LIVING THROUGH THE HIV/AIDS SCOURGE IN THE 1990S

By Nankwanga Eunice Kasirye 

When Silence Screamed Loudest — Living Through the HIV/AIDS Scourge in the 1990s

 During my primary school years in the 1990s, HIV/AIDS was the most dreaded monster of our time. It was a ghost—no one knew where it had come from, and no one knew where it was going. Families were isolated, individuals blacklisted.

 Life became a package of myths, superstitions, and uncertainties. The community lived under the shadow of death. Fresh graves filled the cemeteries. There was an eerie silence—a stillness so profound it felt like the entire village was tiptoeing, afraid to disturb the spirit of death, lest it be provoked to strike again. It would often begin with a rumour. 

Someone developed a persistent fever. Another suffered a miscarriage. A couple delivered a stillbirth. Someone gained or lost weight too suddenly. 

And I remember vividly—a time when even giving birth to twins could ignite speculation. 

Then and there, the village would “test” and “diagnose” you with HIV/AIDS. 

The Stigma That Killed Once suspicion set in, the whispers would begin—loud and soft, direct and indirect. 

The gossip would take on a life of its own. People would start pointing, nodding silently, winking knowingly. Your world would begin to shrink. Friends would pull away. Social circles would grow smaller, until the isolation reached your own family. 

The myths surrounding HIV/AIDS were so chilling that even blood relatives would abandon you for fear of contamination or shame. Once you became the center of village talk—hmmm, that’s when the real pain began. Depression. Uncertainty. Loss of appetite. Loneliness. The mental weight alone was enough to drain your body. It was not just the virus that weakened you, it was the waiting—the slow erosion of hope. You’d begin to waste away: weight loss that crept in gradually, hair falling out in patches, lips turning a deep red, eyes protruding with unnatural whiteness, shoulders becoming skeletal—hanger-like. You began to look like a ghost of yourself. 

Children would flee if they met you on the path. Adults would cross the road to avoid walking too close. Utensils used by the sick were separated and marked. Makeshift shelters were built at the edge of family compounds to isolate them, or an extra room would be hastily added to the house.

 In rare cases, one or two exceptional family members—often women—would volunteer to take care of the sick. Happiness and joy vanished from those households. Invisible bells of death seemed to ring softly and loudly all at once. Laughter became taboo. People gave up on the sick, emotionally preparing themselves for the inevitable. They stood on a springboard—ready to leap into mourning the moment death arrived. 

That was SILIMU, KAVEERA (I still don’t know why it was called that), MUKENENYA—the drainer. Was It Ever Confirmed? Stigma was the real threat—and often, the actual killer.

 I still doubt whether most of the people who died during that time were ever properly tested or diagnosed by medical professionals before they were condemned by village roumours.

 Another terrifying moment was when someone returned from the city—Kampala—while sick. There was an unwritten rule: anyone who had lived in the city and came back unwell must be infected. The city was synonymous with HIV/AIDS.

 Spirits and Belief: A Cultural Response But society had to find a way to cope with the fear and shame.

 I grew up in a deeply traditional African setting—where spirits owned water wells, trees, and even people. These beliefs gave us a way to explain the inexplicable. Sometimes, to shield a loved one from stigma, families would start a new rumour—this one was bewitched. They’d say someone had taken the person’s name to the grave of someone who died of AIDS. The symptoms were similar, yes—but this wasn’t HIV/AIDS. It was witchcraft. This belief offered hope. Witchdoctors were summoned. Shrines were visited. Spirits were invoked. Names would be mentioned—usually someone believed to have cast the spell. Suddenly, the diagnosis changed, and so did the outlook. If it wasn’t HIV/AIDS, there was still a chance. The sick person would start to eat again. They would slowly regain weight. Immunity would pick up. The family would breathe a little easier. Whether or not it was real, that belief allowed people to fight for their lives.

 The Cost of Spousal Inheritance Spousal inheritance was still widely practiced. If a man lost his wife, her family would offer a replacement. If a woman lost her husband, his family would assign her to another brother. If no one stepped forward, the widow was left to raise the children on her own, often in her late husband’s home, regardless of her wish to remarry. 

Young widows and widowers were everywhere. It became rare to die of anything other than HIV/AIDS. The elderly seemed to stop dying altogether. Even when someone died in a road accident, people whispered that the accident had only rushed what was already written—they were going to die of HIV/AIDS anyway. 

A Generation Touched by Silence In communities where spirits still held power and witchcraft was both a threat and a solution, the lines between reality and belief blurred. Families would reframe a suspected AIDS case as a spiritual attack. This offered a socially acceptable explanation—and protected reputations. It also, tragically, allowed the disease to continue its quiet spread. Some young widows, believed to be free from HIV because their husbands were “bewitched,” moved on and entered new relationships.

 Many children were infected at birth, unknowingly caught in a web of silence and misbelief. 

And then came the hope. 

In mid 1990s, Uganda — under President Yoweri Museveni and First Lady Janet Museveni — launched aggressive campaigns against the spread of HIV/AIDS. It was a rare moment of unity, of political will. The messaging was loud and clear: Abstain, Be Faithful, Stop cross-generational sex, and Use protection. Schools, churches, community centres — every platform echoed these four pillars.