Positively Me: :Daring to Live and Love beyond HIV

By Nozibele Mayaba and Sue Nyathi

My name is Nozibele Mayaba, and I am HIV-positive.
I am a devout Christian who did everything by the book: worked hard, got good marks, found a steady job and helped to make life better for my family. In our neighbourhood, I was the girl other parents pointed to as a role model. Until a few months before my diagnosis at age 22, I was a virgin.
Women like me don't get HIV. But then I did.
It took me years to accept my new reality. Speaking out freed meand completely changed my life. Being HIV-positive wasn't my first challenge and it won't be my last, but it has been the hardest. It also taught me an important lesson: behind every statistic is a person with a name, a family, a story. This is my story.
My name is Nozibele Mayaba, I am HIV-positive, and I am still positively me.
An HIV-positive diagnosis may no longer be a death sentence, but it still changes everything. In this frank, vulnerable memoir, as told to acclaimed writer Sue Nyathi, activist and TV host Nozibele Mayaba talks about finding purpose when you think your life has come to an end.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jonathan Ball
• Release date: May 8, 2024
• ISBN: 9781776193394

Nozibele Mayaba

NOZIBELE MAYABA is a HIV activist, internationally recognised podcaster, speaker and TV host. She recently partnered with Jacaranda FM and East Coast Radio to launch a youth podcast, Don’t hold back, Say it loud. Her TV show, #YesIHaveHIV on HONEY, DStv channel 173, has helped many to disclose their HIV statuses to their loved ones. It's currently on its second season.

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9780624089810_FC

Nozibele Mayaba

with Sue Nyathi

JONATHAN BALL PUBLISHERS

Johannesburg • Cape Town

Contents

Title page

Dedication

Preface

ONE - WE ALL COME FROM SOMEWHERE

My foremothers

How I met uTat’akho

Our household dynamic

Absent father

Downgraded

TWO - EDUCATION IS THE KEY

Penning my destiny

The sky is the limit

The year of transition

Coming to Jesus

The final leg

Higher learning

Varsity blues

Earning my grades

THREE - BREADWINNERS ARE MADE, NOT BORN

Earning my keep

Carving out my career path

The corporate struggle

The life of the party

The burden of black tax

FOUR - FALLING IN LOVE

And then I met him

Distance makes the heart grow fonder

The first time

Family matters

FIVE - FACING THE MUSIC

Testing times

Dancing in denial

Dr Sishi: my saving grace

For better or worse

Changing lanes

The termination

Choosing me

Drowning in despair

SIX - LIVING AND LOVING BEYOND HIV

The purpose behind the pain

Living positively

Let’s talk about marriage

A wedding and a funeral

Second chances

Full disclosure

Acknowledgements

About the book

About the author

Imprint page

To the reader:

may you find parts of yourself in this book.

Preface

‘Who would you tell if you had to test positive?’

‘My mom!’ I blurted out without hesitation,’

When I took the test, it was only because I wanted that first-aid kit. I had always loved freebies, and anyway, I had only been with one man, with whom I planned to spend my life. There was no way it would come back positive.

It did.

The man I had been with was someone with whom I was deeply in love. We were a devoted couple and had spoken about marriage from the get-go. I had kept myself for him. So, no, the result couldn’t be right. It had to be a mistake. There was no way I could be HIV-positive.

I would have a second test. And a third, and a fourth.

They all came back positive.

That was the lowest point of my life. After all, I had always been the good girl. I had never given Ma any problems. In fact, I had worked harder than most: at school, over the weekends in Dad’s supermarket, and then at home. I was the ‘Pick me!’ girl who had sat close to the front of the class at school and university, who had, unprompted, done extra readings and additional exam papers, and who had studied when everyone else was partying. I had outworked my peers, so there would be no excuse but to do well. And when I had worked over the weekends, it had been with the single aim of ensuring that we had enough money for food.

I was also a devout Christian who had been raised by Ma to be conservative in my views, my dress and my behaviour. It went without saying that I would save myself for marriage.

So, no: this wasn’t supposed to happen to me. I was a church girl. I was the girl who parents used as an example to discipline their children. I was my family’s pride.

And yet, the test results were positive.

What would the rest of my life look like with my HIV-positive diagnosis? How would I live with it? Could I live with it? What would become of everything I had worked for up until that point? What about my high-flying career that had taken me to Germany, New York, Norway – places that were supposed to be out of reach for a girl with my background, but which I had dreamed and worked into being?

