Holding hands, Saba and I walk into the room where, two days ago, I was told that I was HIV-positive. With a few sharp sentences the doctor tears our unity apart. She separates us because Saba is black and I am white. Because she is African and I am European. Because she is from a poor country and I am from a rich one. Saba is not expected to live anywhere near as long as I am. By Barry Malone
I have just been told I am HIV-positive. The doctor looks at me, and I feel sorry for her. She is nervous. I realise I am supposed to say something.
Less than half an hour ago I was sitting in a Chinese restaurant in Addis Ababa, the capital of Ethiopia, trying in vain to have the waitress explain "devil stew" to my satisfaction. My mobile rang. I was surprised to see it was a clinic I had visited two days earlier. "Sorry to call you so late," the doctor said. "I need you to come to me first thing in the morning. It's for a test result." I asked her to tell me over the phone, as I couldn't possibly sleep or enjoy my dinner after a call like this. "Yes, maybe it was a mistake calling you. Could you come to the clinic now?" Before hanging up she added: "If you're with good friends you should probably bring one."
And so I found myself, with two friends, driving through deserted streets at 10pm en route to a clinic I had gone to with pains in my stomach. The doctor, a smiling fiftysomething woman from Jerusalem, had seemed a little confused by my symptoms. At first she was sure I had a urinary-tract infection, and then she wasn't. "Have you had sex while in Ethiopia?" she asked. Questions such as this are par for the course for a white man with health problems in Africa. Yes, I told her. "Protected?" There was one time it wasn't safe, I mumbled. "Who was it?" I've been seeing the girl for a while, I explained. She is a friend. She is educated, a professional. "Ah, so she's not African." Yes, she is. She's Ethiopian. "You had sex with a black girl?" The doctor raised her eyebrows and pursed her lips. I didn't know how to react to that.
I came to Ethiopia, to work as a journalist for the UN, only six months ago. I met Saba shortly after arriving. She is beautiful, intelligent and the warmest person I've known. And she is the only person I've had unprotected sex with. I realise she is HIV-positive too. That's all I think about on the drive home from the clinic. Saba went home tonight thinking everything was fine. She was happy. And now I have to tell her the horrible truth. It has to be her. She has infected me with this disease.
When I get home I look at myself in the mirror. There is no difference. I sit on the sofa and think about my new life. I look across the room and see the St Christopher medals lined up on top of my television: five of them, from friends and family in Dublin. "Stay safe," they had said. "Come back to us." I feel ashamed. I've let them down.
I make one phone call tonight, to my best friend. He is full of stories from home. Then I tell him. There is a muffled intake of breath, and his voice becomes slow and deep. We talk about what I should do. Then, strangely, we begito joke. "I only had unprotected sex once," I say. "I mean, fair enough if I was Mick Jagger." He laughs. Then there is a pause. "Ah, it was worth it," I say. "The girl was a ride".
The next morning I wake up feeling fine, but I soon remember. I call Saba at 8am, waking her, and ask her to come over before work. She sounds so groggy I am afraid she will go back to sleep and forget.
I pace around the house, listen to some music and watch some Oprah. The hours feel like weeks, and my stomach is in knots. When she arrives we sit on the sofa, and I hold her hands. I tell her about the test result. She smiles and moves to embrace me, to comfort me, but I stop her. I keep her hands in mine and look at her again, waiting for her to realise the implications of what I have just said.
For a horrible moment she pauses, unsure of what to do. Then she cries. It is difficult to watch a grown woman cry for her mother. I've pulled her life down around her. That's the thing about life's nasty surprises, the ones that really knock you down. They happen very quickly. Less than five minutes ago I watched her come through the gate, smiling and beautiful. Now she is lying on my sittingroom floor, her life changed forever.
There are a lot of tears today, and a lot of talking. Should we tell people? And, if so, whom? What will they say? How will they feel? We talk about how many years we can expect to live, how healthy we will be, the fact that we will probably not now have children. We decide to go back to the clinic to discuss our options, to have Saba tested and have me retested. After a time we move to the bedroom and climb under the covers. We hold each other for hours. And we cry. And we talk. And we sleep. The day slips by so quickly that we don't get to the clinic.
