WEEK 2

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.