Britain's hidden Aids victims

Despite an improving global picture, in parts of this country we are losing the fight against HIV.

Ernest Nkrumah opens the door of his tiny flat with a blue tooth chip clipped to his chin, and a loud African shirt. His home is rammed with desks, computers and trailing wires. Posters of HIV and Aids line the walls alongside pictures of Barak Obama, Michael Jackson and Ghanaian flags. Nkrumah's humble home on the top floor of a Peckham estate is also his Foundation. His mouthpiece lets him take calls from patients at anytime.

I went to see Nkrumah today for World Aids Day. I came armed with positive facts. The latest UN report paints an optimistic picture, with new HIV infections at their lowest levels since 1997 across the globe. Meanwhile, the number of people dying from Aids related causes fell from 2.2 million in the mid-2000s to 1.8 million in 2010. It remains terrifyingly prevalent, but the tide is finally turning. We are all learning to address it.

So when Nkrumah started telling me about the devastating discrimination happening on my doorstep, I was shocked.

He spoke about a community where family, friends and faith leaders do not recognise the condition as anything other than a curse. A significant group, who still see HIV as a "dirty illness for dirty people"; a just punishment for inappropriate behaviour. NHS staff are still being refused entry to my local churches to offer tests, and banned from mentioning the disease in front of religious buildings. South London radio stations continue to pump out disrespect for sufferers in different languages, and free contraception is not taken up.

"People are living underground, they do not want to come forward," says Nkrumah, "It's like living below the radar."

These stories are backed up by the numbers. According to the National Aids Trust, some 12 per cent of all HIV sufferers in the country now live in Southwark, Lewisham and Lambeth -- a tiny corner of South East London. The prevalence of diagnosed HIV in my borough more than doubled between 1996 and 2003, and over 11 people in 1,000 now have it. While the world and the country is making progress, the fight against HIV in parts of our country remains dark, hidden and is getting worse.

These problems persist beneath sterile NHS clinics and rosy-cheeked health workers. Nkrumah told me about finding patients who have haven't been out for years, people whose self esteem has dropped so low they won't even bother taking medication. His self-help groups have to meet in anonymous locations and pretend not to know each other on the street.

Another Aids worker told me about students with the condition being segregated in class. One patient saw a friend delete their number from their mobile in front of their face when they found out. In such a hostile environment, Nkrumah's flat is the only place patients from some communities trust to find understanding.

Although some 50 per cent of the country's HIV patients are now found in London -- largely associated with the relatively high numbers of gay and African men -- other areas suffer pockets of disproportionate prevalence, too. Manchester, Salford, Leicester and Blackpool are some of the urban areas where prevalence persists above the national average.

Any sense that we are disconnected from this problem is an illusion. Most of us won't see or hear about these cases, but they are playing out on our streets. Stigma in any community means people are less likely to be tested, less likely to be treated and more likely to spread the condition. We pick up increased infections and NHS bills. We lose talent from early deaths.

So when news came through today that there are massive cuts to international Aids funding, we will be the ones who suffer. Over a quarter of my ward are black African or Caribbean, and those that were not born abroad still go back to visit. We cannot afford to be insular on this.

If you're worried that global Aids charities seem too distant and unaccountable, think about visiting Nkrumah and his flat. Read the "thank you" text messages he holds up proudly from patients, and listen to him constantly giving advice through a headset that he rarely switches off. Right now he's struggling to compete with bigger charities for smaller funding pots. If you want to help or need it yourself, think about giving him a call.

Click here to visit The Ernest Foundation website

Rowenna Davis is a journalist and author of Tangled up in Blue: Blue Labour and the Struggle for Labour's Soul, published by Ruskin Publishing at £8.99. She is also a Labour councillor.

Rowenna Davis is Labour PPC for Southampton Itchen and a councillor for Peckham

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Let's face it: supporting Spurs is basically a form of charity

Now, for my biggest donation yet . . .

I gazed in awe at the new stadium, the future home of Spurs, wondering where my treasures will go. It is going to be one of the architectural wonders of the modern world (football stadia division), yet at the same time it seems ancient, archaic, a Roman ruin, very much like an amphitheatre I once saw in Croatia. It’s at the stage in a new construction when you can see all the bones and none of the flesh, with huge tiers soaring up into the sky. You can’t tell if it’s going or coming, a past perfect ruin or a perfect future model.

It has been so annoying at White Hart Lane this past year or so, having to walk round walkways and under awnings and dodge fences and hoardings, losing all sense of direction. Millions of pounds were being poured into what appeared to be a hole in the ground. The new stadium will replace part of one end of the present one, which was built in 1898. It has been hard not to be unaware of what’s going on, continually asking ourselves, as we take our seats: did the earth move for you?

Now, at long last, you can see what will be there, when it emerges from the scaffolding in another year. Awesome, of course. And, har, har, it will hold more people than Arsenal’s new home by 1,000 (61,000, as opposed to the puny Emirates, with only 60,000). At each home game, I am thinking about the future, wondering how my treasures will fare: will they be happy there?

No, I don’t mean Harry Kane, Danny Rose and Kyle Walker – local as well as national treasures. Not many Prem teams these days can boast quite as many English persons in their ranks. I mean my treasures, stuff wot I have been collecting these past 50 years.

About ten years ago, I went to a shareholders’ meeting at White Hart Lane when the embryonic plans for the new stadium were being announced. I stood up when questions were called for and asked the chairman, Daniel Levy, about having a museum in the new stadium. I told him that Man United had made £1m the previous year from their museum. Surely Spurs should make room for one in the brave new mega-stadium – to show off our long and proud history, delight the fans and all those interested in football history and make a few bob.

He mumbled something – fluent enough, as he did go to Cambridge – but gave nothing away, like the PM caught at Prime Minister’s Questions with an unexpected question.

But now it is going to happen. The people who are designing the museum are coming from Manchester to look at my treasures. They asked for a list but I said, “No chance.” I must have 2,000 items of Spurs memorabilia. I could be dead by the time I finish listing them. They’ll have to see them, in the flesh, and then they’ll be free to take away whatever they might consider worth having in the new museum.

I’m awfully kind that way, partly because I have always looked on supporting Spurs as a form of charity. You don’t expect any reward. Nor could you expect a great deal of pleasure, these past few decades, and certainly not the other day at Liverpool when they were shite. But you do want to help them, poor things.

I have been downsizing since my wife died, and since we sold our Loweswater house, and I’m now clearing out some of my treasures. I’ve donated a very rare Wordsworth book to Dove Cottage, five letters from Beatrix Potter to the Armitt Library in Ambleside, and handwritten Beatles lyrics to the British Library. If Beckham and I don’t get a knighthood in the next honours list, I will be spitting.

My Spurs stuff includes programmes going back to 1910, plus recent stuff like the Opus book, that monster publication, about the size of a black cab. Limited editions cost £8,000 a copy in 2007. I got mine free, as I did the introduction and loaned them photographs. I will be glad to get rid of it. It’s blocking the light in my room.

Perhaps, depending on what they want, and they might take nothing, I will ask for a small pourboire in return. Two free tickets in the new stadium. For life. Or longer . . . 

Hunter Davies is a journalist, broadcaster and profilic author perhaps best known for writing about the Beatles. He is an ardent Tottenham fan and writes a regular column on football for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 16 February 2017 issue of the New Statesman, The New Times