I was in my final year at tertiary, focused and determined. From my first day on campus, I had one goal: to succeed. I didn’t go to parties. I didn’t drink. I didn’t chase a social life. Even when my friends celebrated birthdays or special moments, I chose my books. My studies came first, and the results showed ,I was always among the top students in my class.
When our final results were released, I passed well, just as I always had. My friends were overjoyed and insisted we go out to celebrate. At first, I refused. That life was never mine. But they kept reminding me how hard I had worked, how I deserved just one night to breathe, to celebrate my success. Eventually, I gave in.
I wish I hadn’t.
That night changed my life forever.
After the party, as we were walking back to our residence, a group of men approached us. Panic set in. My friends managed to run away. I couldn’t. I was left behind.
What happened next was not my choice. It was not a mistake. It was violence.
I was assaulted.
In one night, everything I had worked for, my sense of safety, my innocence, my peace was taken from me. The trauma didn’t end there. Later, I found out I was HIV positive. A diagnosis I never imagined would be part of my story. Not because I was reckless. Not because I was careless. But because I survived something no one should ever go through.
People often ask, “How did you get HIV?” as if the answer must come with shame. As if HIV only belongs to those who made “bad choices.” My story is proof that HIV can come through violence, through cruelty, through moments where you have no power at all.
I am living with HIV, but I am also living with strength. I am more than my diagnosis. I am more than what was done to me. I am a survivor.
And I am telling my story so that others may understand:
HIV does not define a person.
Rape is never the victim’s fault.
And surviving is, in itself, an act of courage.
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