5.

Thursday, January 22, 2004

Isaac reversed out of the packing yard of MTN headquarters. Because he was the on-call engineer for mast repairs in western Uganda that week, he drove a double-cabin Hilux truck. He did not know why or when he had changed his mind, but he and his son Kizza were on their way to the Joint Research Centre to take the blood tests.

Isaac was back at work. To him, the phrase “life goes on” after the death of a loved one meant that time drags you along. Kizza was in the back seat. Though he had wiped his mother’s forehead ritually to say goodbye, and had watched her coffin lowered into the grave, he seemed unscathed by her passing. He had only asked once when they would pick her up from the grave, and when Isaac explained that they would not, Kizza had kept quiet. Isaac hoped that as Nnayiga had been ill for over a year and had been unable to look after him, Kizza had detached himself.

They came to the top of John Hanning Speke Road near the top of Nakasero Hill. It was an affluent area with plush hotels, expensive cars, few pedestrians, and hideous Marabou storks. When Isaac turned into Speke Road, he realized something was wrong with the birds. Some had perched on the walls of Standard Chartered Bank, their gular sacs hanging down their necks like long scrotums. Others strutted Speke Road pavements like they paid tax. As he came down toward the General Post Office, he saw why. Urchins, looking like black vultures themselves, were up the trees pulling down the birds’ nests. Others were on the ground hurling stones, cans, and obscenities at the storks. Pedestrians kept close to buildings, watching nervously. A fight between street kids and the storks was a family affair: it was volatile and you didn’t interfere. Probably, Isaac surmised, an urchin had died in the gutters and the storks had found him first.

It was two weeks after Nnayiga’s burial that Kaaya, a friend who checked on Isaac every evening, broached the question of blood tests. Apart from the sappy smell of the coffin timber that still lingered in the sitting room, the house was back to its old self. Kaaya chose the moment when Isaac’s mother was present, to enlist her support.

“This time, Isaac, we’re doing things right. We need you to take a blood test so we can start treatment.”

There was a moment of silence as irritation crossed Isaac’s face. His mother looked down at the floor.

“What’s the use of a blood test?” he finally asked. “What didn’t you see?”

“There was no post-mortem—”

“Have you just arrived from New York? Post-mortem indeed!”

“And there was no comprehensive diagnosis apart from the unexplained kidney failure.” Kaaya carried on despite Isaac’s sarcasm.

“Yes,” Isaac’s mother now picked up the thread, “the vast majority of us decide we have ‘it’ because a partner died.” Kaaya shook his head sadly. “That is Africa. People who’ve never seen the inside of a lab make diagnoses: She has it because we saw her with so-and-so who is dead. And what is incredible is that these diagnoses are never wrong because if a person does not exhibit any symptoms they’re either on a fattening diet or are labeled a ‘carrier’ of the virus who gives it to partners but never suffers from it.”

“But most people pointed at end up dying nonetheless,” Isaac said.

“Dying of what? Probably some die of the anxiety that comes with being ‘diagnosed.’”

“It’s as if before this thing came there was no death,” Isaac’s mother said evenly.

“All I am asking, Isaac, is for you to take a blood test. No one doubts that it is what you think, but it helps to have ink on paper.”

“Tell him, Kaaya,” Isaac’s mother said. “Maybe he’ll listen to you. I ask myself, if an educated person like Isaac can hold backward views like that, what chance do we illiterates have?”

“It’s now possible to live another fifteen to twenty years just by changing your lifestyle and starting treatment early. In the past, we used to see this disease walking up and down the streets, now you can’t tell any more. Give your child and yourself a chance.”

“Can’t I start treatment without a checkup?”

“Start what treatment for what condition?”

“I tell you, my Isaac can be rawer than a peasant.”

“To get treatment you need to present the results of a blood test. Even then, not everyone receives the same treatment. It depends on the strain of the virus and how far gone your condition is.”

“Don’t talk to me like I’ve no common sense, Kaaya. It’s not that I don’t understand diagnosis and medication. I’ve told you before: I don’t want to know. I don’t expect you to understand but I don’t want this certainty that you want. In my mind, I am certain that I have it, but in my mind I am also certain that I don’t. Don’t take my doubt away.”

For a moment, it seemed that Isaac was about to cry.

“Isaac,” Kaaya started softly. “We understand that certainty will kill all hope for you. But it’ll kill false hope. Even if you have hope today, who knows what you’ll suffer tomorrow? Doubt might give you a week of hope in a month, a month out of six, but think about it. Is that a way to live?”

“Tell me why I would get out of bed to go to work if I knew that my boy was dying?”

“You’ll be given sufficient counselling before and after the test. Some of the people offering counselling have got it themselves. They’ll show you how to live with it.”

There was silence for a moment. Then Isaac said softly, “I could come for the tests to get you off my back, but I cannot bring Kizza.”

“That’s a start and brave of you but the test will be of limited use. Hear me out, Isaac. It’s possible that you have it but not him and equally possible that Kizza has it but not you.”

“Have you ever wished your own child dead, Kaaya?” When his friend stared blankly, Isaac continued. “Well, every day I pray that Kizza dies before I do because there’s no one in this world I can leave him with. The idea of leaving him in this horrible, horrible world is cruel.”

There was silence. Kaaya pretended not to see the tears running down Isaac’s mother’s face. She plucked straws off the mat she sat on.

“All right, Isaac. As long as there’s a plan, I’ll leave you alone.”

At that point, Isaac’s mother stood up and left the room. Kaaya turned to Isaac. “Just because you think you’re dying does not give you the right to treat your mother cruelly.”

“It’s the truth. I don’t want to leave my boy with anyone.”

“But don’t say it in her face. Not when she’s in your house trying her best.”

“I’ll come for the blood test, Kaaya. But I’ll not bring Kizza. That’s the best I can do.”

Later that evening, Kaaya was joined by the rest of Isaac’s friends from MTN who, since Nnayiga’s death, brought their beer and roast goat to Isaac’s place instead of going out.

Isaac turned off the engine, stepped out of the truck and helped his son down. The kabaka’s palace stood above the Joint Research Centre. Looking up, Isaac could only see part of the palace complex. The gleaming copper dome that crested the palace tower seemed to be floundering against the empty skyline. The sprawling grounds that rolled down the hill were overgrown in parts. He wondered whether the kabaka ever lived there at all or whether he lived in his smaller residencies. He held Kizza’s hand and led him toward the entrance of the research center.