.
Another shout from Julie’s sister brought the two girls back to reality. “Julie, mom is on the phone and she wants to speak to you!” Julie obliged and head downcast walked towards the gate where her sister was proudly holding the house phone.
“Hi mom!”
“How many times have I told you not to go out of the gate?”
“Many times mom!”
“So what are you doing outside the gate?”
Silence.
“I am talking to you!”
“Mom, I was teaching Susan how to ride a bike.”
Silence.
“And she says that tomorrow she will have a new Christmas dress.”
“Ok Julie, keep teaching her but make sure you don’t go far. I will see you in the evening!”
“Thank you mom. You are the best!”
Julie was elated. She handed the phone to her sister and managed to stick her tongue out. She was leading in the game.
Susan and Julie continued for another hour before they called it a day.
“Meet me here tomorrow in the morning. I will have something for you,” Julie told the appreciative Susan.
In the evening, Julie’s parents came with loads of shopping and Christmas presents. Julie’s eyes widened at the new mountain bike she had dreamt of having. She hugged both her parents and thanked them profusely. Julie’s younger sister got her expected full set of Barbie dolls.
“What will I do with two bikes mom?” Julie asked.
Mom knew the direction the conversation was leading towards. “You can give one of them away.”
Julie let out a loud whooping “YES!”
Julie and family settled for the evening prayers and meal as they waited for the clock to strike midnight. They sang carols and joined their neighbours in exchanging cards and gifts.
Julie did not sleep a wink. She turned and tossed in bed the whole night. Very early in the morning before going to church, Julie rode her new mountain bike to the gate and outside. Susan was waiting for her. She was wearing her new sparkling white dress. She looked like an angel.
“Merry Christmas,” Susan told Julie. She gave Julie a hug and a small hand made card.
“Merry Christmas,” Julie told her as she dismounted from her bike. “Take it, it’s yours! My mom said I could give one of my bikes!”
Susan was over the moon. She cried as she bade Julie good bye.

Petals Of Love.

Petals of Love….
If you love someone, let them know……

Brian counted the money he had faithfully been saving for the last two months. It amounted to a cool shs.955, courtesy of missed lunches, extra chores within the house. He had never had so much money at one go.
“I am still short of some three hundred or so shillings and Valentine’s Day is just around the corner,” Brian whispered to himself. He continuously shook his head, a clear sign of desperation. He did not want a repeat of last year’s embarrassment where he received gifts from 6 different people while he dished out nothing.
Brian looked at his Valentine’s to do list: flowers, cards and chocolates for 5 people. His parents topped the list, though he knew how skeptical his dad would react with a dismissive, “Love is for the birds!” His mother and his pretty 14 year old sister would be thrilled. It’s the only thing that Brian loved about his sister: appreciation. Gifts had the unique way of bringing the best out of her.
“Which bank did you rob this time?” Brian imagined the teasing from his mom. Or, “Which girl dumped you this time?” his sister would retort. Women!
Two more people and Brian’s list would be complete. There was his class teacher – a petit, humorous and extremely beautiful person. All the boys in the class had a crash on her, though she seemed to favour the notorious Barasa.
“I wonder how old she is,” Brian mused aloud. Whatever her age, the class teacher was one person who Brian felt thoroughly deserved his chocolate and flowers.
Finally, the last name on the list was Cynthia, Brian’s classmate and heart throb. Brian had never told anyone about his love for Cynthia. If he gave her a flower or chocolate then everyone would know. If he did not give her then his heart would not be at peace. Oh, bother! His dad was right about love.
Two days before Valentine and Brian was a bag of nerves. He had resolved all the other issues except Cynthia’s. He tried all manner of disguising the problem without any success.
“Lovey-dovey butterflies!” mum teased him.
“Cupid’s broken arrow,” his sister added to the tension.
“Mr. Lover lover – bombastic!” his dad sang one of those old ragga songs that often belted out of the radio stations.
A day before Valentine’s Day and Brian’s plans were all intact. He collected the red flowers from Kariz the florist. They were all delicately wrapped in a red ribbon. “Thanks mbuyu,” Brian expressed his gratitude.
Brian then proceeded to the supermarket where he bought five 100g chocolate bars and five Valentine’s cards. The cashier winked at him, “So many women! Lucky guy!”
Brian smiled and then muttered, “Trouble my friend!” They both laughed.
The big day dawned and Brian who had not slept a wink was the first one at the dining table. He placed a card, a chocolate and a flower at each person’s eating place. He did not wait for breakfast. A quick wash of face, brushing of teeth and hurried wearing of uniform saw him out of the house in less than ten minutes.
Brian was the first one to reach school. “Have you joined our profession?” the school watchman teased him as Brian strolled into the school compound. He went to class and carefully opened Cynthia’s desk. He placed the flower and gift box inside. He also left one on the teacher’s desk.
Brian hang around waiting for his friends to come. It took another fifteen minutes before the first batch of pupils arrived abode one of the private transporters.
“Happy Valentine!” the boys mocked each other with fake flying kisses. A few brave boys offered girls flowers. This was met with loud hooting and whistles as the girls giggled in appreciation.
Finally Brian saw Cynthia coming towards the group of boys and girls. She looked stunning, the background risen sun radiating on her rotund face. She was carrying a flower and a gift box. All the eyes turned towards her. There was silence as every single boy tensed wondering who the lucky boy was going to be.
Cynthia stopped at Brian’s and with all the confidence of the boys combined, she whispered, “Happy Valentine handsome!” She gave Brian a red flower and beautifully wrapped gift. Brian did not hear the roar of approval / disapproval whatever it was. He muttered something like, “Ata wewe!” Fat goose pimples quickly spread through his body as his legs felt rubbery, his mouth went completely dry while his head spun. “Handsome! Handsome!”
They all watched as Cynthia disappeared into the classroom. Brian was surrounded by a hoard of boys who demanded a share of his loot.
A sudden scream of delight brought Brian and his goons to their senses. It was Cynthia who had discovered her gift. They all rushed in and found Cynthia holding opening her card. Tears flowed freely on her cheeks as she loudly read the poem…
I love
The sunshine in your touch
The moonlight in your smile
The stars in your eyes
The sunrise in your being
The sunset in your laughter
I love
The universe in you.
Be my Valentine…
The card was not signed.
“That was a lovely poem. Who wrote it?” the voice of the class teacher cut across the silence. All heads turned towards the teacher who had just entered the class. There was a stint of silence.
Brian gathered guts and owned up. “I did!” As the words came out of his mouth, he felt a sudden pride in finally declaring his love for Cynthia. He was proud of what he had done. He was at peace with himself. Love was in the air.

