Posts Tagged ‘HIV’

Maroon 5’s And She will be loved….

Her gaze is trained towards the image in front of her eyes. She studies it carefully, it has a beautiful face, and its eyes are like two shiny diamonds that seem like they could pierce through any soul. The lips are full and well rounded the hair a flowing mess of black. Beautiful is what it is. Then suddenly, she could swear she saw it sneer at her. What does she care? A long time ago-that’s what it seems like now- she had a vivid imagination; perhaps this is just one of her imaginations too. She used to sit in the daytime and imagine herself in the passenger seat of a car-she could never quite guess the make- next to a wonderful man that would every now and then glance at her and smile and she would smile back. He would momentarily let his left hand wander off the steering wheel and reach out to her… clasp his palm in hers before resuming his driving. He would make her heart throb… almost jump out. She loved him.

And in the night, when she was asleep, she saw herself walking down the halls of Justice Hall, her hips swaying with full confidence. She was a brilliant lawyer on the ladder to being a judge. And in the evening after work, having spent the day saving the world, literally, and helping right the wrongs of this world, two little wonderful children would run up to her to embrace her and she would hug them as tightly as she could and kiss them on their foreheads.

But what would this image staring down at her know about her imaginations? After all, wasn’t it just a reflection of herself on the water? It would never understand even if she told it her life story, she decided. For once, she realizes she is freezing, trembling even; perhaps that’s why she had seen the sneer. So it wasn’t an imagination after all. Then they were all gone for sure if she couldn’t even imagine something as nonsensical as that. The air around is cold too, and the breeze leaking through the cracks in the window isn’t helping either; she can’t exactly remember how those got there, but the shattered glass tells her that she too, like life shattered her tender heart, could shatter something. Whether out of anger or frustration or both, or neither. Perhaps she was just in a drunken stupor. Still, she reaches out with her arms and grabs the handrail. Slowly but very carefully, she lifts herself up and out of the bathtub.

When she has dried herself up and is dressed-she won’t need the make up today, not where she knows she wants to go anyway- she grabs her purse and walks to the front door. She pauses a little before locking the door, almost amused at how meaningless it all is. She would care very little today if someone broke in and stole every single thing in her house, just like everything else has been stolen from her. In one final act of defiance to life, she decides not to lock up. She leaves the key in the keyhole, dangling in the wind, daring life to do as it pleased today. She starts walking. Slowly at first, but as she nears the place, her pace quickens. She feels impatient.

She proceeds direct to the counter and orders two shots of vodka; the first of the night, but definitely some of her last. She takes them in rapid succession. The bartender doesn’t even lift his eyebrow when she doesn’t wince. He is used to her. Usually she comes here, drinks herself silly, then just as when she is about to blackout, before any man can take advantage of her by offering her a ride back home, she staggers out into the night and somehow, she always manages to disappear. Nobody ever knows where she goes. And those who do in fact try to hit on her are received with an iciness that beats their Smirnoff Ices. Her routine is always the same, two shots in rapid succession, then a bottle of whatever shots she started out with. Today, it is vodka.

The alcohol makes the memories come flooding back, as they always do when she is drunk. Perhaps that is why she likes the alcohol; it never allows her to forget. She wills herself never to forget. She remembers clearly walking back home from work one evening, happy as usual and excited because she had finally got the recipe for the Black Forest cake she had always wanted to try out. And then as if from nowhere, he appeared. At first she didn’t know what was going on and she froze, but when he grabbed her, she started screaming. All this time she hoped it was just a mugging. Then the bugger proceeded to pin her to the ground, all the while slapping and beating her to shut her up. He ripped off her skirt and forced himself on her, one of his hands on her breast the other on her mouth. She remembers the pain like it was yesterday. Then when the animal was done, he left her there in her shame and despair and pain. It was a couple walking back from their date that found her and took her to hospital…

The nurses had given her emergency contraceptives as well as those life-saving pills that prevent you from getting infected with HIV, the post exposure therapy. They were kind and helpful and had helped her file a statement with the police who had come to see the rape victim, as she was now referred to. But then the insensitive doctor had told her a few days later when she was feeling much better that while treating the wounds inflicted on her genitals, she had discovered something else..

“Jane, my dear, she had said, you have Ovarian Cancer… your wounds will heal up and hopefully the post exposure treatment will prevent you from HIV, but we will also need to start treatment for the cancer as soon as possible. You are lucky we found it early…”

The irony that the animal that raped her had also probably saved her life. It was infuriating and hurting and nauseating to even believe it or accept it. It was for her, unacceptable. After weeks of trying to find justice but with no solace, she had started drinking and she had refused to start the treatment.  She had quit her job. What was the point of trying to get other people justice when she couldn’t find it herself? And that was what led to today…

She takes a gulp of the vodka and rises from her chair. She walks out, her destination, the bridge. She knows she will jump. But in her drunkenness, on her way to the bridge, she bumps into him and falls down. She knows it is him because when she looks up and looks at him she recognizes him immediately. It is the man she always imagined. Almost like a déjà vu. He smiles as he lifts her up, just as he used to do in her imaginations. She wants to say sorry first but she is too dazzled, and taking the cue, he does. He notices the bottle in her hand and smiles… he takes it from her hand and takes the last sip, before throwing it away… slowly, he leads her to the coffee house just ahead…

In her head, she makes the resolve, she will imagine again… she will hope and dream again. She will try to smile again. And tomorrow, she will begin her treatment and hopefully get her job back… Maybe life isn’t too cruel after all, she decides and smiles for the first time in months.


