WEEK 3

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!