First Lady First Mistress

First Lady, First Mistress

7.48 a.m. Anne looked at the guest list for the umpteenth time. She wanted to make sure that all the members of The Club were going to be present for the workshop dubbed ‘Assertiveness is not Aggression’. She did not want any apologies; all had to attend.
Anne’s phone rang and she looked at the number on the screen. It was Judy, her legal advisor. “Are you coming for the ruling?” Judy asked casually, knowing that as The First Lady, Anne’s schedule was pretty tight and that she had neither the time nor energy to run around the congested and often confusing dark court corridors.
“No, Judy. I have to attend to this workshop. It might be the last one I am presiding over as a First Lady,” Anne replied dryly. Judy winced.
Anne’s husband, the president of the country, had filed for a divorce on grounds of nullity of the marriage resulting from childlessness. Surprisingly the case was treated as a low-key affair amongst the press, mainly out of respect for The First Lady’s effort in community service. But it was an open secret amongst the ruling elite that things were not that rosy at The Palace.
“Do what you can,” Anne finally told Judy, her former schoolmate and a personal friend of many years. Judy could not understand how a lady could give up so easily and yet conduct a workshop on assertiveness.
Some things just never made sense. Judy had tried telling Anne to settle for half the estate but Anne had been adamant; “If you can’t share the sky, why share the land?” had been her wise crack at Judy.
Anne had insisted that she wanted nothing from their 10-year-old marriage. She just wanted to be left alone to continue with her charity work. “Let him go his way, and I go mine,” had been Anne’s final words.
Anne looked at the list again. She was at the prestigious Sheraton Hotel, finalising all the details for the day. She glanced at her watch and knew that the elegant ladies were about to start trooping in.
‘The First Wives Club’ had been Anne’s brainchild. The group brought together all the top women in the country: wives of cabinet ministers and wives of the top military brass. No politicians were allowed. The group had become the conscience of the society, sometimes rubbing politicians the wrong way.
8.02 a.m. Anne looked out of the window of the V.I.P lounge, eager to see what poets and authors regaled about the world. There was no chirping of birds or crickets, no howling of the wind or the sun breaking from dark clouds. It was a dull day. Nothing to write home about. Just another day.
The phone rang again and this time the Chief of General Staff, Jairus Mango, broke the silence. “All security measures have been taken care of,” he formally informed the First Lady who did not want to gamble with the Club’s security.
“Thanks Jairo,” Anne replied, preferring to use the Chief’s pet name. She smiled and knew that Jairo meant every word of it when he said that all was well taken care of. That was all she needed to run her meeting safely.
By 9 o’clock, all the ladies had arrived in pomp and splendour, a parade of sets of new clothes, jewellery, shoes, handbags, perfume. Huge suitcases were towed into the hotel by the porters. There was excited chattering as the ladies hugged and held hands, as if they had not seen each others for ages.
The group moved to the venue of the workshop: the bunker, a place where one got lost and forgot about the outside world. The ladies were to be there for the better part of the day.
Half an hour later, Anne summoned all the women to the Temptation Hall. “You all have ten minutes to make a phone call, after which no calls will be allowed,” she announced to the attentive group. They knew the rules of the bunker; no calls could be made as a jamming device that made it impossible for mobile phones to be used had been installed.
The ladies made good use of the grace period, knowing that the next break would be well after 5pm. They all knew and accepted that as the coordinator and convenor of the workshop, Anne was the only one allowed to visit the reception area and retrieve or take calls.
Anne called Judy. “Am about to enter the court room. I will let you know what transpires,” Judy told her friend.
“Thanks, Judy.” Anne sighed and then switched off her phone. She wanted to concentrate on her workshop.
11:00 am. Anne took a stroll to the reception area. As she was about to talk to the lady receptionist, the Hotel phone rang and the lady answered in the monotone characterised by many telephone operators. Anne watched as the lady’s face darkened, prompting her to press the Fire Drill bell.
“Bomb alert in the hotel!” the lady shrieked at the First lady as she scrambled to get out of her seat. From there the hotel security team took over, shouting orders and ushering guests out of the internationally renowned hotel. It took close to twenty minutes to empty all the rooms and get the guest out of the looming danger. For some strange reasons, the alarm at the bunker did not sound, hence enabling The Club to continue with its workshop, completely unaware of the unravelling drama outside.
Anne taking advantage of the confusion moved to the V.I.P lounge, from where she watched the mayhem downstairs. People were running up and down, screaming at the top of their voices. Somehow, after the Twin Tower’s bombing, the world had become paranoid to bomb alerts. Anne picked the phone and called The Gossip, giving the breaking news.
In less than ten minutes, the hotel had been completely surrounded by the dreaded crack unit code named Fiatua. It’s amazing how they had responded so fast.
Anne’s attention was suddenly drawn to the local TV station that had ‘Breaking News’. Anne turned, alarmed at how the newsmen had reacted to the news so fast. The face of the Government spokesperson appeared on the screen and Anne sneered. Her apathy towards some of the people who flocked around her husband was well known. She was a great admirer of people who lived by their own sweat, not off others’ sweat.