Posted: September 16, 2013 by ketihapa in AIDS, Rape
Tags: , , , , , , , ,

Vera Farmiga, who plays the character Norma Louise Bates in the TV hit series Bates Motel in the episode where she was assaulted.

She sweeps across the room, her gaze tilted at an angle of 90 degrees; you see, she’s lying on the cold, hard floor. She breathes softly, calm, waiting for the inevitable. She’s too weak to lift her already bloody hands now, but she can feel her fingers twitch. In the distance, she hears the wailing sirens of police cars as they quickly approach. She knows she’s slowly losing the fight, but hey, she wants it this way. No pain, no regrets. She’s lived the best she ever could…

********** 1 hour earlier****************

The cup of coffee in her left hand, she picks up the remote control of her 32 inch TV and turns it on, and lets herself fall into the embracing arm rests of her couch. Slowly, she flicks the channels till she comes across something she likes. In this case, BBC News Channel. She takes a sip of her warm, soothing coffee, listening carefully to the beautiful female news anchor. She’s talking about the crisis that faces Kenya if her two principles do get convicted by the International Criminal Court, and the African Union’s efforts in intervening to plead with the ICC to let the accused miss some of their court days in order to carry out their executive duties in the country.

Personally, she could care less. She knows it is probably going to destabilize the country if the president and his vice are convicted by the court, but hey, she knows Kenya, her country has always got through her obstacles. Her Black Berry phone beeps once; a text message from work. Her boss is reminding her of her presentation to the board tomorrow but she knows she’s ready for it. She texts back a single line, “I am ready sir, don’t worry.” She knows how much her boss hates shortened words in texts. All the same, she promises herself to go through her prepared presentation before she goes to bed, as well as take her meds.

She now shifts her attention to the hissing noise in the kitchen, which alerts her that her dinner is ready, or almost ready. Lazily, she drags herself up and towards the kitchen. She’s almost halfway when her dog starts barking. She assumes he’s hungry, as usual, when it stops barking after 20 seconds. She lifts the lid of her brass cooking pot and immediately the smell of a meal that promises to be sumptuous hits her nostrils. She takes a spoon and tastes it to check whether she put in the right amount of seasoning. She smiles to herself; boy does she love cooking for herself. She decides she’ll eat it later after taking a shower.

That is when she hears the scratching noise on her front door, followed moments later by a window crashing, which alerts her of an intruder. Her dog has resumed with its barking. Never the type to panic, she calmly dials the police hotline and requests for immediate assistance, before she picks her kitchen knife. She walks towards the kitchen door, swiftly, in order to lock herself in. Really, she doesn’t care whether the intruder takes any of her valuables; she doesn’t care jack shit about any of those things. She knows that her life is more precious.

Now she’s at the door and firmly but quickly, she shuts it, but she’s a second too late. Her intruder is already at the door pushing at it to force it open. In the end, her frail arms give in and she curses herself for not being strong enough as she sprawls towards the floor from the sheer force; she lets go of her knife in the process. Less than a minute later, a hand is grabbing her and she barely has time to reach out for the knife nor to see her assailant’s face.

“Please, take all you want, just leave me alone,” she says, turning to her assailant. Then she sees the muzzle of the gun facing her face and terror rips through her face.


She starts sobbing.

The man, she’s figured out that much now, lifts his fat palm and slams a slap that easily makes Kidero’s to Shebesh look like child’s play.

“What-do-you-want-?” she manages to say amidst her sobs, but it only seems to make him angrier.

Now, he shoves the gun further in her face and orders her to lie still or he’s going to shoot. Vaguely, she has an idea of what she wants but she finds herself praying that it isn’t it her assailant wants. Her fears are confirmed when he pins her face up on the kitchen table, his huge hands urgently grabbing at her skirt. She starts to scream, but the man fires into the air. He rips apart her panties as he methodically opens his fly to reveal his erection.

“Please, you don’t have to do this….” She begs, but the man proceeds to rip open her blouse and in the process her bra, to reveal her tender breasts; she is now fully aware what the man wants to do to her.

His gun trained on her forehead, the man forces himself into her, as pain spreads through her almost instantly; he has no condom on. She closes her eyes and prays a prayer to God, not for him, but for herself. The man has absolutely no idea what he’s done to himself. She feels the tears trickle down her face, as the man’s sweat drips on her nipples, which seems to get the man even hornier and her grabs at her breasts. It’s too late for her to scream out now, she decides, and waits for an eternity for him to finish.

It doesn’t take very long. She feels his seed splash into her vagina; amidst a moan that would make any porn star jealous from the man. He pulls out, leaving fluid dripping out of her; a mixture of blood and sperm. Still pointing his gun at her, he proceeds to dress up, as she sobs softly, tasting her bitter tears in the process.

