A Foe’s Demise

Mothusi.

GOD WORKS IN mysterious ways. Despite the absence of the internet and an extensive literature on HIV in my home country, Botswana, I somehow had access to information on it in my university days: from the few newly published literature on the virus at the University of Botswana (UB) library, to conversations with various healthcare and social workers in various clinics and public and private hospitals. My mother, too, was of help. 

Something always seemed to move me toward where I am today. Despite the World Health Organization’s first report of HIV in 1985 in Botswana, our medical team focused mainly on seeking ways to eliminate transmission risk through transfusion for a little over half a decade. With little understanding of what they were dealing with, they directed their efforts at its effects as these presented themselves. Although Botswana was barely an isolated instance, it would swiftly become a country with one of the world’s highest HIV prevalence rates, as the virus reportedly spread from the continent to around the world and ravaged it like a forest fire.

Prior to 1991, President Mapedi’s government and the medical team remained hush-hush about what was happening, perhaps cautious of civil unrest over a potential epidemic. The unity we took pride in as Batswana was to face a new threat as our televisions, radios and newspapers disseminated news on HIV. Suddenly we were apprehensive and cautious about our interaction with strangers, neighbours, and even our loved ones.

In Selebi-Phikwe, following the first report of the virus, the nightlife died, and neighbours became less neighbourly. MmaSkebo barred Skebo from visiting her friend next door, and I, doing my Form 5 at Selebi-Phikwe Senior Secondary (SPSS), then in 1991, had to leave school just as the golden sun descended beneath the horizon. On my way home, only specks of children would be playing on the tarred road—most neighbours were in their yards or indoors with voices emanating from radios or trailing a flicker. Once home, I would find my mother on the couch, focused on the black-and-white images on the television screen. I would greet her and head straight to my room to continue studying. My sister, Bonolo, would arrive home later and join her. Our teachers had informed us about the battle looming, but they, too, seemed as confused as we were. What we simply wanted was to write our exams and proceed with our lives.  

At the time, my closest friend in the entire Phikwe was Poloko. Poloko’s family was one of many forced to move to the outskirts of Phikwe after some members had thrown an ignited glass bottle through the window into their house. Before then, his father had suddenly fallen ill, sparking rumours of him contracting the virus. Luckily, no one was hurt. When his father recovered, they moved from our neighbourhood, which was then a few years after my father had passed away, and I never heard from Poloko again.

I felt alone. We had grown up together, went to the same schools, and knew each other’s parents. Ever since then, I buried my head in schoolwork, allowing only little opportunity for new friendships. 

 I continued to get glimpses into how truly bad the situation was as the days passed. For one, rumours were the order of the day—gossip about so-and-so’s sudden weight loss. And then a neighbour I had seen walking down the street with a cane, coughing their lungs out, sores peeping through their exposed body parts, would be said to have passed away only a few days later, the rumours confirming themselves.

It was also probably the busiest period of Mother’s life.  If she wasn’t at one neighbour’s house, she was at a community hall meeting giving insight to community members who desperately needed it. Urged from within to do something about this, I came home one afternoon from school and sat my mother down.

“I know what I’m going to study in the university, Mama,” I said.

She glared at me. “Ao?”

I inhaled deeply and said, “Social Work.”

Mama jerked her head towards the TV in front of her, then reclined again on the couch with raised eyebrows and looked back at me.

“Are you sure, ngwanaka?”

“Yes, Mama,” I said, clearing my throat to cloak the slight quiver in my voice.

“Wow! Why?” 

“I want to help, Mama. I want to help people. Remember what Papa used to say? ‘If you’re inspired to make a change, whether in your own or someone else’s life, act on it—’” 

“‘—that’s God moving through you,’” we said in near-perfect unison.

Mama grabbed my hand. Our eyes glistened under the light coming in through the living room window. I pinched my eyes shut to keep any tears from escaping; she couldn’t. We embraced each other before heading to the kitchen to prepare dinner. 

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WHEN I STARTED university in 1992, I found myself entangled in the study of the socioeconomic impacts of HIV/AIDS on the entire country. I plunged into intensive research, and even deeper during my year-long internship program at Phikwe Hospital. To put myself on the front line of national service, I enrolled in a master’s program in 1997 at UB. I was concerned with research and policy formulation. 

Halfway through my program, with the assistance of my lecturers, a few schoolmates and I formed The Social and Healthcare Workers Union of Botswana (TSHWUB). Our main agenda was to unite individuals from these fields, protect them, and represent their interests as we manoeuvred this scourge. The reception of our union soared after local newspapers ran our story.