The footnote on the TV caught Anne’s attention and she knew that the news had nothing to do with the hotel. “The First Couple officially divorce,” said the spokesperson, as he went on to explain about the morning landmark court ruling. The clips showed Judy walking out of the court buildings and answering all questions with her trademark, “No comment.”
11:23 a.m. Anne made her way to the bunker to join her female friends. They were having group discussions on how to handle rudeness. Anne joined one of the groups and made her contribution on the heated debate on whether or not rudeness called for rudeness in reciprocation.
“You must fight fire with fire,” an angry woman whose face was full of scars was trying to convince her group members that the only way of being assertive was by fighting back. The debate swayed to and from, the facilitator making sure that the ladies remained on task.
It was close to lunchtime when the group had their first major break, allowing the ladies to start their first informal interaction since morning. Most of the ladies were itching to make phone calls, but somehow they knew the rules and chose to abide by them.
Lunch was served in the adjacent room and the ladies had their hearty meal, punctuated by wisecracks from one of the facilitators. Time flew and before they knew it, the half hour lunch break was over and the ladies had to go back for their afternoon session.
2pm. Anne made her way back to the VIP lounge. She had left the TV on and she got headline news flashing on the screen.
“Bomb Scare at Hotel,” announced the anchorwoman, detailing how the guests at the hotel had been evacuated and taken to other destinations. The picture, clearly taken from a distance, showed the Fiatua squad looking mean and ready to do battle. The bomb-squad team was also shown going into the hotel to do their business, as they knew best. No mention was made of the women in the hotel. Either no one remembered The Club or they chose to downplay the whole incidence.
Anne made it back to the bunker, and this time the ladies had been separated into two major groups: wives of cabinets were sent to one room while the wives of the military were sent to and adjacent room. This was going to be the final session of the afternoon: how to be assertive with your spouse.
2:45 pm. Anne strolled out of the ‘Military Wing’ and went to the VIP lounge again. She flipped channels and opted for Channel 007.
“The wives of cabinet ministers and top military brass are feared holed up at the Sheraton Hotel,” the young lady intoned in an annoying fake foreign accent. The lady elaborated on how there was no news of the ladies.
Anne was about to leave the room when the announcer screeched, “Bomb blast in down town!” She turned and paid attention to all the details on how an abandoned building on Hawkers Street had been blasted, leaving five people injured. The announcer rambled on, clearly waiting for more details on the story. None came and Anne, looking tired, made way to the bunker. She did not want to alarm The Club.
The excitement and animated session that the ladies were having convinced Anne that the session was going on well. One of the ladies was talking about the meekness of her husband in the house, despite being one of the most arrogant rulers of the country. Anne smiled, it was evident that some of the ladies needed another session on humility against submission. Later.
3.25 pm. Anne moved to the next room, whispered something to the facilitator and then walked out to the VIP lounge. The same lady, the same fake accent, greeted Anne as she sat on the couch. She strained to read the footnote: “A group calling itself Okoa Nchi Yetu has kidnapped the wives of top Cabinet ministers and top military chiefs. The 40 women were last seen at Sheraton Hotel attending a workshop. No one knows their whereabouts….”
The droning went on, the lady trying to explain some background information. Anne did not listen. Her mind was blank. She stayed a little bit longer and heard that the president had convened a full cabinet and military meeting to deliberate on the matter.
Anne wondered whether or not the president considered himself married to her, especially less than 4 hours after the divorce had been publicly declared. It would be interesting to talk to her former husband and pick his brains. The problem with politicians is that there was little to pick from. Ego, yes.
Anne had seen them all: bunch of thin greedy men and a few women scrambling for the country. She knew all of them, had been to school with some, and had worked with most. Brilliant at their jobs, until joining politics where their greed and ego often overtook their commitment to most of the causes they preached. She marvelled at how some had doubled their body weight in less than a year, a clear indication of poor eating habit. Problem is that they ate everything in sight. Swines!
4:06 pm. Two hours to the end of the workshop give or take thirty minutes. Anne moved from one room to the other making sure that the ladies in The Club were having an assertive time. The groups were in the process of winding up their discussion session, after which they would meet and present their proposals and findings to the bigger group. This would take another hour, punctuated with interruptions ranging from quality questioning to people who were more in love with their voices.
Anne moved to the VIP lounge. The latest news was that the president and the cabinet were holed up in a meeting with the military chiefs for more than two hours. The TV stations had nothing new; The First Club could still not be traced. The Sheraton Hotel was still out of bounds, the security personnel staying guard.
