The first thing Nzwaki did when she got home was to search the house. She looked everywhere, poked in the back of each cupboard and in every corner. But she found nothing. There were no parcels wrapped in brown paper like the one she had seen Joe with. Maybe it was a one-time thing. But then how would she explain the money he was clearly flashing lately, buying new clothes and expensive phones? There was more to this and she needed to know.

She checked the time; it was just before six. Joe should’ve been home over an hour ago. That meant he was out, probably at the shebeen drinking the money away. Where was it all coming from? Nzwaki put on her coat and walked out.

As she got closer to the shebeen she was suddenly worried about what she would find. Part of her wanted to turn back and forget about this whole business. But the other part needed to know what was going on. Sure enough, Joe’s car was parked outside the shebeen.

Nzwaki walked in and stood behind some people who were playing pool. It would be easy not to be noticed on a Friday night. She soon spotted Joe at one of the tables at the far end. He was with a girl – Asanda from Grade 11, in Nzwaki’s class! They were laughing and behaving like the night belonged to them. And there, under the table, clearly visible for all to see, was Joe’s hand, rubbing the girl’s thigh.

Nzwaki felt the vomit rise up and burn her throat.

She rushed out and walked home in tears. She had seen enough. Whatever Joe had to say to explain himself did not matter now.

She sat for hours crying and thinking about it. Joe had cheated, has been cheating and with a schoolgirl at the very same school at which she taught– right under her nose. The girl probably laughed about her every day with her friends – this old woman who couldn’t satisfy her husband. Bragged about the gifts her husband gave to her.

Nzwaki felt hurt, and disgusted. What had happened to the young and loving man she married? All those things the older women had advised her about keeping a man happy did not seem possible.

She remembered she had secretly laughed under her blanket the day of their traditional ceremony. Most of the women had said that men will be men, that they occasionally step out of bounds to try and feel young again. That a woman was to understand and stay in her house and keep her marriage.

Nzwaki had laughed and thought, not my Joe. He’s not like that. You don’t know how he looks at me like I’m the only one. How he smiles when I walk in the room. How he holds me like the world is coming to an end. No, not my Joe.

But now that Joe was gone. This man she was married to Nzwaki didn’t know.

She found herself packing her clothes in her old suitcase. She didn’t remember when she had risen from the couch and dug it out from under the bed, filthy with dust.

Then Joe came home drunk, and seeing her packing, demanded an explanation.

“I saw you, Joe. I saw you with that – that child,” Nzwaki said, pushing past him to the wardrobe. She had waited up to confront him but now that he was here, she didn’t want to talk to him.

“I will not live with a man who doesn’t love me and disrespects me like that, in front of the whole village.”

Joe begged, promising to change but Nzwaki wouldn’t hear it. She kept pushing past him to get her clothes from the wardrobe to the suitcase. As the suitcase was filling up and Nzwaki wasn’t stopping, Joe became angrier.

“Would you stop Nonzwakazi – so I can talk to you!” he yelled.

Nzwaki clicked the teeth as a response. That got her a smack across the face that sent her flying to the bed. She stared at the man standing over her, raising his hand to strike her again. This was not Joe. This man she didn’t know.

But as she looked at him she realised: I have nowhere to go. Not yet. Not here in this village, where I work. But this thing is not ending here. Why must I be the one to leave my home? She ducked under his arm and started unpacking in cold silence.

*****

On Monday she didn’t talk to anyone at school. She wanted to call in sick but knew she would burn the house down if she stayed at home. People were staring, looking at the bruise around her left eye. But she didn’t care. If Joe wasn’t ashamed to be with his girl in public then she wouldn’t protect him. People would see what kind of a man he truly was. She knew she had to go to the Principal about Asanda, but she didn’t have the strength – not yet.

“Don’t forget that today from one till two, we have guests from the clinic coming to talk to us. So I expect all of you to be already seated by five to one,” the Principal reminded them.

Nzwaki had forgotten all about this. Once or twice a year the school hosted talks from the clinic about health care and hygiene. The talks ranged from teenage pregnancy to contraceptives. They even talked about sanitary pads one time and the boys had to sit and listen too. Mr Manene was a learned man who felt that everyone should be educated in all matters of life.

Today they were talking about HIV and Aids. Nzwaki had asked the counsellor from Tsolongo, Siyabonga, to come and talk to the kids about the topic.

The students didn’t care much one way or another – they were just happy to get their last period free, sitting outside in assembly. The sun was generous this day, not too hot, just gently warming. By 12:45 they were already making their way outside with their chairs. (Mr Manene also preached and practised punctuality.)

“Hi everyone. My name is Siyabonga. I work at the clinic in Tsolongo and I’m here to share a short presentation with you,” the young man who counselled Nzwaki introduced himself. “And after the story I would be happy to try and answer any questions you have.”

Siyabonga told the story of how the relationship with the girl he loved ended. She lived in the same village. But when he went to the East London to study they started having problems. He was living on campus and hardly saw her. She met someone else and told him when he came to visit over the holidays.

So out of anger and frustration at being dumped by a girl he felt he was promised to marry, Siyabonga went out and drank himself into a stupor. He slept with some girl he was on campus with, and lost his virginity.

“It was one night that I slept with someone without a condom, four years ago. And now I’m HIV positive,” he finished.

A chorus of “Yho! Yho! Yho!” echoed from the students. And then when they started chatting excitedly among themselves Siyabonga called out, “I take it you have questions for me?”

“Are you sure you’ve got Z3? You look so hot,” a girl asked from the crowd.

“Yes, I’m sure I have HIV. But I look so um … ‘hot’ because I take my treatment. I have to take the medicine twice a day, every day, at the same time. That way the virus will lie dormant, and I’m healthy.”

“Tyo, twice? That’s worse than the people with high-high,” someone said.

“Ewe – yes, and it feels like an inconvenience when you have to go to the clinic every month to get your pills. So if I were you, I would say ‘abstain’. If you are in a sexual relationship, then use a condom. It’s not only HIV you’re protecting yourself and your partner from.”

“Mxim, my uncle says the clinic here doesn’t even have pills. So what’s the point? He’s going to die mos? Do you have pills at your clinic?” another girl said and Siyabonga had to call the crowd to attention in order to speak.

“Yes, it is important that he keeps taking them. He can still live a long, productive life. We will find out why there aren’t pills at your clinic but until then you need to bring him to Tsolongo for treatment.”

“Maybe someone is stealing the pills from our clinic? They can’t magically disappear, or be wrongly ordered for so long,” one teacher asked.

Nzwaki was thinking just the same thing when her colleague raised this point.

“We are trying to get to the bottom of the problem. If anyone thinks someone is stealing pills they can report it. You can send a please call me or a WhatsApp message to the number that is on the posters I will leave with your teacher. You can do it anonymously. There are people who steal ARVs to make drugs like wunga or sell them on to people involved in drug rings. We need to stop these people.”

There was a loud applause as Siyabonga finished his address.

***

Tell us: What’s your response to a salaried health worker stealing free medicine that should be going to sick people (often poor people), and selling it?