During one of the sessions in our community hall, I did my best to inform my fellow Phikwe residents about HIV/AIDS. Even amidst their prevailing murmurs, hand-swinging and head-shaking. Although most of the community knew me from our interactions as an intern at Phikwe Hospital, getting through to them was barely a walk in the park.

“Tota wareng, Mothusi?” One elder in the crowd said in Setswana. What are you saying? “That disease has its people. As old as we are, you’re here wasting our time with nonsense. This child!”

I inhaled deeply and said, “Sir, times have changed. Better safe than sorry” in Setswana, too.

“You say this disease is sexually transmitted? Since birth, this is news to me. Stop wasting our time, boy!” the elder rebutted.

My words fell on deaf ears as, one by one, the elders sprung off their chairs and exited the hall with their children. While on the podium, with my hands on my head, I shifted my gaze to my co-workers Mosupi and Masa, seated to my right. Both their heads were bowed. Masa raised hers, and when our eyes met, we both knew we had a steep mountain to climb. The three of us packed up and dragged our feet back to the hospital van en route to Phikwe Hospital. 

It was silent in the van and the sun shone directly above, heating us up. 

“We’ll do better next time,” Masa muttered, the car radio nearly swallowing her voice.

Masa and I had met while I was doing my master’s. We had immediately hit it off as though we had soul ties. Of course, she was smarter than I was— still is —and is probably the reason I proceeded on the first attempt one semester after the other. She introduced me to the creative arts. More than her gorgeous caramel-toned skin, and dimples, her voice and words undid all parts of me such that only she could piece me back together again. 

From the passenger seat, I increased the volume of the radio. None of my colleagues reacted. A woman’s voice relayed the news: “President Mapedi has put in place a policy that will work towards ending the spread of HIV by 2016.”

We gazed at each other, wide-eyed, hope finding its way back into us. The trip back felt short as we went on chatting about all the possibilities of this policy. Two decades would surely be enough for the president, I thought.

Over the next six months, we tried setting up more sessions with various healthcare leaders in both private and public sectors but to no avail. Batswana were rejecting all the programs developed by the government to alleviate the virus. The government’s consensus was to hold kgotla meetings, where Batswana would express their grievances about these programs. My co-workers and I travelled with the Ministry of Health’s team, The Task Force.

“Had the government consulted traditional healers and church leaders appropriately, we would have welcomed your efforts,” said one of the Chiefs at one of the villages’ main kgotla. On one hand, I understood the urgency of the action undertaken in response to the virus. On the other hand, we were a culture founded on consultation, so Batswana were well within their rights to reject something they were not told about. Unfortunately, this lack of consultation nearly cost the ruling party in the elections. Having been on the ground, Batswana had been so turned off that they felt the current president was way over his head. With Mapedi’s shortcomings, it was a field day every day for the newspapers.

When President Mapedi stepped down in 1998, I was in the final year of my master’s program. The more my involvement in social work, the more I found joy in assisting people in need. I recognised a part of me in each person I helped. Phikwe Hospital had then employed me on a permanent basis. My mother and sister would always ask me how I could stomach the sight of dead people and decaying corpses. “Oa tlwaela after some time, mama,” I said to her. One gets used to it. My dissertation was centred on the impact of HIV/AIDS on Selebi-Phikwe. At this time, I had also started a community-based program to educate the Phikwe youth through creative arts. I hosted open mics, book readings, and painting sessions, teaching them about the disease. 

Mapedi’s successor, President Taolo, after taking over in 1998, had better luck with fighting this enemy that had now been declared an epidemic by WHO. In contrast to Mapedi, healthcare workers and Batswana at large were much more receptive to President Taolo’s rapid approach to tackling HIV. He sought help from the USA, and they heard our cries. More mothers-to-be frequented Phikwe Hospital, taking advantage of the free voluntary testing and treatment plan introduced by the president for those infected. It warmed my heart to see the hope in these women’s eyes as they entered our offices seeking health advice. Despite our limited resources and infrastructure, healthcare and social workers alike showed up. 

With the help of these healthcare workers, my fellow social workers and I advocated for the provision of treatment to all affected citizens, including mothers-to-be. Radio and television interviews became the norm for us. UNAIDS noticed our impact and supported us in various ways. We penetrated the depths of rural Botswana, where awareness was lacking. As we traversed the country by car, a wave of pride and patriotism washed over me. We passed a group of men in construction gear pouring tar over gravel roads and another where the men raised their voices to one another as metal clunked against metal on a quest to erect massive buildings. 