4:40 p.m. Speeches and appreciation time often made Anne sick. It was here that people lied through their noses, while others applauded. There were three speakers lined up to deliver speeches. Anne was to pass the vote of thanks, the final moment of the day. The first speaker was the wife of the Internal Security minister, a lady who could talk for hours if not checked. Anne moved out.
“The president will deliver a statement in the next twenty minutes,” was the announcement made by the chief Government spokesperson. Anne wondered how much of it was true. She couldn’t wait for the twenty minutes, so she walked back to the bunker. The first speaker was still waffling and spewing forth emptiness. Anne shut her mind.
5.30 p.m. “The First Club has the pleasure of sponsoring its members for a week long holiday in Seychelles,” was the announcement being made by the last speaker. The ladies had earlier been told to pack their belongings since they would all be going straight to the airport after the workshop. They were thanked for being such a good audience.
6.00 p.m. Anne rose to give her final speech, the last time she would be doing so as a First Lady. No one in The Club was aware of the transition.
Anne inhaled deeply, and removed a stack of papers: her speech. The ladies looked impatient but out of courtesy to Anne, they sat up to listen.
“We have come to the end of our workshop and as you go home I would like you to ponder on the following.
“How many of you here would survive without your spouse’s cabinet minister’s jobs or military salaries and perks?” Anne posed. The question stunned all, and they sat up ready to listen.
“Imagine a scenario whereby a coup takes place and all our spouses are replaced or displaced from their current positions,” Anne continued. “Put up your hand if you will be able to bring up the family on your own and service all the loans you have taken.” No hands went up.
Anger took over and one of the ladies could not take this kind of talk. She put her hand up, ready to interrupt. Anne waved her down. It was time for a reality check.
“Part of assertion demands that we are in total control of our financial situation as we all know that there is nothing as humiliating as financial blackmail. As we go on your trip to relax, let us all keep this in mind.”
With those words, Anne declared the workshop closed. There were murmurings as the women stood up to troop back to their lockers. Anne went back to the V.I.P lounge. “The president will address the nation at 7.00 p.m.”
6.45 p.m. The excited ladies trooped outside and they were shocked to find two huge ‘Cobra’ helicopters waiting for them outside the hotel. Some noticed the increased presence of security personnel but took it more as a case of importance rather than a crisis. After all, The Club were the dream of most women in the country. None of them even noticed that the all the three mobile phone companies had no signal. “Third World,” someone said. None of them noticed the absence of Anne.
The cabinet minister’s wives were separated from the military ladies and within minutes the two Cobras were airborne carrying a group of excited women.
7:00 p.m. Anne sat at the V.I.P lounge alone, opened her handbag and removed wad of papers. It was a speech. She looked at the T.V and within minutes the man she had called her husband for ten years appeared on T.V. He looked tired and haggard, but which politician ever looked fresh?
Anne looked at the speech in front of her and waited. The president read, “My countrymen and women, I hereby resign as the president of the country with immediate effect. The cabinet, parliament and all civic bodies are hereby dissolved, effectively today.”
Anne smiled. So far, the two speeches were identical to the letter.
“I will hand over the reigns of the country to the Attorney General who will be the legal advisor to the incoming Council of Elders to be chaired by The Chief of General Staff, Jairus Mango. General Elections will be held 6 months from today. However, anyone who has ever vied for a seat in the last two General Elections will not be eligible.”
The rambling went on, detailing the road map to recovery for the battered country. Anne waited for the final nail. “You asked for your country back, and today I am glad to give you back your country. Vote wisely.”
Anne stood up and looked outside the hotel. It was close to 9 p.m. No people were on the streets as a dawn to dusk curfew had been imposed to make the transition smoother. The night was quiet and she mused at what the poets would write about such a cool and calm night. Were it a movie she was directing, she would have added some special effects: prolonged thunderstorms and scary lightning across the dark skies; eerie music and crashing drums. But this was real life, consumed in the silence of a defining moment in the history of her country.
Whoever had said that a week is a long time in politics was definitely poor at arithmetic. In less than six hours, the destiny of a country had moved from known to unknown. There were many questions that Anne wanted to ask, many people that she wanted to talk to, but for now it sufficed that she was in the middle of a great transition that would either make or break the country.
The papers would have a field day for days on end. Anne thought of one half of The Club, the cabinet minister’s wives and the shock they had received at boarding the plane only to find their spouses seated on the same plane. And what about the military women who were taken back to the barracks to be told the news. She would miss them, honestly.
Anne thought of the crazy headlines the journalists would go for to outdo each other. “The First Revolution,” or “Divorcing the Country,” or “Give Us Back our Country!” But her favourite would be “From First Lady to First Mistress…….”

