“Do you still want to go with me to the clinic tomorrow?” Nora asked when they were having lunch in Nzwaki’s class.

Oh goodness, had it been a week already? Nzwaki was so preoccupied that the days just flew by. She had a lot on her mind. She nodded her reply.

“I appreciate you coming, Ma. It means a lot to me,” Nora said, squeezing Nzwaki’s hand that was fidgeting with her lunchbox lid on the table. Nzwaki smiled. It was sweet that Nora thought Nzwaki was just there for moral support; Nzwaki couldn’t bring herself to tell Nora the real reason.

The real reason was that after a week of thinking about Joe and what he had been up to, Nzwaki felt it only right that she get tested for HIV. But when she had brought it up with Joe he had been mad again, yelling about her having no reason to go, and what people would say about her going to the clinic to get tested.

But she would get tested here today in Tsolongo. He need never know.

“Molweni bahlali, hello residents,” a young woman greeted them, standing in front of the clinic waiting room. The people greeted back in unison. Nzwaki didn’t recognise a single person from their village.

“Most of you know who I am but for those of you who don’t, my name is Lolo and I’m with my colleague, Lizo. We are Treatment Action Campaign members, otherwise known as TAC volunteers,” the young woman said. They were both wearing T-shirts with the name printed on them.

“You know why we’re here, right?” the young woman asked, smiling. The waiting room erupted in the kind of oohs and laughs that Nzwaki only heard at school when the kids were discussing a topic they felt uncomfortable with. Yep, the young people were here to talk about sex. Nzwaki felt her blood warm up.

“This is a penis,” the woman said without blushing, holding up the wooden thing in her right hand, raised for all to see. “And we all know what this is?” she said holding up a condom with her left.

The residents giggled and some hid their faces when the woman showed them how to put it on. It was important for both males and females to know how to put it on, to help their partners, she said. Nzwaki watched attentively without once hiding. She knew of course how to; all LO teachers had to, although she had never herself used one with Joe.

“And bomama – women – do we know what this is?” Lolo was holding up a white wrap, three times bigger than the male condom. It was the female condom. When Lolo showed them how to insert it, forming a figure-of-eight with it, all the women giggled and the men looked away. But Nzwaki’s eyes were fixed on Lolo. It was strange how the adults acted just the same as the kids when things they were not comfortable with were being discussed. But Nzwaki also noticed that the people here were mostly engaged in the questions and answers.

“And then what do you do when he says ‘no’? If you insist he will go and find someone who won’t trouble him,” one woman said. Although there was some laughter in the room, Nzwaki heard the desperation and hurt in the woman’s voice.

“Your safety comes first, Ma,” Lolo answered. “If your partner knows he has other lovers and will not protect you, then does he really love you and care for you as much as he says he does? Talk to your partners, you’d be surprised how much they will open up to you.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about!” a man said, and got up and walked outside.

Nzwaki understood. She thought of Joe and how willing he would be if she confronted him. Her name was called just as Lolo was answering another question.

She went in to the counsellor’s room. It was neat and the desk stacked with papers and folders to the left. There was an open folder in front of him. Nzwaki sat down on the chair opposite the man. He was young, not much older than Nora, Nzwaki thought. Were all the people here this young?

They went over some questions and the young man, who introduced himself as Siyabonga, asked if Nzwaki was married and where her husband was.

“He had to work, but he said he’s going to come on his own when he gets time off,” Nzwaki lied. “But I’m here to support my friend. It’s hard to be supportive when I don’t know much myself,” she said.

Clearly the young man had heard this many times.

“It’s quite common for these things to pan out like this considering the stigma – the shame – surrounding HIV in general. It’s different for men and women and is more severe on women. It also plays out throughout communities. That’s why most people prefer being treated in clinics far from them.”

Nzwaki listened. She understood exactly.

“But people should really be aware that there is no need for stigma because HIV is manageable if treated properly and consistently. And people can live full lives with this support. I would know, I’m living a full life. I take my treatment and take care of myself,” the young man said.

“Do the young kids know about this? About the risks involved and the treatment?” Nzwaki asked.

“Yazi Ma, it’s hard to talk about this at schools. Though we do have programmes where we go out and talk about it to the kids – sex education – but sometimes the school doesn’t allow it because the parents feel we are encouraging the kids to have sex. It’s still a work in progress.”

Nzwaki walked out feeling better due to all the information she had received. The nice counsellor had even given her his number to contact him if she had more questions or needed to talk.

Nzwaki was highly relieved when her test came out negative. Even when the man said she should come back after six weeks, she didn’t mind. She was negative and was determined to keep it that way!

She just needed to find out one more thing, to set her troubled mind at ease. On the way home she asked Nora about what else was said about Joe, because she had seen him exchanging parcels with a man the other day.

“Andazi, maybe he has a small business he’s doing?”

A business conducted in the bushes? Now Nzwaki really wanted to know. There was only one way to get reliable and correct information; you needed to get it yourself.

Come tomorrow, she would play detective and follow Joe.

***

Tell us: HIV and Aids has been a reality in southern Africa for over 30 years. Is it true that it still carries such a stigma that people cannot talk openly and honestly about it?