Online Reporter
Tendai Gukutikwa
Health Reporter
WHEN Mbuya Chipo Dube (66) looks back at the early years of her HIV diagnosis, she does not begin with hospitals, pills or doctors’ rooms.
She begins with money that was meant to save her life, money that she quietly redirected elsewhere, not out of recklessness, but fear.
Fear of being seen. Fear of being known. Fear of being labelled.
“I was being sent money to buy treatment privately. My niece in the diaspora was very consistent. Every month, the money would come so that I could go to a pharmacy and buy my medicine quietly. But I did not always use that money for treatment,” she recalled, her voice steady, but reflective when The Manica Post caught up with her recently.
She said at that time, public clinics were widely associated with HIV care, and for a woman already carrying grief, loss and shame, visibility felt dangerous.
So instead of buying medicine discreetly as instructed, the 66-year-old mother and grandmother found herself collecting free antiretroviral drugs at a public facility in Sakubva, a place known among patients as Muguava.
“I would use the money for other things. Then I would go and collect free treatment. Eventually, I had to tell my niece the truth, that I was now getting help from a public clinic,” she said, without flinching.
That quiet confession marked the beginning of a long and difficult journey, one shaped, not only by the virus in her body, but by the stigma in her mind and community.
Mbuya Dube was diagnosed HIV-positive in 2005, eight years after losing her husband in 1997.
She said she remembers the period after his death as one defined by constant illness and exhaustion.
“I was sick almost every day for eight years after my husband passed on. That is when I was diagnosed with HIV. My CD4 count was very, very bad, and I had to be put on treatment urgently, the doctor told me,” she said.
The diagnosis came at a time when HIV was still spoken about in whispers, when being seen collecting medication was enough to isolate someone from family, church and society.
For her, the pain of diagnosis was compounded by timing. She had begun preparing to remarry.
“I was actually getting ready to remarry when all this happened. Then everything just collapsed. I know now that I could marry and live happily and healthily while positive, but at that time, I just decided that I was better off alone,” she said.
Telling her children felt impossible.
“I could not tell them myself. I asked the doctor to help me. My oldest child was only 14 then. I did not have the strength,” she explained.
But if the diagnosis shattered her sense of normalcy, it was the reaction of others that nearly broke her spirit.
In 2009, her daughter lost her husband and was forced to leave for South Africa in search of work.
With no one else to turn to, she left her nine-months-old child in Mbuya Dube’s care.
“That is when I saw stigma in its worst form. People laughed at my daughter. They discouraged her. They told her I was as good as dead, and that she should not give me her child. They said leaving me with the child meant that she wanted her child to contract HIV too, and that we would both die, and she would be left without a child and mother. This was said in front of me and by close relatives. They had written me off, and I too started to believe that I was as good as dead,” said Mbuya Dube.
She paused, then continued.
“They said she wanted her child to die, and it still hurts me up to now. I guess if my daughter had another option, she would have left the child with someone else, because of all the discouragement,” she said.
The cruelty of those words still lingers, but so does the defiance that followed.
“Relatives laughed so much. But that child is now 16 as we speak, and I still live with her, my beautiful granddaughter,” she said.
Against expectations, the baby thrived.
Mbuya Dube credits nutrition support given to people living with HIV at the time.
“There was this porridge that we used to receive as HIV patients. I would feed her with that. She became very healthy,” she recalled.
For a woman who had already been “written off,” the child became a reason to live.
“I was not dead. They had written me off, but I was not dead,” she said firmly.
She admitted that there were days when she herself believed death was imminent.
“I thought I was dying in those days, but it is that child that made me who I am today. I lived because of her,” she said.
Survival, however, was not linear.
Mbuya Dube openly acknowledges that self-stigma led her to repeatedly default on treatment.
She describes the simple act of carrying medication as one of her greatest battles.
“I am one of those people who would not take their medicine when travelling to church gatherings or anywhere else. That rattling medicine container for ART was my biggest fear,” she admitted.
In trying to appear “normal,” she endangered her life.
“I wanted to live just like everyone else. So I would leave my medicine at home. Even my asthma medicine, I would leave it,” she said.
The consequences were severe.
“I almost died. All because I neglected my treatment,” she said quietly.
Today, she speaks with clarity about what she once could not confront.
“It suffered from severe self-stigma because I was ashamed of myself,” she reflected.
According to National AIDS Council Manicaland provincial manager, Mr Artwel Shiridzinomwa, such experiences are common, even as public stigma declines.
“We are now seeing fewer cases of open discrimination in communities, but self-stigma remains a major challenge. People internalise society’s past attitudes and punish themselves by defaulting on treatment or hiding their status,” he said.
He explains that self-stigma often manifests in subtle, but dangerous ways.
“When someone avoids carrying medication, avoids attending clinic appointments, or uses money meant for treatment on other things, that is self-stigma at work. It is not defiance. It is fear,” said Mr Shiridzinomwa.
He added that defaulting on treatment can reverse years of progress.
“ART works when taken consistently. Interruptions can lead to drug resistance, illness and even death,” he said.
For Mbuya Dube, learning to live openly with her condition required practical adjustments and emotional unlearning.
“I learnt to leave the container at home. Now I put my tablets in a paper container. I carry it everywhere,” she said with a small smile.
More importantly, she learnt to let go of shame.
“It is no longer shameful to be on treatment. I started treatment in 2005, and stigma was very bad back then. Now, things have changed,” she said.
Today, she is an outspoken HIV advocate in Dangamvura, encouraging others to test and adhere to treatment.
“I tell people to get tested and get on treatment early. I encourage them. People listen because they see me,” she said.
Mr Shiridzinomwa said lived experience remains one of the most powerful tools in HIV programming.
“When someone who has lived it speaks, it carries weight. They represent survival. They represent accountability. They show that life does not end with diagnosis,” he said.
He noted that older women living with HIV often face layered stigma.
“They are judged for their age, their status, and their gender. Yet they are also caregivers, pillars of families, and community anchors,” he said.
The church, too, played a critical role in Mbuya Dube’s recovery.
“The church became my shoulder. They supported me emotionally and spiritually,” she said.
She said faith helped her reconcile with her diagnosis and rebuild her confidence.
“I accepted my fate. That acceptance saved my life,” she said.
Asked what she would say to her younger self, Mbuya Dube did not hesitate.
“I would tell her not to be ashamed. I would tell her that medicine is life. That hiding kills faster than the virus,” she said.
She leaned forward slightly, her voice firm.
“I would tell her that you do not protect yourself by pretending. You protect yourself by taking your medicine,” she said.