Women Of Mass Destruction (WMD)

A brief encounter with female pirates on mv Nyumbani.

Whoever came up with the idea of supermarkets, hypermarkets, megamarkets and all those ‘matt’ – Nakumatt, Naivamatt, Tuskermatt, Karizmatt, Onyimatt etc, just has no clue what injustice she (it definitely must be a she) did to Mwanaume’s 23 year old battered, bruised and bondekad wallet – a survivor of 4 General Elections, 2 National census, 4 US Presidents amongst many more.
Closer home, within the four walls called Mv Nyumbani, fully loaded with female pirates, I find myself outnumbered in the ratio 5: 1, that is excluding the 2 family pets: the combative goggle eyed cat named Martha and the ancient, laid back mongrel of a dog called Kivuitu.
It gets worse at end month.
“Daddy, today we are shopping at Nakumatt Westgate, ya?” asks Angel, my 5 year old whose tantrums and conniving nature bears nothing close to the heavenly name she was given. Angel is also the official spokesperson of the All Girl Crew in my house and which, by powers not conferred to me by the Senate, I refer to as Women Of Mass Destruction (WMD) – of course against their knowledge otherwise I would be hysteria.
I freeze and before I can mouth a logical answer, Angel bounds off with a , “Thank you daddy. You are the best daddy in the whole world” (Aiye! Are there other daddies other than me?) Nakumatt Westgate? That is a place where shs.1000 is change and the parking space is BIG!
Off Angel goes to announce that MIA – Mission Accomplished – the enemy has been vanquished and will not be able to mount any further attacks!
A resounding and well choreographed ‘Yes!” resounds from the other room and I immediately know that there is no retreat in this. Within seconds the whole WMD troupe in to hug me for willingly conceding defeat and for agreeing to form a coalition between my battered wallet and their non –existent one! This to me is not sharing of power – this is domestic ngeta Mugabe style: what’s mine is mine, what’s yours is also mine.
“Please apply some oil on your legs,” comments 13 year old Seraphine – another misguided heavenly body who seems to find the Obama’s American accent more suitable to our local Kangemishire one!
Before I can reply, 15 year old Cherubim, an aspiring fashion mogul add in, “Don’t embarrass us in Westlands with those quodroy trousers!”
“Are we using Njoroge’s taxi or Mwangi’s?” chips in my neighbour in bed, aka Otero, captain of Mv Nyumbani who is known to be as brutal as those starring actors ‘fellows’ I watched on walk – in movies. Otero, a relentless and progressive minded WMD has overseen some of the worst crisis in the house – the most epic one being The Ngothagate Scandal which took place one morning when I woke up to find all my briefs missing – no underwear, no vest, no socks. I immediately thought of the renovations going on at the museum and that the curator must have been looking for something more authentic than Tarzan’s one piece wonder – the G-string!
“Mungu One, Wapi ngotha zangu?” I had asked immediately switching to the lingua that the tongue slides into when trouble is brewing and all manner of reason deserts you.
“Those were not briefs but distant relatives of clothing that are only suitable as fishing nets in Lake Victoria,” Otero had answered as a matter of fact. What vile!
“How will I go to work?”
Arguing with WMDs is one battle that you are guaranteed to lose. Some of the missiles fired by WMDs are worth making it to ‘Who’s Smarter Now’ and give the Swahili guru Wala bin Wala a new ngeli ya Ku-Handwa!
“Kwani ni ngotha ina do job?” Pass.
“Who will know you are bilaz?” Pass.
“Were you born wearing them?” Pass.
“So you mean I don’t ever need them?” I mumbled, though I knew I had lost miserably. This is gender inequality – how can she go to work wearing them and I go bilaz?
And I was about to lose the taxi one as well if I did not come up with a smart answer.
“Let me call the drivers,” I said as I whipped out my ten year old, heavily bandaged original toothless (blue tooth kitu gani) and colourless (infra red) Nokia 3310. If these guys knew that when that phone surfaced, Safaricom lines were going for shs.5 000 and the phones for Kshs.12 000. I had to take an emergency loan to afford a phone and a line in the days that one US dollar used to trade at shs.40 and shs.100 could buy several litres of petrol, numerous rounds of beer etc etc.
“Dad, not again,” cried Angel referring to my phone’s loud and jarring ring tone which still has heads turning but more in pity than admiration.
“Even if I am paid I cannot take that phone,” joined in Seraphine cockily.
“Hall of Shame!” cried Cherubim confidently stroking her Nokia N-Series that she bought from savings.
These are girls who were named after angels in heaven but the only time they are angelic is when they are asleep – of course minus the snoring bit.
“We shall use Njoroge’s taxi today,” I replied as I stood. “I am going to get him from the pub!”
And with that I walked out of Girl Zone.
It was not until midnight that I came back to the house with all the shopping in the same ‘matt’ paper bags found in Westgate (Si it is what is inside that counts). The angels were asleep and snoring but Captain Otero of Mv Nyumbani was not.
From a distant I heard the incessant barking of Kivuitu, that mongrel who has a penchant of sensing trouble. Tell them that we are not quitters Kivuitu. Tell them! Another bark.
The next time those Somali pirates are recruiting please let me know. But that is a story for another day.

Scales of a Python

I was 14 when it happened. He was much older than I – must have been more than 18, but definitely not as ancient as my mum! What mattered to me were two things: first that I had managed to really really do something to annoy my mom and secondly that I had finally done it! I was a woman.
“Sasa Miss Kenya,” Soja would chide me each day as I passed the gate on my way to school. And with that I would wiggle my jelly bums sure that he was ogling with his buggy mouth. He made my day, not only because of his comments but mainly because my mom despised him.
A month went by and every girl’s nightmare of missing monthly period became a celebration point for me. This would hurt mom really bad. Me, a 14 year old girl in std.8 impregnated by a watchman! I could not wait to see the look on her face as I broke the news. Thriller at Old Trafford.
My mum and I hardly talked and when we did it was in monosyllables capable of making a kindergarten teacher turn green with envy.

“I missed my periods!”
“What?”
“You heard me!”
“How many days?”
“Two weeks.”
“Maybe it is the stress of std.8.”
“Maybe not.”
Silence.
“Who is the father?”
“Who is my father?”
Silence.

The look on her face? Manchester United soaking in 4 goals at home to Liverpool. The mascara and eye pencil seemed to discolour, of course trying to disguise the anger rising in her. I know she would not hit me. As a top lawyer and leading FIDA activist responsible for putting many men behind bars, my mom knew that the last thing she would do was to give advantage to all those hawkish men – mainly lawyers – waiting to nail her.
It took less than a week for mom to sudoku the problem and come with a solution. The 8th set of daggers in our never ending war was drawn.
Mum waited until I had just arrived from school. It was around 5.30pm and the first shock for me was to find her car parked so early in the car park. The last time mum ever came this early or to pick me from school was when I was in pre-school. She was a late person – often past midnight.
“Kuna nini?” I asked Soja.
“Sijui!” Soja had become very moody ever since he had found out that I was like that. Shit face of a man, must be a fan of Man Utd!
I walked past Soja to our flat – Number 8. Yes, mum was home with four serious looking men. They were all dressed in dark suits. Maybe they were lawyers. Maybe not.

