I cried for several weeks and refused to be comforted. Nothing would make sense to me any more, Bob* was gone, never to come back. He left me with only a bunch of nostalgic memories.
He was more than a partner to me, we grew up and played together in the same village, went to the same school, his instincts detected what mine detected, his thoughts reflected my thoughts and we shared a journey of understanding and friendship. Bob was more than a brother to me. As we grew up, we shared stories about our secret lovers and developed a journal we christened "lovers diary".
After completing high school, Bob pursued law in Kenya's Nairobi University while I went for journalism. We remained very close to each other long after we completed our courses and started practising in our respective professions.
When I tested positive for HIV, Bob stood with me like a brother. He had long left Nairobi and was practising in Western Kenya where he was doing very well. Last year Bob and his girlfriend, Marie, visited me. He looked distant and was not in a hurry to run to the fridge for his favorite coke as usual. I knew something was wrong but did not expect what he disclosed.
We gave each other the pet names Sister and Brother Don't. We had got the names from the many warnings we used to give each other. "Sister Don't," he said, calling me by the pet name, "lets take a walk as Marie prepares lunch." I glanced at Marie for any signs of disapproval but the beautiful smile was evident; permission granted.
"Sister Don't, all is not okay," he said while we walked, "I tested HIV positive but I can't go to the Comprehensive Care Centers, I am a renown lawyer and..."
"Stop it Brother Don't!" I interrupted, momentarily disgusted. I explained that this virus has nothing to do with profession, career or racial background. If anything, I pointed out, as a journalist I was more in the public domain than him. Bob was not convinced. He had not told another soul about his status, not even Marie. Numerous visits and phone calls that followed in my effort to help him bore no fruit.
He still clung to his pride and wondered what his collegues, friends and professors from his former university would think about him. On his death bed,early this year, he wrote me a note: "Sister Don't, remember our many don'ts. This is probably the last 'don't' I am giving you. Please don't disclose my status to anybody even after I have gone. I have been a very respected lawyer!" I was given the letter by his lawyer a day after he died.
No words could console me. Why would Bob die such a cowardly death? What pride was this that someone would cling to until the grave? I watched Bob's funeral prosession from a distance and when I went to lay my wreath, I collapsed and cried: "Why, why, Brother Don't?" Every time, I think or talk about Bob I find my self crying out aloud: "Why,why, Brother Don't?!"
*names, dates and locations have been changed to protect individual's privacy
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