At the beginning of the new millennium, I organised a peaceful demonstration through TSHWUB in the capital city, Gaborone, to raise awareness to President Taolo’s government about the sad conditions the union was working under. We caught the attention of our leaders. Upon my return from some field work a week later, Masa met me by the office door. Her powerful smile chased away my grey skies.

“The office of the President just called. We have a meeting with them the day after tomorrow,” she said.

I must have zoned out for a moment. She then took my hand, brought me to my seat, and relayed the details of the telephone call.

In March 2000, a month after our meeting, President Taolo announced in an emergency State of the Nation Address that Antiretrovirals (ARVs) would be available for all Batswana in need of them free of charge from the beginning of 2001.

I leapt into the air and screamed. My mother remained motionless in the living room chair as though twirling in and out of consciousness. I called her. She stared at me and smiled, then stared back into the TV in silence. Although I felt her slipping away from me, I disregarded this feeling, glad to have her still present in my life.

Towards the end of 2002, Radio Botswana announced that UNAIDS would be donating testing kits and skilled labour to set up research and testing centres, as well as assist with testing. My co-workers and I sighed in relief as we tuned in attentively in our under-resourced office. Despite the Ministry of Health announcing a reduction in the nation’s HIV infection rate, and despite our efforts, infections kept rising in my own backyard—my home town—to the point where Phikwe became the hub, boasting the highest infection rate in Botswana. I suspected these figures were in part due to the low rural-urban migration. My postgraduate dissertation was on Phikwe for this reason. Although being the fastest-growing town in the country, a large number of the community had rigid minds, stigmatising victims or seeking orthodox methods for treatment.

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Bonolo.

I WAS DIAGNOSED with HIV in 1991 following a sexual assault at work one evening.

“You embarrassed me in front of our colleagues and made me look like a fool,” he’d said. 

I thought nothing of his statement as what happened was that I had simply suggested a different approach than his to our company’s Corporate Social Responsibility initiative. Following the meeting that morning, he gave me the cold shoulder and made snarky comments like, “Wena Bonolo, you think you’re better than everyone here, neh?” and, “Your time is coming,” over the day. 

As the Head of Sorting at the Botswana Diamond Company, I usually left after all the workers, save for the cleaners. I’m uncertain how the cleaner failed to hear the tussle between us. I woke up in the office toilet with a heavy head and then squinted at my wristwatch. Quarter past nine. I used the wash basin to pull myself up. I limped towards the office telephone and called a cab. A knock on my office door thrust my consciousness back into my body. My body was still a tad weak as I garnered enough strength to tell them to come in. It was one of the cleaners.

“The cab has arrived, ma’am,” he said in Setswana.

I dragged myself out of my office, locked it, and into the lift I went, three floors to the ground, tears rolling down my cheeks. I spotted one of the other cleaners in the near distance and a stench of cigarette smoke in the air. She waved. With barely any strength to respond, I entered the cab, greeted the driver and sat in the backseat in silence the entire journey. What just happened? What do I tell Mama? What do I tell my bosses? How will I look at him on Monday? Do I report him to the police?

Riddled by shame, guilt and self-blame, I paced straight to my room, locked the door, covered myself up with my blanket and wept. My room was between Mama’s and Mothusi’s. In the following months, I kept to myself, that Friday night’s event chipping away at my soul with each passing day. I was terrified of the stigma from the public. Perhaps I deserved it for bruising his ego; men hate that. My brother Mothusi was preoccupied. He was in his final term of Form 5 at SPSS and would usually be in his room studying. However, one night, he knocked on my bedroom door, and it was ajar. He entered and sat on my bed, then pulled my blanket from my face.

“Are you okay, sis?” He asked.

My eyes were crimson red, and I could not lie to him. I broke into tears. He grabbed my arm, gently propped me into a sitting position, and hugged me for what seemed an eternity. 

“All will be well. Our Guidance and Counseling teacher always says, ‘Life will show you dust but remember, dust is temporary,’” he said.

“Sure, wena Dr. Phil,” I had said before playfully pushing him off me.