Most importantly, how would I ever tell Ma?

As for you, what you intended against me for evil, God intended for good, in order to accomplish a day like this, to preserve the lives of many people.

– Genesis 50:20

ONE

WE ALL COME FROM SOMEWHERE

My foremothers

It begins with my mother.

Who I am and who I’ve become is in large part because of her influence.

Sindiswa Fezzie Mbukanto was a small-town girl from Sterkstroom in the Eastern Cape, a place so hidden it’s often eclipsed by the neighbouring towns of Molteno and Dordrecht. Named after the Hex River, which traverses the town, its establishment served as a new missionary post for the Dutch Reformed Church. I believe this is where my family’s religious roots were formed.

Situated on the main railway line that runs from the coast to Johannesburg, Sterkstroom was a convenient place for those eager to find better opportunities in the City of Gold. My mother’s father was one of them, and he set off to the big city to find a job that would make life better for his family.

He is yet to return.

It was left to my grandmother, Makhulu Nondiyazana, to raise their children on her own. They had five; the first a boy, Stanley, followed by Nombulelo, then my mother, her younger sister Nonkazimulo and finally Zamuwonga.

Sadly, Makhulu did not live to see them grow into their own. She died when they were teenagers. I have always believed her death to be premature: that she folded from the stress of being a single parent. A consequence of my grandfather’s abandonment, it is a legacy that still lingers with us today.

Orphaned and stranded, my mother and her siblings were forced to make a living on their own. Her two elder siblings sought work in neighbouring cities. Unknown to my mother then, she would never again see her elder brother.

It was left to Ma to care for her younger siblings in the mud-hut family home. These circumstances forced her to become an adult before she was mature enough to fully accept this huge responsibility. Ma recalls how tough it was: they couldn’t even afford paraffin to light the lamp to illuminate their home. Meals were cooked on an open fire, and these were sparse – umphokoqo, eaten with sugar and water. They could not even afford shoes and Ma spent her teenage years barefoot.

This child-headed household was shortlived, soon their uncle forced them out of the house and sold it for his own bene–fit. Bereft and homeless, Ma and her siblings hopped from one relative to the next, seeking refuge. Some of these relatives had promised to send them to school but none of these promises materialised. Instead, Ma was made to clean their homes and tend to their children so the orphaned siblings could earn their keep. Intuitively, she knew that her value lay in the labour she was able to provide but she had no idea that this would land her in an unsolicited marriage.

While cleaning her uncle’s yard one day, she caught the eye of an elderly matriarch visibly impressed with her as she tended to her chores. The woman was full of praise and admiration for the young girl. Soon thereafter, a delegation of men from the Amaqwathi clan arrived at her uncle’s house seeking her hand in marriage.

Ma had no idea who she was marrying. There was no courtship, no romance; nothing preceded the proposal. Cows were paid, the union sealed, and it wouldn’t be long until my mother would be a married woman at just 22 years old.

My mother told me that the only reason she went along with it was because she yearned for a sense of belonging and thought this would give her that. As an orphan, Ma was delighted that her fiancé’s parents were both alive, and she imagined would soon become her parents too. Most importantly, she would finally have a home to call her own.

After the festivities of the wedding, Ma was ushered into her new role as a Qamngana makoti. But the dream of having her own home was quickly dashed when she discovered that they would live with her husband’s family. Umyeni wakhe, Lulamile, being the first to get married made her the only makoti in the Qamngana household.

Ma’s mother-in-law ruled with an iron fist. Ma had to wake from her marital bed at dawn – always the first to rise – to begin her household chores. The first of these tasks was to bake bread for her father-in-law, who insisted on a fresh loaf every day. She had to knead the dough the night before in preparation, and because of this, she was always the last person to go to bed. While the bread was baking, she would heat up bathing water for her father-in-law, so he could leave for work at 6 am.

Once all of this was accomplished and he’d left, it was her mother-in-law’s turn – to be served with breakfast in bed, no less. Her meal always consisted of a cup of tea and a bowl of soft maize meal porridge.

Ma’s duties did not end there because she had to see to her sister-in-law’s children as well. While their mothers tossed and turned in their beds, Ma toiled tirelessly and readied the kids for school.