The moment I walked in, all the four men stood to say hi to me. This I found odd.
“Have a seat,” mom ordered.
“Why?”
Mum looked at the men and they nodded having understood in less than a minute that ours was a one drawn out war.
I chose to stand thus forcing the men to standing. My mum also chose to stand, so I sat down.
“Did he rape you?” asked one of the men.
I studied him before replying, “No.”
“Are you sure?” asked the second goof.
“Were you there?”
Instinctively he raised his hand but my mum held him back. It was over. I stood up and went to my bedroom. What would they do if I did not co-operate?
From my bedroom window, I watched as my mum led the men downstairs. They briefly talked to Soja, identified themselves and then bundled him into another car. I saw my mum glance towards my bedroom. The smile on her face? Alex Fergusson, Manchester United coach, madly celebrating an obviously offside goal.
Soja was arraigned in court in record time – the following day. Mum made sure that his case was presided by the toughest of the available judges, a woman who, rumour had it, was once a victim of sexual violence.
I attended all the 4 sessions of the court case. Soja was subdued and denied any charges of having carnal knowledge with a minor. 3 witnesses, all housegirls in our flats, appeared as witnesses against Soja. They all described in great detail how Soja used to come to my house and sleep with me. I could see through the plot mum had carefully hatched. No wonder the flat had a new set of housegirls.
After less than two weeks on the dock, Soja was sentenced to 10 years imprisonment with hard labour for having carnal knowledge with a minor. Me a minor, definitely not! I was sad because Soja was sad, and, honestly, he had been very gentle with me. I would miss him.
I wrote my std.8 exams in my seventh month of pregnancy. The school had hinted at having me expelled but my mum’s reputation ensured that I was not thrown out of school.
The KCPE results were released in December and I was the top student in the province, third best in the country. Mum tried to hide me from the press but I managed to grant interviews to all the leading media houses in the country.
“Who is the father of your baby?” one bitchy journalist had asked me during the interview.
“Soja is his name!”
The following day’s newspaper had screaming headlines and pictures of me and, to my surprise and mum’s anger, Soja’s pictures as well. The look on mum’s face? Ronaldo, Manchester United leading striker, missing the opportunity to equalize with a penalty in the 93rd minute.
I delivered a bouncing baby girl at Pumwani Maternity after snubbing my mom’s help to go to Nairobi Hospital. The same bitchy journalist was there to take pictures and scoop what she hoped would be an award winning story. I named my girl Brenda Fassie.
I got my calling letter to a top girl’s boarding school in Nairobi. I wanted to stay with my baby but this was going to be one hell of a battle.
“I will look after the baby,” mum told me.
“But you are not the mother.”
“And you are too young.”
“You are never in the house.”
“And neither will you.”
“She is mine!”
“And Soja’s!”
Cheap shot but it worked. Between Soja’s mum and my mum staying with my baby, I chose my mum. Woman’s instinct.
Within two weeks I was transported to school to start life in secondary school where my reputation had already preceded me.
I started life in school on the wrong footing, avoiding all manner of men that seemed to be my mum’s liking. I hated male teachers, however much they tried being friendly with me. So I talked and laughed my heart out with watchmen, cleaners, drivers, lab technicians. I loved them and they in turn reciprocated. It was not long before I ended up in the servants’ quarters of one of the lab assistants. I rode my luck for 3 weeks before a bitchy lesbian of a prefect who was after my pussy finally trailed me to that house at night.
The end result was messy but being frog marched out of the man’s house at night in my night dress in front of the matron and the headteacher was kinda fun. The only ingredient missing was my mum.
“Shame on you,” shouted the matron.
I looked at her and cursed that she was lucky she was not my mum. But the look I gave her was enough to make her look away.
The following morning, all my bags packed, I sat outside the Principals office waiting for my mum to come. The whole school by now knew of the story and all girls were happy – some because I had been fixed but most because I had opened an avenue of love making for them.
My mum arrived early. In tow was a well dressed man, a fellow lawyer I guessed.
“What now?” she glowered at me. The look on her face? Wayne Rooney of Manchester United being red carded in the 3rd minute of an FA cup finals.
I chose to address him. “Are you my father?”
He did not answer but quickly went back to the car.
The principal heard our voices and she came out, her high heels making annoying contact with the floor.
“Come in,” she ordered us. We went in and my mum sat down. I chose to stand.
“Tell your mother what you have been doing,” the Principal’s sharp and authoritative voice opened the session. No greetings.
Big mistake, Ms Principal. When it comes to breaking mum’s heart, I will gladly sing. And sing I did.
“Yesterday I was caught fucking the school’s lab assistant at his house at night. This has been going on daily for the last three weeks!” I smiled as I talked. “But Soja is a better lover,” I added.