Mama, Mothusi and I were all we had. Papa had passed away six years earlier following a tragic accident at the copper-nickel mine he worked in. Fortunately, the company in charge continued to take care of our family. Mothusi was Papa’s carbon copy in multiple ways;  both, in fact, bent their heads when entering any room in the house and were broad-nosed, dark-brown-skinned, square-faced, and quite reserved with a coyness. They were inseparable. I was closer to Mama. Mama was a social worker who retired after Papa’s passing. She was so shattered that she locked herself in her room for a month following his funeral, at times joining Mothusi and me in the living room for supper, although barely uttering a sentence besides, “Hello, my children”, or, “Thank you, my children. Sleep well.” Some community members would visit and spend time with Mothusi and me, offering as much emotional support as possible. Some would even dish for Mama, Mothusi and me while I was still at work. Mothusi became more reserved, and I found solace in work.

Thankfully, Mothusi passed his finals, and when his results were out, Mama was in a better place to celebrate his milestone with him. 

During this time, Mama somehow knew that something was amiss with her daughter. I had skipped work on one of the days as I could barely stomach seeing my colleague prancing around the office with little remorse. I sat on the veranda, mind occupied by a myriad of thoughts, staring into nothingness. Her hand on my shoulder startled me. 

“Go rileng, ngwanaka?” Mama asked. 

“Nothing Mama. Just thinking,” I said, my eyes glistening.

“Come on, Bonolo. I know you better than that.”

I sighed heavily and relayed the events of that night. Without wasting time, she grabbed my hand, and we powerwalked to the nearest clinic.

“Mme, Bonolo, I’m sorry to give you this terrible news,” the nurse said.

My heart nearly jumped out of my chest. Mama and I both fixed our gazes on the nurse.

“Sis, you tested positive for HIV,” the nurse added. “If you like, we can assign you a counsellor…”

The nurse’s words faded into the back of my mind, and all I can recall is plodding home in silence with Mama holding my hand.Only Mama and I knew my status. Over the next few months, I indulged more in the nightlife, grappling with my situation. My work suffered. I was demoted, and the colleague who violated me replaced me. I wanted to expose his status, but Mama advised against it. “Leave it to God, my child,” she’d said. Mama had hope. I saw a death sentence. My country was in the trenches with an unrelenting foe, and its citizens were dropping like flies. To add insult to injury, the same close-knit community I grew up in switched on us. They wanted little to do with us lest they got infected. Who had spilled the beans about my status? I wondered. But the damage had already been done. For me, the future was bleak.

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Mothusi.

THE AMERICAN NATIONAL Institutes of Health published my postgraduate dissertation in 2005: “The Impact of HIV/AIDS Prevalence on a Close-knit Community in an African Country – Mothusi Kgamanyane.”  It provided insight for international agencies working with affected African countries into the possible reason(s) for the prevalence of HIV in these countries. In mid-2006, UNAIDS engaged me through the community-based program I had already been running and together with other social workers, we shone a spotlight on Phikwe for the coming years. My program was such a success that three years after the next president, President Molwantwa, was sworn in, in 2011, his government engaged me in a collaboration with a TEACHAIDS program they had developed with the Ministry of Education. Beginning in my own town, we went school by school, teaching the youth about HIV/AIDS. 

In early 2012, a local newspaper printed an article on the front page titled, ‘HIV/AIDS DEATH NUMBERS INFLATED.’ The article caused panic and confusion across the entire nation. In Phikwe, people rioted in the streets, calling for President Molwantwa’s retirement. Only abandoned houses were vandalised, though. Going to work was out of the picture that entire month. All I could do was follow the news on social media. My biggest worry was those affected and infected by HIV/AIDS who sought assistance but failed to get it because they found the relevant offices closed. The UN sent a group of investigators to Botswana to investigate the matter and Molwantwa came on national television to announce the proper stats. 

“We do not take kindly to misinformation. Especially if done on purpose. Necessary action shall be taken against the guilty parties,” President Molwantwa said in a media briefing on Radio Botswana.

A week later, news broke that the head of the newspaper was in police custody on charges of intention to incite a riot. Can information be fabricated in this manner? Which other information was fabricated? I wondered. More than anything, as I sat there on my mother’s favourite chair, I felt a burden lifted off my shoulder that I could now return to work.

Since independence in 1966, the mining, agriculture, manufacturing and tourism industries have been the largest contributors to our country’s economy. However, President Molwantwa’s successor, President Khutso, seemed to have a vested interest in the creative arts. 

“This was a team effort. The youth is listening. The numbers bear witness. My government and I are looking into how to develop this creative sector. Not only to tackle this formidable foe, but to give our youth a lifeline. Pula, bagaetsho,” the President said on Radio Botswana.

The chair screeched to Mosupi’s weight as he stretched his arm to turn the radio knob.

