I was in great confusion. What could this mean? My husband, Koso, had only a few hours ago returned from Cotonou, where he had gone to see to some of his business interests. He had immediately taken a shower and hurriedly dashed off to see a client. For a woman whose husband could not spare some time with after having just retuned from a one week trip, I was not bothered. I had got used to it. Such was expected of me, the young housewife of an up and coming international business man.

Like the dutiful loving housewife I was, I had proceeded to unpack my husband’s luggage. It was then my eyes saw my ears. I raised the eyesore, my husband’s immaculate white pants, which I usually laundered with my very hands. I had never seen it so soiled before. I inspected it closely. The red smears were unmistakably lipstick stains. Could it be true? Was my husband cheating on me? I had to know more. I needed further tell-tale signs to buttress my suspicions. I searched harder, sniffing at his clothes. They all seemed to be permeated with strange perfumes -- feminine, I thought, or was it a figment of my imagination? The coup-de- grace was my discovery of a strange bra among his effects. Now the cliché was complete. I was boiling with anger, undoubtedly spoiling for a fight. Had Koso returned at that instant, I would have torn him to pieces.

Koso did not return till about midnight. I had not had reasons to doubt him before, but the seeds of suspicion had been sown, casting aspersions on his credibility. I wondered what kind of client he could be seeing, leaving me his wife, out in the cold. Our three kids: Bola, seven; Tosin, five; and Shola, three, had all gone to bed. With nothing to occupy my hands and mind, my thoughts was tuned back to my husband’s glaring infidelity. The popular radio jingle suddenly began to play:

                                    Beware of casual sex

                                    And multiple sex partners;

                                    Be faithful to your spouse.

                                    Hear  my people o!

                                    Aids is real.

It struck me with a jolt. I was not invulnerable to the dreaded Aids that have no cure. ‘That which culminates in red sand’ as our people termed illnesses from which one never recovered from. My husband had only to contact it from any of his numerous mistresses, perhaps prostitutes, for what type of woman will condescend to sleep with a married man. I was horror stricken. Will I shrivel up and die like my friend, Alani? God forbid! I must not leave my yet tender children motherless. Now I think of Alani, we had both been classmates at secondary school. We were quite close. It was thought we were sisters and we hid nothing from each other. Oh Alani! What a shameful death she had. I remember how it all happened.

That afternoon, I was feeding my last baby, Shola. Like all males, he was very greedy for my breasts, always wanting more and more. That reminds me of a joke I had once heard that males are never done with breasts. From their mother’s they proceed to their girlfriend’s and then to their wife’s. Allow them and they will as well seek their daughter’s. The doorbell pealed and in came Alani looking downcast. She looked like she’d seen a ghost. Luckily, I was almost through with feeding Shola. I cleaned him up and laid him on his cot. He soon occupied himself with playing with his toys and uttering unintelligible gibberish that sounded like the Pentecostals speaking in tongues. This never failed to elicit a smile from me, but today, I was tensed up, not even the way he kicked his legs towards me, laughing spiritedly could assuage my worries. Normally, the contentment of my lovely children as I did things for them always left me satisfied and happy.

Alani looked like she’d seen death. What could have gone wrong? Had her husband, Bayo, who was a traveling merchant met with an accident? Now that I think of it, he should have rather died in an accident, leaving his wife widowed but alive to care for their children, than the tragedy which he brought upon them.

“Alani, what has happened?” I asked, taking her in my arms.

To my chagrin she broke into uncontrollable sobs.

“Alani, what is it?” I asked again, preparing myself for the worst.

I was sure now that Bayo was dead.

“Ah! The world has fallen on my head,” she lamented and continued to weep, heaving and sighing, the sobs wracking her huge frame in paroxysms of pain and despair.

In that split moment, I had visions of her widowed, a poor housewife, having to toil exceedingly hard to make ends meet. I even contemplated on the wickedness her in-laws will mete out on her, seizing her husband’s properties and daring her to do her worst. With what will she bring up her four children? Ah! Alani, this world is indeed unfair.

“Speak up Alani. There is nothing new under the sun. Did our people not say that nothing seen by the eyes would make it shed blood? If the world falls, it will not only be on your head but mine also.  A problem shared is a problem solved,” I said, coaxing her to tell me for I was dying of suspense, torturing myself with grotesque images.

I was not prepared for her shocking revelation.

“It is Bayo, he….”

I thought as much. My worst fears had been confirmed.

“What about Bayo?” I asked, my heart thumping in suppressed distress while cleaning her face with a napkin.

“Bayo has been diagnosed as suffering from… mm … full blown AIDS,” she said, still sobbing.

Now I knew I had not heard aright. My ears must have been playing tricks on me. I had never seen someone suffering from AIDS before. Once begins an experience. Would I start with my best friend’s husband?

“Are you telling me that Bayo has got the dreaded AIDS?” I mournfully asked, immediately regretting my action.

I was adding to her distress. She expected me to take charge.

“Yes, the doctor says he has a few months to live,” she replied, suddenly laughing like one demented.

Somewhere in my heart a mournful tune was playing. I tried to shirk it off. I had to be strong for my friend but instead the wordings came rushing in my head:

                                    What is it like to be sentenced to death?

                                    Alive seeing your very death gnawing at you;

                                    No crime committed deserving of capital punishment,

                                    Nor terminal disease to battle against.

                                    Your doctor has read out the ruling,

                                    Of the almost almighty judge --

                                    You listen: sentenced to death by AIDS.

I later pieced together the whole story. It was indeed a pathetic tale. The lot of women -- ah! The pains we pass through. Her husband had returned from one of his numerous philandering, in the name of business trips, very sick. He had running stomach and was looking terribly wasted. She could not believe it. Her husband had left home three weeks ago though not in perfect health but hale and hearty. Her once robust husband was now almost a pack of bones. Seeing him, she felt he had been bewitched by enemies of progress who were jealous of his booming business. A typical example of native African juju, the victim is doomed to waste, dying slowly, bit by bit.

She rushed him to the hospital. She would seek orthodox remedies for her husband. She also sent for her father. He would consult a Babalawo, to seek the source of his ill health and if possible, appease the gods to intervene. She was shocked when the doctor announced that her husband had AIDS and that she was at risk. She could not understand it. This AIDS the radio, television and other media concern always made a vendetta of but was hardly seen, just like the SARS scare that was made much noise of only to become quiescent was now at her doorstep. Ah! Why should she drink water and it sticks to her teeth? This world has been unfair to her.

Later, her husband confessed to her. He had a regular girlfriend at Sapele, where he usually went to buy timber for his fledgling business. Her name was Anita. Sometime ago, he had felt the usual itch after a hectic day. He had gone to visit her to sate his lust. He was shocked to hear that she was dead. No one told him the cause of her death. He had instantly put her memory behind him and had not given her further thought. He now suspected that it was she who had transmitted the disease to him. He wanted Alani to forgive him.

Needless to say that not long after Alani’s husband was dead and buried, she developed the symptom of full blown AIDS. Depressed, there was no desire in her to fight the disease. She had not lasted long, passing away on a hospital bed like a candle snuffed out. My grief was immense. I felt I had lost not only a friend but a sister and confidante. It galled me that there was nothing I could do to save her. I had kept the memory of Alani close to my heart. She, whose four children: Kayode, Leke, Bunmi and Sofola were so dear to. When she realized they were going to be left orphans, she had mourned her own death, further debilitating her frail health.

“Oh! my children! God could you not have spared me, at least for this innocent children?” she kept bemoaning her fate.