Table encounter

As I sat at a small bush clinic in an isolated community in Mozambique something unusual played out. A group of young men emerged into this mainly female community gathering. There were about 8 young boys heading towards manhood, late teens, I guess. They had a hint of that attitude I have seen in young men in England; they stand - no sitting in the dust for this group. They laugh and make fun of each other; it seems they treat life without too much seriousness. I listen but I can only guess what this very foreign language is saying.   But they have gathered within four confident strides of the folding table. Each one in turn takes his place, seated and patient.  For some the encounter is a joke; banter, laughter pushing, but for others the encounter at the table seems to have a misplaced silence.

The day is hot, the medical team in action, friends meeting, this is a social occasion for local villages. This is a cheap folding table, small enough to fit into the helicopter. It is delivered to each community without much thought, just a folding table and two chairs. During my week I have watched all sorts of people go to the table; beautiful young women who could be found on the cover of international magazines; struggling lone grannies (Gogos); babies who have no idea why they have this encounter at the table, being held tightly by loving mothers; and we have this group of young men growing into adulthood chatting, swaggering, joking.

I watch as one young man take his place at the table; he seems quiet. The lady who is the permanent fixture at this table all week takes his hand. She draws a drop of blood from him, not much, it’s the amount of blood from a pin prick while sewing, or a scratch when repairing a car, a short ouch and there it comes. It drips, he waits, and she waits while the other boys wait and goof around, with that over confidence that comes with a group of young men who can sit so light to the world. His waiting ends and he stands quickly, as if his name has been called suddenly. He shouts. Not too loudly, but with a force of unexpected joy, Hallelujah! This short encounter at the folding table informs him he is not HIV positive.

I watch this event at the folding table at each place we fly too, in each community, with each individual. And this happens in African communities every day. There seems to be no shame at this table. All the community knows what happens here. There is no fine wooden door that closes behind you to provide privacy and protect you from the community gaze. In communities like this HIV is called The Sickness. Not many jump from the folding table shouting Hallelujah. How long this man will come to the table and shout hallelujah I do not know, hopefully for ever.