“He might be onto something,” he said.

“True. Honestly, whatever works. I’m tired of the prevailing deaths,” I said in a soft tone in Setswana.

“Why does it sound like your strength is wavering, Thusi?” Masa asked as she moseyed over to my desk and sat on it, her back to Mosupi, her gaze on me.

“I’m exhausted! Fear has seized my heart, Masa.”

Masa grabbed my hand and squeezed it. “We, too, are terrified, Thusi. But you need to stay strong and persevere. For Bonolo. For us. For your country.”

“There you go again, you two!” Mosupi chimed in, dispelling the somberness.

Masa and I rolled our eyes, and the three of us shared a laugh as we prepared to call it a day.

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MY SISTER’S STORY was a tragic, heartbreaking one that I disliked speaking about. I still believe I could’ve helped her in some way. At the same time, I understand that she felt cornered, with limited options of where to go next. Mama was in Sbrana now — a psychiatric hospital. She crumbled under the weight of it all. Only Masa knows how deep that story goes. 

Over two decades and a half later, I still had chosen to keep the cat in the bag about how I truly felt about her. We were in a period of great uncertainty. At one point, I was crippled by fear as the news reported that more and more of our colleagues were perishing from this disease. “What is happening? Why am I still alive?” I’d ask God, kneeling by my bedside every night. If I have this amount of fear as a social worker, as someone with a bit of knowledge on HIV/AIDS, what of a regular citizen walking the streets relying on the radio and television, I would wonder. My fear of intimacy ensured that I kept Masa at arm’s length. Despite my nonchalance — or the façade of it — I have found solace in Masa’s presence, and by extension, in the arts.

Riding on the back of former president Khutso’s creative arts policies, President Molepo and his government streamlined the creative arts, funnelling funds into it and travelling to diKgotla around Botswana to sell the idea to the youth. They took advantage of the rising online publications and platforms to carry the policies, strategies and programs to the youth and the public on their mobile devices. Although Masa and I were enthusiasts of the arts, we had our doubts that the president’s approach would work. How would something many Batswana regarded as a hobby, assist the country with defeating its darkest foe? The sudden uptake shook us to the core. More youth went into the arts, not only to express their experiences with HIV/AIDS but as a means of sustenance and livelihood. Witnessing this boosted my own confidence to hone in on my writing, performing and painting skills, especially to blow off steam. Consequently, the creative sector pulled the rug from under the other sectors’ feet and became the second-largest sector in Botswana, even rising faster than that of the largest — diamonds.

With the government’s rapid response and implementation of various programs and strategies, coupled with active participation from Batswana on the ground in various sectors, Botswana became the first country in the world to surpass the United Nation’s 95-95-95 target in 2024 today, a goal set to mitigate the prevalence of the virus. President Molepo made the announcement on the eve of our day of independence through the media during a State of the Nation Address.

“In addition to the infection rate now at zero, six years before the UN’s target, we’ve made a significant breakthrough. Our scientists have finally found a cure for this dreaded disease. We have emerged victorious, my people. Give yourselves a pat on the back. Let not our morale falter as we head into the future. Pula!” he cried in Setswana.

I retired and stepped down as TSHWUB chairperson two months after the press release and focused solely on creating art. Letting go of over three and a half decades of social work alleviated some of my insecurities and fears, opening me up to the prospect of intimacy with my best friend. On one particular day, the thirty-second anniversary of my sister’s passing, Masa had accompanied me to the cemetery to visit Bonolo. She had also accompanied me to Sbrana to see my dear mother, who could barely remember my name. Masa held my hand on our way to the car and squeezed it. In that moment, it dawned on me that she was the woman I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. As we entered the car, I gazed at her and smiled. Before inserting the key into the ignition, I inhaled deeply and spoke.

“I thought you’d never ask!” Masa said when I asked her out. 

Only God knew how a woman of her calibre could wait so many years for an indecisive man like me. Only God knew how we finally defeated the foe that had once shaken me, my co-workers and my fellow country people to the core, threatening to crumble that which we were trying so hard to build—a civilisation to be reckoned with.

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Laone J. Mangwa is a Motswana writer, author, spoken word poet, and conduit fascinated with how life mimics art and vice versa. Some of his works have been published in The Kalahari Review, IBUA Journal, Voices That Sing Behind The Veil Anthology and Petlwana Journal. He has authored multiple eBooks, including Chronicles of an Unbound Traveler 1, 2 & 3, Tellings from The Ethers, and The Great Mystery and Starlight Sensations.