It's always nice to wake and feel a body breathing next to yours. But when I wake the next morning, and remember why Saba is here, I dread the day ahead. Neither of us wants to leave the warmth and safety of the bed and each other, but we force ourselves into the shower, then dress and catch a taxi to the clinic.
We go back to the room where I received the news two days ago. We walk in holding hands, but with a few sharp sentences our unity is torn apart. The doctor separates us because Saba is black and I am white. Because she is African and I am European. Because she is from a poor country and I am from a rich one. We told ourselves that we were the same, that none of this mattered, that we were equals. But we were wrong, and none of our multicultural beliefs could protect us.
Things will not be so bad for me, the doctor says. I'll have access to the best treatment and doctors in Ireland, all of my medicine will be free, and there are organisations that can support me and my family. But for Saba things will be different. She might have access only to poor-quality treatment, she will have little financial help, and support services are stretched to capacity. She is not expected to live anywhere near as long as I am. It is the neatest illustration of inequality I have witnessed. We squeeze each other's hands tighter, and I tell Saba she is coming to Ireland.
We are tested by a very sympathetic nurse, who says she will pray for us. Saba has done enough praying for a lifetime since I told her. I have been struck by the role her faith has played in keeping her strong. Like many young Irish people, I have no such extra support. I'm not sure how I feel about that.
We go back to my house, to wait for the doctor to call. When we arrive the phone is ringing. I know it is my mother, calling from Dublin. Saba is the only other person who regularly rings my landline. "Get it," she says. I can't. It's my mother. What will I say? "Get it," she says again softly.
I pick up the phone. "Hello," says the voice in Ireland. It is full of happiness, excitement and normality. My heart is in my mouth. A little like a drunk teenager pretending to be sober, I say that everything is fine. I am polite, informative and careful to keep the conversation short. I am afraid of how talking to my mother for too long might make me feel, afraid of what I might blurt out.
I really have to go, I say; I have someone here for dinner. "As long as you're okay. I was worried that you had HIV or something." I manage a laugh. "Jesus, Ma. Nothing like that. Don't worry." I put the phone down and walk into the kitchen to find Saba stirring some Bolognese sauce. She turns, and I take her in my arms. An Arabic melody is coming from the television in the sittingroom. I take Saba's hand, and, slowly, we start to dance. We begin to breath together. You have HIV, our movement seems to say, but you're okay: you also have each other.
We decide to watch a film while we wait for the doctor to call. From the shelf I take Michael Collins, which I found in a bargain bin in Kenya a few weeks ago, wanting something to remind me of home. I notice Beyoncé on the television. She doesn't have HIV, I think.
The call is due at 5pm, but 5pm comes and goes, as does 6pm. I try to keep Saba talking, try to keep her mind off the delay. The doctor had said that they were sure I was HIV-positive, that they'd tested my blood three times. Why is it taking so long to check Saba's sample? At 7.11pm my mobile begins to vibrate on the table. I pick it up and, for some reason, leave the room.
"I have some good news, Barry," says the doctor. "You're negative. Both you and the girl. We made a mistake. I'm sorry."
After a lot of excited swearing I hang up, then pause outside the sittingroom. I have never had anything so wonderful to tell anyone. I open the door and find Saba on her knees, praying, her fingers stuck in her ears. She is crying. I kneel down and take her hands. "They're both negative," I say. "You're okay, Saba. We're both okay." She jumps up, and we are in a fantastic blur of laughing and crying and hugging and babbling and dancing.
The next day we contact the clinic again, to make sure it will find out why my first tests were positive. We also go to a different clinic to confirm our negative status.
For three days I was HIV-positive, and now I am healthy. I am normal. I am free.
I want to call everyone I know, to share my good news. I want to throw a party. But I hadn't told many people. Neither had Saba. So in the evening we watch television, Saba's head on my chest. When we go to bed we snuggle together. We sleep soundly, then wake to the freshest morning we have ever seen.
And now I'm home with this story that amazes people in the pub. The perfect anecdote: one that draws pints from men and hugs from women.
But there are 4,000 people in Ireland, 25 million in Africa and 40 million worldwide for whom there is no happy twist in the tale. Just normal lives that, in a moment, change forever. We should do everything we can to support them.