The Principal flinched at the F word and at the boldness with which I had openly said what had taken place. If she thought I was bad, wait till she faced my mum.
Mum’s instincts as a lawyer went into overdrive. “Where is he?”
That one caught the Principal off guard. If she thought that this was going to be a walk over, then she did not know my mum.
She fumbled for an answer before replying. “Sacked!”
“Show me the letter. Show me his house!” mum was at her best. “Or I call the police and the press right now.” The fight had shifted from me to two women who did not know how to cede ground.
“Are you threatening me?”
“Yes.”
“No one threatens me.”
“I just have.” And with that mum whipped out her phone and called the police and the press telling them that she had discovered another rapist in a girl’s secondary school and the Principal was refusing to co-operate.
“Okay,” the Principal reluctantly conceded. “What do you want?”
“Two things: One she is going back now. Two, I want that man out of here now or he will be arrested in an hours time.”
My face fell when I realized that mum had again outwitted me and what had started as a celebratory lap of honour had turned into a trot of despair
“Go back to class,” the Principal barked at me, more out of anger with mum than with me. I looked at mum with venomous eyes. She smiled smugly. Paul Scholes of Man Utd had just tripped the referee.
I went back to class and to the dorm. I became an instant hero amongst the students, though I had made powerful enemies with the prefect body, the teachers and the Principal. The students were happy because I had proved that it was possible to get certain forbidden services in school. Low cadre male workers were suddenly a targeted species. The men certainly did not mind.
Drama filled years accompanied me in my four years in secondary. Games of hide and seek became the order of the day as the administration tried its level best to frustrate me out of school. For my endless clashes with the management, I acquired the nick name OJ of the Tahidi High fame. I broke all manner of records in school: academic, sporting, moral, and disciplinary. All. Rackets involving credit cards, bread, phone calls revolved around me. I even made sure that three quarters of the girls had condoms in their suitcases. Just in case the craving struck. Black T-shirts donning the words Pussie Katie – Sharpen your Claws sold like hot cake.
The most notable, however, was when I was dared by some classmates to bed the Principal’s hubby. I took on the challenge but only if each Form Four student placed a bet of shs.1000. They did and I walked away with a cool shs.120 000.
I finally wrote my KCSE exams and the day I cleared from school is the same day I cleared from home. Accompanying me was Brenda Fassie, my 4 year old bundle of joy.
Mum was furious that I was moving out without a job or any means of survival. I laughed as I packed my earthly belongings to go and start life on my own. After all I was 18, an adult by the country’s laws.
“I hope you know what you are doing,” were mum’s last words as I walked out of her house to nowhere. I had rented a one bed roomed house on the outskirts of the city, courtesy of one of the many benefactors that I had drawn up when at school. The look on her face? Rio Ferdinand, captain of Manchester United, scoring the winning goal in the 89th minute – an own goal!
I enrolled for a law degree – more to fight mum in the courtrooms than anything else – at a private university. I grew. My daughter grew. My fights with mum grew. Her organization CAR – Castrate All Rapists – was the rave of the town with women giving them all the necessary support. I took the opposite direction. I decided to track all the women who had brought up cases against rapists. The results were astounding: more than 40% of the cases were fake and customized to get the organization a name. This became my secret weapon and I did not act yet. I made my dossier ready to strike as an advocate.
Within three years, I had completed my degree course, courtesy of my brilliant mind and my more brilliant body. One more year at School of Law and I would be a fully qualified lawyer. My dossier was getting fatter. My daughter had also grown and, more worryingly, had started asking searching questions about her dad. I told her the truth.
“Can we visit him?”
“One day.”
“Today is one day.”
“Okay, but let me call the prison authorities first.”
“Okay.”
And with that I bought me some time. Brenda’s teachers had started complaining about her behaviour at school.
Finally I qualified to be a lawyer and my first stop was at the CJs office. I was turned away but I told the secretary that I would be back.
My fights with mum moved to the courtrooms. I passionately defended anyone that she prosecuted. The press picked up the fights and before long we were daily on the front pages but more for the wrong reason. Each of us had her own team of paid journalists.
It is during this time that I unleashed the CAR report. The dossier was so big that it had to be serialized for 7 consecutive days in the dailies. It made comprehensive and interesting reading. Men in the country, especially Parliamentarians, were up in arms about the report. The CJ and AG called for the investigation of CAR. I gloated in victory.
A week after the CAR’s storm had subsided, I got a call from an unfamiliar number. The voice, however, was very familiar.
“Sasa Miss Kenya.”
Silence.
“Poa Soja. Uko?”
“Outside your office!”

