"The people like this voice. I am not afraid really"

This is Masukede Malindi, "headwoman" of Mbotyi. Her father-in-law, 75-year-old Alexander Malindi, has passed the torch of leadership to her. He had five sons, four have died, and the youngest Fezile is weak with TB. Headwoman Malindi is the widow of the eldest Malindi son.

Her husband, died of a mysterious illness. He complained of stomach pains and was dead three days later. The other sons had similar rapid deaths. In days gone by, this might have reeked of poisoning and conspiracy, but as a doctor explains to me later that night, untreated HIV/AIDS can kill with rapid stealth.

To speculate that someone’s death was caused by HIV/AIDS in this part of the world could be construed as slander, so heavy is the stigma. This is something that Headwoman Malindi wants to change.

She speaks with a soft voice, barely audible. “The people like this voice. I am not afraid really,” she tells me. I first meet her at sunset inside the large mint green rondawel where the family gathers to cook on a rainy night. The ashes of last night’s fire are piled on the floor, and the walls are blackened with years of smoke. The women sit on the left of the door, the men on the right. Fezile, the old chief’s only surviving son is doing some ironing.

As we sit in the hut, with the old chief listening in, Headwoman Malindi is quiet and Fezile does most of the talking. He tells me about the conflicts that exist between municipal councillors and chiefs. It’s a story of woe I’ve heard again and again, about how councillors are trying to wrestle the power away from the chiefs.

It’s a difficult one to report on because there’s so much hearsay, he-said/she-said and personal agendas. In an ideal world they would be working together - the traditional leaders sorting out community quarrels and misdeeds, and councillors taking care of development. Instead there's constant conflict between the old world order and the new. Between those born to care (or not), and those paid to care (or not). There’s no clear-cut baddie.

Simphiwe, a young local hiking guide, might not agree. Earlier in the day he’d taken me to see the river where people fetch water and had spent a great deal of time complaining about the old chief. “If there is a community meeting in our chief’s place and I say we need the road there, and he says no that is grazing land, if I fight that, he will say I want to see your father. When my father gets there, the chief will say warn your boy, he is naughty. So it’s bad. The youth are not scared to speak to the ward councillor.”

If the young headwoman has it her way, the young won’t be scared to speak to her either. “I want to change this direction from when the old chief was ruling before,” she whispered to me in her low voice, as we stood outside watching ducks and cows weave in between each other. “I want to change the minds of our people so we can sow together. Because of him, the people of our community are so divided. I want to change this thing. All people must be treated the same, not treated differently.”

I asked her what else she hopes to achieve for her village. “In this area we have a lot of needs. HIV means that children are living without homes and with other families. I want to create a food parcels for orphans.”

She also wants to get rid of the stigma around HIV. “If I’m not talking, if I keep it inside, then it’s a poisonous thing. It affects the heart and the body. Many people live with HIV but they don’t talk about it. I want to change these things."