I visited a VCT centre and was surprised there were very few men on the queue

By Kamotho Waiganjo

The tenor of this column changes, because of two events this week that gave me rare insights into realities I hardly interact with.

In the dusty plains of Gilgil, Naivasha, I met an unassuming widow, a retired high school teacher, who runs a children’s home of more than 100 teenage boys. I have been to several children’s home, but this one stood out, first for its humble infrastructure. The home consists of about six mud walled, mabati roofed rooms. The boys sleep on the floor since there are no beds. The home boasts a cow and three-acre shamba from where the boys get most of their food.

Usually, you would expect a sullen and unresponsive group of young men typical of children in their teenage years. Nothing prepared me for the bubbly, incisive, confident and hopeful teenagers I met. I was also unprepared, knowing the country’s ethnic divide, for the diversity at this home. Almost all communities are represented.

The differences that we so subtly emphasise were unknown in this home. The stories of where these boys –– many of whom had grown up in the streets –– had come from and the achievements they have made are tear jerking.

I left Gilgil knowing the reasons we give for failing to transform are just excuses. We have more than we need, but we lack courage, commitment and compassion. For the thousands of orphans who suffer as we mourn the failures of Government, all that is required is a loving heart and basic essentials, many of which we waste daily. These Gilgil boys have myriad challenges, but speaking to them, you don’t sense discontent. Instead, you sense that they have experienced real love. This means there is still hope for this country.

The other sombre event was also borne of my visit. When I speak to young people, I usually challenge them to know their HIV status, because I recognise the value of this awareness in a sex alluring age. This time I did not get away with it so easily, as one of the boys wanted to know whether I had ever established my own status. Even as I explained that I had no conceivable reason to doubt my negative status, I realised that I would never be fully credible on this point unless I was willing to walk this path that so many feared. And so on Monday I spent a good part of the day at a Voluntary Counselling and Testing clinic. That is a sobering experience, even for me who was confident about what results to expect. The long wait allowed me a rare opportunity to reflect on the value of life. There’s no better way to discourage risky sexual behaviour.

As I observed some of the centre’s clients, I realised even though HIV infection is brutal, it no longer needs to be a death sentence. Discovered in time and well handled, it is exacting but manageable. I was made aware of the benefits of knowing one’s status—whether positive or otherwise.

What shocked me however was the absolute absence of the male gender in the facility. For the one-and-half hours I was there, only one of ten clients were men. I kept wondering where the men who could have infected these women were. Was it not entirely plausible that many were out there, largely oblivious of their status, reinfecting themselves and continuing to infect unsuspecting and trusting partners?

It made me wonder whether as a critical component of the fight against Aids, it was time HIV testing was made mandatory. Disclosure of one’s status would still be optional, but compulsory testing may save a whole generation of Kenyans. Until then, men of goodwill and particularly those in leadership, should –– as a minimum and as publicly as possible –– go for testing, as this will increase men’s willingness to do what is right. Then, we may bequeath a healthier country to our children.

—The writer ([email protected]) is an advocate of the High Court