The Sugar Cane Man- a story of the AIDS crisis from the other side of the looking glass.

Most of my work is just made up nonsense, sometimes I personally write something that is upsetting to me so it’s best to let the author speak for itself. In the 70’s and 80’s there was a plague that ravaged the world. In the Western World, it was claimed that a gay man who had been “cursed by God” brought this plague- a disease that destroyed the very essence of your immune system leaving your body to rot under its own decomposition. This was not the center of the plague. This was a disease that spread hand in hand with malnutrition, the desiccated, dry landscape of Sub-Saharan Africa, where AIDS was not a curse but a harbinger of death. There, the story begins, in the grim dry lands of East Africa. I had seen the cane man from time to time, a tall imposing figure who always was dressed impeccably. I could not see his age, but his eyes told me he was an old man. He carried a bag in his hand, made of a canvas so worn it had become frayed. He carried it the way you would carry a child. The children in our village would leave their village- going from neighboring village to village, trying to find food. I was one of the few who stayed. No one knew why. But I could not imagine a life in another village. When I heard the stories of the cities- of towering buildings and electricity and cars- I laughed. I thought of how a cloud floats quietly by, then one day it breaks and rains. I wanted to experience the world like that cloud. But our village was starving. Many took sick. Many died. Among them were my sisters. I was the only one who did not fall ill. No one knew why. I was a disappointment. I was a misfortune. The cane man came one day. He claimed he had a cure for the disease- the “wasting disease” that had been killing so many in our village. He said he had a cure, but he needed food. No one could pay him much- so he took a few corn stalks from a nearby field. The farmer who owned the field was not happy, he even beat the cane man. But he was grateful- for the village elder’s son was sick. He had lost two daughters to the disease- he was so afraid of losing his only son. The cane man went to the village elder’s house, where the son- a boy about my age- lay in bed. The cane man had a big smile on his face. It never went away. He opened his bag and a cloud of steam came out- which he filled a bottle with, a bottle made of a shining glass that glinted in the fading light of the sun. He handed the bottle to the son, who drank it greedily. Then the cane man poured his- a small bottle filled with a light brown liquid. The son was so happy. I was so confused. No one could pay the cane man- so how did he do it? How did he have a cure? The cane man smiled at me. “I made it.” I was confused. “But how?” He laughed- a laugh so joyful I found myself laughing with him. “I made it- so it is nothing- so I can make it again.” I didn’t understand- but I found myself smiling along with him. I was confused- so I followed him from the village elder’s house to the surrounding fields. He found a small patch of land filled with sugar cane. “Do you know how to make sugar?” I shook my head- I did not. He explained his whole process- how he would harvest the canes, boil the water, use the water to make the liquid gold. “But that is not the cure.” He smiled. “No- this is the cure:” he said as he opened a small pouch of powder in his bag. “Why do you call it sugar cane if it’s not sugar cane?” He put his hand on my head. “No- it isn’t sugar cane. It is sugar cane- because I call it that. You must always do what you can to make yourself happy.” I didn’t understand- but I was happy. I would go with the cane man on his journeys across Africa. He would sell his cure to the people. He would save them. And I would always ask him why he was so happy- he would say the same thing- that you must do what makes you happy. I understood one day as I lay dying in a bed. We had been in a village for a week or so- and we had used all of our sugar cane. The cane man was gone. No one knew where he was. I was dying- and I knew it. I could feel the wasting disease killing me from the inside out. And I knew- we had claimed we were there to help- but we had not been. We had been there to exploit. And I thought of all the good that we had not done- all the people we hadn’t saved. I wept. And then I thought of the cane man. He was happy- he was always happy. And I thought of his words: You must do what makes you happy. And I thought of his smile. And I wanted to smile. And I knew I couldn’t. And I was bitter. And I wept. And I thought of the cane man. He was right. And I found my smile. And I died.

The Sugar Cane Man- a story of the AIDS crisis from the other side of the looking glass.

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