"God MUST Be Crazy"

9.1.08

Next morning- another busy day awaits. I find myself at the khombie stop again on my way to town. The Stillness has yet to come. No one can keep me still.

Before I know it I'm sorrounded by a dozen teen boys with a dozen questions. "I saw you in the paper- Peace Corps." I assume he doesn't mean me- we mhlungus all look the same. "I'm sure it wasn't me, you probably saw one of my friends." I say. "No no- it was you." The boys begin to ask me why HIV is so high in Swaziland. Im asked what is the HIV rate here. When I tell them they respond, "We're all going to heaven." One man lingers in the back though. He steps forward asking me questions in Siswati. I pick up on a few verbs here and there. I answer in Siswati what I can. The rest of the time I say "Angiva". I don't understand. He gets angry, in my face, saying his Siswati words very slowly and very forcefully- I am a child being talked down to. I step closer and forcefully reply, "Angiva. Ngikuluma kancane Siswati." (I speak a little Siswati). One boy says, "Ignore this man he's not educated." The boy asks me my name. "Simphiwe" (in Siswati translates to a 'gift from God') "Uneducated" angry man says to me, "God MUST be crazy." I ask him. "I thought you didn't speak English." In my face again, "I do, but I am a proud African!" I get closer. "And me a proud American. Ngiyazama kufundza Siswati. Ngcila ufunsisa Siswati." (I am trying to learn Siswati can you please teach me.) He laughs. He backs down. I tell him he is skeptical. "Scapegoat?" He asks. "No. You are skeptical of me. Unsure. You have little faith in me. It's all right. I understand your hesitance." When I ask him his name he refuses to tell me. "You won't remember my Siswati name." He says. With some persuassion he evenually tells me.

I return home. This week our family includes three new family members. This is a family that grows and shrinks daily. The mother is Sibonile. She is my age, married to my mother and father's son who is working in South Africa. She is visiting here with her two children- Andiswa and Alikey- both around three and four. She's weary of me- I assume she cannot speak English so I keep the conversations at the greeting level. But today I notice something. Andiswa, her three year old daughter, lifts her shirt to wipe the snot from her face. Across her stomach, chest, and back- a large rash. Prime spot for shingles- I look at her mother- herpes sore on her lip. Shit.

I ask Make and Babe to meet me in the living room with Sibonile so they can translate for me. I tell them I think Andiswa has shingles. The mother, in Siswati, is surprised. She thought it was a reaction from a plant, and the clinic put her on antibiotics. I explain she needs to be on antivirals. It's a virus and highly contagious. "She needs to be wearing long sleeves and pants. Bandage the blisters to prevent her from itching." But this is not the bigger issue here. Turns out Sibonile speaks English. I ask her if she's been tested. She looks at her husband's parents, she looks down at the ground, covers her mouth. She whispers, "Yes- it was negative." Make and Babe pleased with her lies. I ask their permission, "May Sibonile and I speak alone in my hut? I want to talk to her more about shingles."

When we enter my hut she explains she was scared to talk to me. I ask her to sit, I kneel below her on the ground. Silence for a minute. She begins to wheep into her hands, her elbows resting on her knees. "I have this heavy heart. This secret I am carrying Simphiwe." I hold her arms I pull her in I ask, "Was it positive Sibonile?" Her tears flow onto my shoulder now. She inhales deep in my arms. "When my husband told me his status, he begged me not to tell anyone. So I got tested. We are both positive. He's too ashamed. He does not want his parents to know. Me, I don't mind. But I must respect his wishes- I have no one to tell." I ask about her children. "They tested negative twice." I explain antibodies, that a child for the first few years is sometimes unable to produce these antibodies that the rapid test looks for. She must test them again. I'm worried that Andiswa has AIDS now- shingles a sign HIV has turned to AIDS. I hold Sibonile, I tell her she needs to find someone to talk to. I tell her I will look into the local clinics here and see if they have any support groups for HIV positive people. I tell her I'm here, we exchange numbers. I give her my bandages to cover the sores on her daughter's body. She's leaving today with her children. I urge her to call me after she gets Andiswa's results. We embrace once more.

Bongiwe is shouting my name now. She wants to take me to the Reed Dance. I know when I return Sibonile and her children will be gone. I encourage her to call me later this week. Bongiwe bursts in, she grabs my bag and shouts, "Simphiwe lets go!" She wraps her lihiya (skirt fabric) around her jeans. Once we become out of Gogo's sight she takes off the lihiya and shoves it into my bag. A routine she and Simone have got down.

In the khombie all I can think of is this secret I now carry. This woman's pain. My Make and Babe's child- 25 and living with AIDS- and they don't even know it. I look out the window. A mural on a cement wall shows painted silouettes of animals talking. They are saying, "God Save The Humans." Disease is changing this society. The middle aged are dying off, not surviving, leaving their children with their parents. What will happen to Sibonile's children when she and her husband die? She hasn't spoken to him in months- he might already be dead. The working population is dying off and this society is unable to rebuild itself. I'm angry.

"In Africa, HIV has a face of a woman. 65% of those infected are women." Nelson Mandeela.

Why did he bring home this disease to Sibonile? He ruined their family. I'm angry.

The Reed Dance, full of naked women paying tribute to their king as he sits fat on his throne. Full of white wandering traveling hippies with their long beards gypsy pants, opposite sex hand holding, smoking cigerettes- no appreciation for this culture. I just want to punch them in their fucking face. I'm angry.

Still angry- on the khombie ride home, behind me I hear a soft voice, a man says to the back of my head. "It's you." He points to the front page of the paper. They were right. There I was, front and center, right hand raised, reciting the Peace Corps oath at swear in. "It is you they have sent us. You are really here." The man, dressed in traditional Swazi gear, tells me his Swazi name. "But my Christian name is Moses." He continues. "Moses was a great man. He empowered/encouraged many people. So many believed in him, but he failed in the end. Despite his failure though, he did a great many things. So many followed and learned from him." Why is he telling me this Im thinking. "Americans are so diligent- you hate failure, always working so hard. You were given to us to help with our crisis. You will learn our language and our culture. It will be a great challenge. But you must remember- failure is ok. I believe in you and so will many others. I can see it in your face, you will do great many things. I think some day driving along this road I will see your homestead- and you with your family. I can see it now." I ask him what he does here in Nkilji. "I am a social worker. I know the people and I believe we will meet again- soon." The khombie stops, he gets up to leave. I say, "Ngiyabonga Moses." Three women by his side laugh. (It drives me crazy when they laugh at me for speaking Siswati). He see's my frustration. "It's culture Simphiwe. They aren't laughing at you. They are happy you are here and trying. It's culture- remember that."

Half expecting him to just dissolve into thin air like an angel sent from God- I watch him get off the khombie and walk the long dirt road home. It's strange. Everytime I am frustrated with Africa, a moment or a person inspires me- pushes me forward. They are writing this story for me.

That night I lie in my bed- thinking of her and the many others like her out there. 25 years old with just a degree in Sociology. Counseling and giving medical advice to the sick, the desperate, the lonely. How am I going to do this?

God MUST be crazy.