She always did what was required of her. She had to climb mountains to collect firewood, something she hated, but even then she did not express her frustration with or disappointment in her treatment. Ma was polite and never back-chatted anyone. No, she prided herself on her humility.

Deep down, she really hoped that by being compliant she would ultimately win her family’s affections, though her diligent work often went unnoticed and unappreciated. To add to this, there was her ‘failure’ to conceive, which was always keenly observed. Five years into the marriage and there was still no pitter-patter of little Qamngana feet.

Rumours of her barrenness took hold. While these were at first whispered, they soon became loud and, for Ma, visceral. My mother often tells of a day when the family dog gave birth to a litter of puppies. Her mother-in-law quipped that even the dog was more fertile than she.

It was this supposed infertility that sparked her husband’s infidelity – which was accompanied by abuse, both verbal and physical. Ma noticed that even through all his extramarital affairs, none of the women involved bore children and no woman ever showed up claiming to have had a child by him.

One morning, though, while Ma was busy with her myriad household chores, one of her husband’s girlfriends did arrive. The woman strode into the yard, looking for Ma and shouting all sorts of profanities, most being about her inability to conceive.

The words stung.

Ma, usually compliant, snapped and retaliated by hitting the woman. This led to a full-on fight, with the two women clawing each other in aggression.

The ruckus drew her mother-in-law, who Ma assumed was coming to her defence, to fight in her corner, but instead, the older woman began to pelt her with her fists, clearly siding with her son’s girlfriend. When her mother-in-law felt that Ma was not submitting, she grabbed a string of barbed wire and used this to whip her.

Cowed, Ma shielded her face with her arms but the barbed wire landed on her neck, tearing her skin. It is a scar that my mother wears to this day.

Her husband eventually purchased a two-bedroom house a few streets away from that of his parents. While this put some distance between Ma and her mother-in-law, they remained in the vicinity, which allowed the family to continue their interference in her marriage.

Ma was fully aware that her husband feared and respected his mother in equal measure. And this meant that he would neither stand up to her nor come to Ma’s defence.

Their newfound independence did nothing to cultivate any intimacy in the marriage. If anything, the relationship continued to deteriorate, with her husband’s faithlessness becoming more blatant.

Nearly 10 years later, Ma decided she had no choice but to escape her oppressive life and marriage. She did this alone, under the cover of darkness and while her husband was working a night shift. She gathered the few belongings she could carry and quietly escaped that miserable life. That is how she exited her marriage.

How I met uTat’akho

Ma took refuge with her elder sister, Nombulelo, who had settled comfortably in Port Elizabeth (called Gqeberha today). Her home was a shield from the blustery winds as well as the abuse. Sis’ Nombulelo was married to a reverend who led a large church congregation at the Presbyterian Church of Africa.

Following her marriage, Nombulelo had taken over responsibility for the family’s two younger siblings: Zamuwonga was employed as a construction worker, while Nonkazimulo, like my mother, was unskilled and did the domestic chores in her sister’s home in exchange for a wage.

Ma was determined not to become a burden to her sister, and she wanted to forge a life of her own. The challenge was that Ma was illiterate. She could neither read nor write, and she could not speak either Afrikaans or English. These obstacles made her unemployable. While this stalled her job search and her ambitions for independence, it motivated her to start learning Afrikaans.

For the greater part of this transitional period, she was housebound, which would turn out not to be the worst thing for her future. The house was always bustling with church people, and one day Ma caught the attention of a handsome man who frequented the house looking for uMfundisi. Usually the two spoke within earshot so Ma was able to glean that their conversations were mostly about church affairs.

One day, he arrived at the house when both uMfundisi and Sis’ Nombulelo were out running errands. He introduced himself as Malathisi Garlick Mhlanga and said he would wait.

That was how he came to speak to my mother. It was a conversation that would change her life.

The attraction between them was palpable. A spark had been lit and would not easily be extinguished. He was a short, sturdy man with a charming smile.

My mother described him as a handsome man, light in complexion, with a warm personality that she couldn’t resist. What he lacked in height, he made up for in presence. He was from Alice, a small town that had grown from a military encampment into a sprawling university town. Like my mother, he was a product of a large family; he was the third child of nine. Unlike Ma, he had grown up in a traditional two-parent nuclear household, headed by Maxolo and Boy Mhlanga.