When he’s done, he takes one look at her and starts walking away. With every strength left in her, she brings herself to sit up on the table, holding herself.

“Sir, if you’d listened to me when I told you to stop I wouldn’t have to tell you that you’ve just contracted HIV,” she says, once again calm.

Her assailant stops dead in in his tracks and in a spur of anger and shock, fires a bullet that connects with her upper body, puncturing her left lung. He takes to his heels as sirens scream in the distance and as she force of the impact from the bullet sends her to the ground. She is clutching desperately at her wound.

The police arrive just in time to see cough blood, as a medic desperately tries to hold on to her dear life for her. Maybe this is not the end after all, she decides, as she slowly fades into unconsciousness.

After all is said and done, Hitler was a monster to say the least

First and foremost, I want to vehemently state that my blog is not gutter press unlike most other blogs today out there. I will not point fingers either for that reason. At, we do not wear over-sized blue grandma sweaters either that bring out the best of our nostrils and underline your social. We do not say who is fucking who, and who is who’s sweaterheart. Wait, what?

Never mind.

The real reason I wrote this blog is because I miss you fellas. It’s been a while since I wrote anything that’s relevant to Twitter as I have recently re-discovered a talent I had long forgotten I had; creative writing. However, a few things have caught my attention that require to be addressed urgently and which require your opinion. Not that I care about your opinions, but I do appreciate it because it keeps my blog going.

The biggest of those issues is the still to be solved death of a fallen hero of the Kenyan law and constitution, Mr. Mutula Kilonzo, whom, as it is now emerging, was a champion in the bedroom with a little help from another learned friend called Viagra. Yes, it was obvious Mr. Mutula, may he RIP, was with a woman the morning he died. However, I will not even begin to describe my shock and dismay after it emerged that the woman in question was in fact another champion; a champion of plagiarism.

Her name is Caroline Mutoko. After all, we all know she doesn’t date people with mediocre minds like the rest of us. We’re numbskulls, remember?

So, to put this in perspective, if it is proven she was indeed the said woman, she preaches water on how people to be faithful, when she’s in fact, drinking wine. Issorait. Carol, as someone pointed out, if this is true, this will be a big Blow to your Job. Never mind, KOT can be crafty with words. Point is, you have a daughter and you’re dating Radio Africa’s Patrick Quarco. The irony of it all being the speed at which you rebuke cheating partners. You’re a fucking cheetah.

But then again, as I said, all this is if it’s proven true. I am not ready for a defamation lawsuit. You can read the original post unmasking her here:

Then there’s the small matter of the bedbugs in Kenyatta University hostels. Well, it’s not like we’re really shocked; at least now we know who, ok, for purposes of this post, what taught the ladies at KU to be really good at sucking. Full pun intended. Dating a KU chic is hard, and reasonably so. First, she will suck your money, because granted, she will not be stealing side mirrors from motorists when you’re around.

Then, you finally think you’ve caught a break and that you’ll get laid; wapi? So she invites you over, and knowing how difficult men find it to reject sex, you’ll rush over.. Forgetting there are bedbugs that will see your erection as a thankful of blood. And guess what my friend, you cannot exile them. Hell, they call their friends over to enjoy the feast at hand.

To make matters worse, as if we haven’t had a bad enough past couple of weeks already, Jaguar released yet another music video from his recently launched ‘eh eh eh’ genre of music; you know the type of music where the words ‘eh’ feature after every three words to produce rhyming effect because the song doesn’t make sense.

I wouldn’t say it was a bad video considering he spent his fortune making it, featuring a convertible Bentley. Pause. And a plane, albeit a small, joke of a plane, but hey, a plane is a plane, so LANES people. He even got to throw a bash that featured Mugoya and Nick Mutuma.

Sadly, Jaguar has to learn that an expensive video doesn’t make the music sound good, especially when Vee Baiby is not in it. As some idiot on Twitter said last week, if Bamzigi and Jaguar were to fall off a cliff, it is Kenyan Music that would survive.

Finally, the condoms. I still do not get why Catholic priests are still against these life savers. I’m very sure none of you would be theoretically against it if altar boys were to theoretically get pregnant. Plus, you contradict yourselves. You preach the body is the temple of the Lord, yet you encourage people to kill the Lord’s temples with HIV/AIDS by not using condoms.

Do you sleep at night knowing because of you some people might never live their lives to their fullest? That some of them are right now considering committing suicide because they had unprotected sex following your advice and contracted HIV? Does it make you feel more significant contradicting scientific facts just because you don’t believe in it? Guess what, it only makes you sound ignorant and worse murderers than Hitler because, guess what again, you’re almost at the halfway mark of the total people that died due to his actions.

Anyway, that is just my opinion, but as I said, I’d love to hear what you guys have to say, especially on the condom issue. In the meantime, I’ll go back to picking up the scattered pieces of my broken heart because Grace Msalame called these two idiots @iDaywa and @mSale_ ‘babie’ on my TL.

*leaves holding onions to disguise the tears*