A personal account of sexual temptations and their terrifying repercussions
Aids is poised to curtail life itself, but for many people, life goes on as if Aids does not exist. And any discussion of HIV/Aids inevitably becomes personal. Just pay attention to this detail from real life in the streets.
Not that Aids awareness campaigns do not work in the townships. It’s more a case of self-inflicted ignorance and denial. Condoms have become commonplace; you can get them from the same place you get your six-pack of beers.
Nobody can claim not to know about Aids, especially the fact that it carries the stigma of a confirmed practitioner of unsafe sex and devious behaviour. But every time statistics about infection rates and future projections get blurted out in the media, we all secretly hope that we are not part of the 10-million people who will die of Aids by 2010. We even console ourselves that those who have died died of pneumonia, or kidney failure or some illness. “Ubegula!” (s/he was sick) is all that is conceded.
The thing about the virus, particularly its sexual transmission, is that it has shaken the very foundations that hold society together.
It has meant breaking many taboos: how do you tell an innocent girl that her mother died of the disease? Indeed, how do you “talk about sex” with elders? It has exposed the limitations of religion; no amount of incessant praying saves an Aids patient, much less guarantees a happier life in the hereafter. It’s a daunting task to convince an Aids patient that her/his affliction is not some ordained punishment for her/his sins.
It has reduced some people to nervous wrecks, others to hardened survivors. A married woman from the township I come from was rumoured to have had an illicit affair with a young man in his early twenties. No sooner were we gobsmacked at this travesty than news hit the streets that the “boyfriend” was lying in his sick-bed, to die a couple of weeks later. A few days later the woman was sick and diagnosed with the virus. But the miracle was yet to come: her husband of two years was HIV negative. Subsequent tests continued to confirm his virus-free status, even long after the wife’s death.
There are actual cases of such people in the township, where one partner, who has habitually slept with the other without protection over a long period of time, nevertheless tests consistently negative. “Angazi akasafi ngani lo” (I don’t know why he doesn’t just die) are sentiments expressed by a 15-year-old daughter of her seriously sick father who, miraculously, did not infect her mother. And the daughter knows all about this.
Love Life organises an Aids awareness bash at the local stadium. Condoms are dispensed by popular kwaito artists amid appeals that sound more like “go out and conquer the world with these rubbers!” Women are dressed in the skimpiest of outfits. Those wearing underwear, it’s definitely G-strings and they are not difficult to see. It’s all about revealing, not concealing. In fact, the latest trend is to wear no panties at all.
The allure of sex is everywhere. If you drive some car, any car. You have some money to spend, your life in the township becomes one long stretch of sexual temptation, to which I’m afraid you will one day succumb.
Indeed, on this “awareness occasion”, I score in no time. During the night, just before I slip it on, I “taste” my sex partner by pressing my penis against her vagina, a common practice among lots of guys I have spoken to. And a dangerous thing to do, as the penis just slips in. The scary part is she doesn’t complain, until a combination of guilt and fear get the better of me. Only then do I put a condom on.
Believe me, many people have fallen pregnant from this system of “tasting”, not to mention catching the virus. Many people do not bother with a condom at all, taking solace from the myth that “ingculaza eyabantwana abancane” (Aids infects teenagers, we are too old for that). This is a falsity no doubt perpetuated by the fact that almost all HIV/Aids programmes are directed at teenagers, as if from age 30 onwards one attains some immunity or is absolved from sexual responsibility.
The following week I catch flu so seriously that I have to see a doctor. He turns out to be a very simple but caring old man. He motions me to the bed. He gives me something to blow air into. I do, and the scale does not look good. Earlier at the reception desk, I had given a yellowish urine sample. “Now,” he says, “I’m gonna have to take your blood samples.” I freak out completely. I try to think about all the women I have had without protection, and it’s not a comforting thought.
I blurt out something to the effect that no doctor can take a blood sample without the patient’s consent and that I am entitled to some pre-test counselling. It seems to work. He says, “It doesn’t look like Aids to me. But I take blood samples for all my patients. Think about it and come back next week.”
Between sweating and asking for forgiveness from God, I decide to take the test, come what may.
The seven days it took for the test results to reach me were the scariest days of my life. Never have I been so close to God. I prayed that even if I tested positive, He should intervene and make results negative.
“I don’t want to know my status,” I declared to myself, desperation and despair at once engulfing me. Can I at least be in the window period, I begged my ancestors.
“The doctor wants to know if you are still coming for your appointment today,” said a voice on the phone that almost got me fainting.
“No, I feel much better already,” I managed to mumble in a useless attempt to prolong my pain, my wilful ignorance. I thought I heard a voice saying, “Tell him the results are fine, I just need to talk to him.”
You have no idea what relief those words gave me. But the torture I went through in just a week has effectively kept me away from doctors, for whatever reasons. And I speak for many in my township. But that doesn’t mean I have stopped “tasting”, just like most of the guys I know. Without cure, life in the township is almost like waiting your turn for infection.
The author wished to remain anonymous for personal reasons