On completing matric, he had moved to Port Elizabeth in search of employment. He was recruited by Aspen as a general worker and was among the first crop of black people to work for the big pharmaceutical company in South Africa. Quickly he’d built up a network of contacts, and they, coupled with his job experience, enabled him to secure an influential job with the local municipality. He was responsible for the allocation of houses in the township. I would later discover that a street was named after him – a testament to his standing in the community.

He was a very enterprising man, with business acumen, and his first foray into entrepreneurship was in the transport sector: he acquired several taxis for the purpose of transporting school children. Through his influence and connections, he managed to use his role as an Isibonda to secure a semi-detached house for Ma in Ilali Ebomvu, Red Location Township, in New Brighton which was the first urban settlement for the black populace in that region.

Red Location Township got its name because it was built from corrugated-iron sheets that had been painted red. The structures were the remnants of the dismantled concentration camps in Uitenhage that had once housed Boers during the South African War. Just as the material was recycled, so too was the trauma: often referred to as the ‘umbilical cord’ of New Brighton, the place became a battlefield in the struggle against apartheid. Many young people from here became activists and infrastructure would often get blown up as part of sabotage campaigns by underground liberation parties.

Not only did Garlick ensure that Ma finally had her first home, but he was also instrumental in securing her first job, at a well-known restaurant, and her second one, as a housekeeping assistant in one of Port Elizabeth’s oldest hotels. She remained in this role for five years before moving on to work as a cleaner in a government hospital, a role in which she would retire.

Over this period, their relationship evolved into a romantic one.

‘Are you aware that he is a married man?’ her sister asked. ‘He has a wife and a daughter.’

Ma was still married too, despite her separation from her husband. At this point, however, my mother admits that she was a ‘gone girl’ and couldn’t let go. Yes, she felt guilt about the affair. After all, she had experienced first-hand what infidelity had done to her own marriage. Still, this did not dissuade her from repeating what she so despised.

They all attended the same church so Garlick’s wife Nomthunzi soon heard of their romance, but she pretended to be oblivious to what was going on, which eased Ma’s conscience. They could be at the same church conference and Nomthunzi would not even acknowledge Ma, let alone the affair.

What my mother did not realise then was that she was neither the first mistress nor would she be the last, a truth Nomthunzi held at her fingertips. Nomthunzi had seen women occupy and vacate her marriage to Garlick like tenants with long-term leases. Outwardly, she acted like she was unmoved. She was part of the bekezela generation of women who endured all kinds of abuse in a marriage because that was the expectation for being a good wife.

It was only when Nomthunzi finally divulged the ugly truth to Ma about her husband’s many lovers that she became aware of Garlick’s multitude of mistresses. There were often fights among the mistresses as they jostled for Garlick’s affections.

Ma checked out the competition: to her humiliation, she learned that all his other concubines were professionals; a large majority of them were nurses. It was clear that Garlick had a type, and she was the exception. Yes, she worked in a hospital, but she was only an uneducated cleaner, and she felt herself to be the butt of many disparaging comments: ‘What is the esteemed Mr Mhlanga doing with a woman like that?’

Of course, Ma felt terribly insecure: at 35, she was not growing any younger, and there was still the issue of her barrenness.

When Ma fell pregnant in 1983, she was overjoyed: it erased years of mockery and dejection about her inability to conceive. She felt vindicated knowing that the news would reach her in-laws, and even more so when she gave birth to a boy. There had been no Mhlanga heir until then, and a boy was considered a blessing, even if the circumstances of his conception were condemned.

Nomthunzi had in the meantime given birth to two more girls, and she could not compete with the arrival of a boy.

Ma christened the boy Malathisi Junior, to the annoyance of the other mistresses. No matter: this cemented her place in the family as an official mistress.

She was also very close to Nosipho, my dad’s sister. Her and Dabawo, Dabs, became strong allies.

I arrived in 1990, like an afterthought, even though my mother insists she wanted a daughter too. My birth was considered insignificant, as my father already had several daughters: Nomthunzi’s now three, and a fourth, three years my senior, with another mistress.

My mother was 41 when she had me, and the pregnancy was considered high risk. I was a breech baby, and my mother had to have an emergency Caesarean section. Because of the operation, Ma only attended to me a week after I was born.

I was christened Nozibele because she felt I was born