World AIDS Day;A celebration of True Confession

Today, I got the greatest news of my life. The result of the H.I.V. test I did has just arrived. Having been a “smart” guy all my philandering years, I joyfully tore open the result in the presence of my friends, who have gathered to celebrate my employment letter.

It was a joyful gathering, as I have been unlucky with numerous CV deposited in many countless offices. The entire vendor, in my area knows me as Mr. Tuesday Guardian. My popularity is not only limited to the vendors. I am also on first name bases with Aboki and meyshoe. All my caterpillar soled shoes have realigned themselves; giving me a permanently bow-leg posture each time I cruise into them to beat the dusty streets of Lagos in search of answer to the vacancy adverts on the pages of Newspaper.

Hard as it was, I a graduate of over 4 years experience as an applicant took to running a mobile phone call center. Honestly, this was degrading, as most callers are uncultured and abusive. All these I took in good faith till the till the service providers “bellviewed” their rate and my monthly income, couldn’t afford to pay for booster cards.

I had a stint with my uncle who has a bus. The bus is as disjointed as Nigeria! Every part is forcefully tied with a piece of wire, it is a sorry sight when a mischievous angel decides to piss uncontrollable on earth; the bus becomes a watering can and are Nigerians colorful with language when it comes to raining abuses on conductor? Any attempt to remind them “me too, go School”, brings out the “best” in them.

Now you know the joy of a provisional letter of employment will bring to a weathered senior applicant. Mind you, I have altered my age many times to conform to below 30, as to be attractive to the personnel department, of many companies.

With this euphoria, I started celebrating and called my close friends to follow me say bye bye to suffer head. I quickly surrendered myself to the conditions and rushed off to Federal Medical center for comprehensive medical examination. My only fear being that the doctor should not discover that my certificates are three years older than the age on my curriculum vitea. Nothing prepared me for the rude shock I got.

I tore open the envelope with reckless abandon and the tiny cross was larger than the crucifix at St Peters Rome! Who will believe my story?

I have been careful in all my philandering; there must have been two occasions that the raincoat tore. In my younger days, when my skills have not been fine-tuned, Asawos (whores) provided makeshift/make-believe love congress. But in my University days, I made up for the denials, cruising through any willing in sight. Young girls hawking orange and all sorts were not spared.

While looking for the elusive job, I became born again. Brother, “body no be wood” I made some incursions, carefully selecting church going girls and when the golden time presents itself, my cream de la cream, are pastor’s daughters.

So I could not understand this crude joke of cross against my H.I.V.status. I tried holding myself but courage failed me. I broke down singing Shaggy’s ‘Why me lord’ The gathered friends walked up, read the death sentence and silently fizzled out like a foul fart, to spread the news.

Today, is 7 years into my acquired stigmatized state of living hell! All my friends have left me. All the symptoms of AIDS have manifested. I cough and belch more than a locomotive engine. My strength fails me. Rashes on my body will make Julius Berger’s German floor a child’s play. I stool uncontrollably, highly dehydrated. Even this dictation is tasking me. I daily regret my indiscretions and wish I were a eunuch. At other times I wish I had infected others with this illness. After all, it was a “gift” given to me in quest of Love. But each time I think like this, I reprimand myself and pray for forgiveness, after all I am on my way to meet my maker. As expected, I have become more religious, better than my first born again outing. I spend my conscious hours praying that a second chance be given to me to amend my ways. Honestly, I didn’t have my fill of women.

With the new job in view, my status in the neighborhood was rising and list of girls I charted to nail are now a torture for me to remember. But here I am, relegated to a corner of the house and the look on the face of my family shows they can’t wait to get rid of this stigma. I over heard them talking about where they will like to bury my skeleton. Tears swell in heart but I don’t have the strength to shed them.

These tears are at a brim when I heard that the NACA Director, Prof. Osotimehin has been fingered for ministerial appointment. Who will give us retroactive drugs? Who will make sure that the drugs disbursed are not fake now Dora Akunyili wants to be minister also? My tears choke me; whenever I read Western presented report, placing this epidemic among the black community. In my active days for search to cure, I never came across any investigation done by African blacks on the H.I.V./ AIDS “epidemic” among the white population. Yet the governments of African nations are voting money towards western governments sponsored “investigation”, massively encouraging HIV/AIDS NGOs without addressing Malaria, Hunger and Polio

My search for cure, took me, as you would have guessed, to many healing homes. Time and time again, many around me were healed. This went on for some time and I confronted the “man of God” and was promptly admonished for lack of faith. I did all the things the others did. I allowed myself to be paraded on TV, with a placard, describing myself as H.I.V. positive, did the required fasting and other unprintable spiritual exercise. After two years of this, I gave up. This faith healing business is like a slot machine and the coins can only roll out to whom the gods favour.

The retroactive drugs are too expensive for an ex conductor, an ex mobile phone call operator. My family was helpful but as the days dwindle without my condition getting better, they gave up hope and I started a speedy spin towards the grave. The cocktail required is nothing but a bottomless pit contribution for the two leading multi-national drug companies. I went begging at motor parks, exposing my rash infested body and solicit money. What I rag in every day, is not enough to feed me how much more buy retroactive drugs.

As each symptom rears its ugly head, the neighborhood chemist prescribe a combination of make shift pain relief drugs, whose potency fizzles out before I slip into unconsciousness and a dreamless night.

Now my strength fails me. The day mingles with the night, and the night keeps me awake as I fight one bout of attack after another. The mosquitoes that bug me, I guess they have communicated to each other that I am toxic! The stench of my excreta, makes me wrench, having eaten nothing all day, I throw up nothing. It is frustrating; my third leg still wants a “dip”. I hallucinate and times see myself floating away from my body. I stand out from my decaying flesh and look at my shrunken body and hiss all is vanity. At times like this “astral travel” I remember how I have nourished my body. Despite my next to nothing income, I still took time out rob cream, manicure and pedicure (at the Malam’s) and here I lie, dying and cant wipe my arse.

Though I have known that these moments will come, I still feel unprepared to go. If I can help it, I will give everything to still be among the living. When I think of the conversation I over heard about my final resting place, goose pimple competes with the rashes for a space on my skeleton. My family wants under a cotton tree, so that my spirit will be dispersed like the cotton without my ever reincarnating into their lineage.

Nobody is talking about a coffin for me. The mat, on which I’m pining away, has been designated as my coffin.

I wonder if the church will file behind my skeleton and hypocritically pray for my departed soul. Through out my degradation, the Church left me offered me no food or word of comfort, rather gossip reaching me affirms that my condition is a choice topic for the pastor’s sermon.

My indiscretion has brought me death. I await to be fed on by the worms and pray you learn from my mistake and be mindful of hole you pot as well as the rod you allow to ram you.

 

 

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