That sent me scampering outside to see where he could be. I saw him, a thin and emaciated man. He held out his hand and I gave him a big hug. I invited him to the office and we talked endlessly about many things, though I noticed some discomfort in his speech. Then he landed the bombshell.
“I want my baby.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“She is also my baby.”
“Western Kenyan men do not leave their babies.”
“Kenyan women do not leave their babies either!”
“Will you give me the baby or not?”
“How much did she pay you?”
Silence. Guilt.

With the help of security, I threw him out of my office. It took me some time to realize that he had actually been released on my mother’s influence and paid to come and ruffle my life. Two against one. Man Utd had managed to pocket the referee, two linesmen and the match commissar!
The fights grew nastier and bitchier. I decided to go for the men she was dating. I vowed to sleep with all, and I mean all. My first strike was Mike. He played hard to get and I became more demanding. He must have tipped my mum about my moves because, one day mum called me. The ring tone? Everybody Loves Kung Fu Fighting.
“What?”
“We need to talk.”
“We are.”
“Be serious.”
“Why?”
“Us.”
“Time?”
“6 pm L’Grand.”
Click.
I had 3 hours to sharpen my claws. Today I would tear her once and for all. She would regret ever trying to meet me face to face.
Time crawled. I paced up and down the office looking for something to do. Finally at 5pm, I could no longer stand the tension. I closed shop and walked to L’Grand, a casual 15 minutes stroll. I was there at 5.20pm and was shocked to find my mum already there. She was alone in her trademark skirt suits. I was in my trademark dirty jeans, graffiti laden T-Shirt and dirty sneakers. My hair was creatively dyed in 3 different colours.
I pulled the chair opposite mum and turned it towards myself. I sat.
“Hi,” she muttered.
“Hi,” I growled. She was taking red wine, so I ordered a cold Tusker simply for the reason that they did not have chang’aa or busaa.
I lit a cigarette, because I could not light a roll of bhang. The No Smoking sign did not bother me. Rules were made to be broken.
“I was 14 years old when I conceived you,” she started. Her voice was softer than I had ever heard. I lost my balance. Maybe it was a strategy to lure me to a trap.
“It was during an estate party of teenagers only. Drinks, drugs and sex flowed freely during this party. The owners of the house had traveled abroad leaving two teenage boys, 15 and 17 in charge.
“All the teenagers in the neighbourhood heard about the party and all made a point to attend. I had no problem attending as I practically lived alone – mum was always away doing business in Dubai.”
Mum’s face? Half time at Old Trafford, Theatre of Dreams.
This was the longest mum had ever spoken to me without rude interruption from myself. And it was the longest I had ever paid attention to her. I was still looking for the catch in her strategy. So far, none. Mine was still defensive Manchester United formation of 1-10 - 0.
“There was this room upstairs that was an invite only. I decided to go and see for myself. At the door, I met Ali, the 17 year old host of the party. He ushered me into the room and locked the door.
Pause. Mum sipped her wine. I was a bag of nerves now. This was interesting. How come in all these years I had never heard even a rumour of my mum’s life as a teenager. I looked at her straight into the eye and I saw pain.
“I entered the room and there were like 6 boys and 5 girls. I was the 6th girl, thus making it a perfect match. The boys came and undressed me while the girls, who were all stark naked and high, sang some raunchy songs for me.
“Everyone slept with everyone. More boys and girls came into the room until I lost count how many we were. This went on until morning. I don’t know how many boys I slept with. All I know is that I couldn’t walk for many days.” She smiled and I found it hard not to smile at the thought of how sore one could get for overindulgence.
Another pause. Another sip.
“I missed my periods and so did many other girls my age.”
“ ‘Terminate it’, my mum ordered me.
“I refused, mainly due to my earlier catechism drilling that abortion is murder. I was the only one amongst the six girls who did not terminate. One girl even bled to death in the process.
“My mum cursed me, called me names for bringing shame to her household. I was sent upcountry to stay with grandmother and transferred to a school next to grandmas.
“I delivered and left you with grandma and went to a boarding school.”
A longer pause before I realized that we both were crying. I wanted to turn my chair and hide my tears but I just could not move. I could not believe what I was hearing. I tried to say something but the dam in me could not just stop. Mum went on.
“So, I do not know who your father is and each time you asked me that question I would feel foolish that I must be only woman in this world who does not know the paternity of her child. But one of the teens that day is Mike. He could be your father!”
That hit me hard. I was actually hitting on someone who could possibly be my dad. Suddenly the barriers fell and I fell empty. All these years I had not been living, I had just been fighting mum and whatever project she undertook. My life had revolved around bringing down what she put up.
I looked at mum and for the first time I noticed her beautiful smooth skin. At 43, mum was a real beauty of a woman. I stretched my hand across the table and she wrapped her hands into mine. She cried. I wailed for all the emptiness in me. We remained like that for a long time.
It was way past midnight when my phone rang. I was on my second glass of wine, having switched to what mum was taking. The ring tone and I knew it was Brenda Fassie.
“Hi Brenda!”
“Mum I am 14 today!” She sounded drunk. I could hear voices and loud music in the background.
“Where are you?”
“At home with friends,” she slurred. A broken glass, a scream and the phone went dead.
I told my mum what had just transpired. We quickly cleared the bills and hit the road hard. That would take another hour or so to get there. I tried calling her back but she was off air. Even the house girl’s phone was off!
Mum and I took almost an hour to get to my place, which she had never been to. The gate was shut, must be another sleepy head of a watchman. I hooted. Nothing. I hooted louder. Still nothing. I tried calling my Brenda or the house girl but still no response. Finally we came out of the car.
“I will climb over the gate,” I told mum.
“Be careful.”
And I did climb over the gate and went to the watchman’s hut. He was there dead drunk and dead asleep. I removed the key from his pocket, opened the gate, parked the car and locked the gate. I took the keys with me. We walked to the back door of the kitchen. It was open. The smell of alcohol and marijuana was strong in the air.
“Brenda,” I called softly. No response.
We went to her bedroom and found a group of about 8 naked teenagers lying all over the floor. Some were on top of each other. It was a sight straight from a horror movie.
I found Brenda. She was totally gone. I slapped her three times but she did not move. Neither did the others. It was a sorry sight. I could not take it and burst out in tears. Mum comforted me as we looked for the teenagers’ clothes. We covered them and then sat there to wait for them to regain some sobriety. My mum and I kept vigil. We talked at length about men and I was impressed by her knowledge of men’s weaknesses.
By morning, they all had sobered up to a reasonable degree. I watched them each leaving embarrassed to have been caught with their pants down. Brenda was finally left with my mum and me. Defiance was written all over her face.
“What was all that about?” I asked her.
“Celebrations.”
“What for?”
“I missed my periods”
“What?”
“You heard me!”
“How many days?”
“Two weeks.”
“Maybe it is the stress of std.8.”
“Maybe not.”
Silence. The look on Brenda’s face? Fabregas of Arsenal scoring his hat trick against Manchester United hence condemning Manchester United to their first relegation in a century.
Sigh.
Another season. Same game. Same players. Same rules. Different levels.