Grief is an unyielding companion, an ever-present weight that we learn to bear. It’s strange, isn’t it? How we can hold so much grief for someone who is no longer with us. I often describe you as the love of my life, the one who got away, but in reality, you never truly left. It has been 18 years since you passed, and I haven’t found a love that compares to what we had.
Some may say it was just a short relationship, questioning its significance. How serious was it, really? they ask with gentle concern. Only a few months, I reply, but oh, they were months that changed everything.
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My life has moved on, leaving behind the wild nights of dancing in clubs, the Sunday afternoons spent recovering with cold beers and a barbecue. But the memories, like sunsets and warm sunshine, still stir old emotions. The melodies of R&B songs bring back the echoes of our time together.
I find myself revisiting our first meeting countless times—the moment when you and your friends rescued me on that scorching African afternoon. I was waiting for a bus that may never come, and there you were, surprising me with a lift home. It wasn’t the first time you saved me that weekend, as I struggled to find my place in a hostile world.
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With you, I felt safe. The anxieties and fears I carried for months dissipated in your embrace. As we shared our stories, I found solace in your love. But beneath it all lurked a devastating threat. Your once-strong arms grew thin, and the doctors delivered a grim diagnosis—tuberculosis and the urgent need for a lung drain. And then, I had to share the news that it wasn’t just TB; it was AIDS.
I watched as you stared at the ceiling, blinked, and silently accepted every medication and remedy I could find. Your resilience kept me strong, even as I crumbled under the weight of my own HIV diagnosis. We clung to each other as our other friends slipped away.
But eventually, I had to leave. Money ran dry, work opportunities vanished, and my visa expired. You helped me pack my belongings, carrying my boxes with the last of your strength.
Leaving you behind was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.
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I wrote letters, made phone calls, sent vitamins. But it all felt futile, as if I could never do enough. You had battles to face on your own, without proper treatment. And six months later, you passed away, alone in a hospital room. That haunting image has plagued me for years.
Through your family, I keep your memory alive. I imagine you with gray hair in your beard, just like your brother now has. Would I be teasing you about an expanding middle-age waistline? I also think about the father you never got the chance to be, and it makes me cherish my own child even more. You would have been an incredible father.
Most of all, you remain a cherished companion in my heart. The intense physical pain has subsided, and the guilt of surviving has slowly faded away. I’ve been living with HIV for almost 19 years now, and miraculously, I’ve remained healthy for over 15 years. If only you could have been here long enough to benefit from the advancements in medicine.
I’m not entirely certain about what I believe anymore. The Bible, with all its complexities, confuses me. But in the midst of my struggles, I like to think that you’re still here with me. Maybe it’s crazy, but it brings me comfort. And yes, I have moved on. I know that I’m capable of falling in love again, of sharing stories with someone new. But even if it’s just nostalgia tinted by rose-colored glasses, I will love you until my very last day.
With all my love,
Kiri
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Category: WHO
