We start the Saturday morning off in a tiny training room near Turffontein with scarred wooden tables and uncomfortable plastic chairs set up in a classic U-shape. The room doesn’t have air-conditioning and it’s sweltering in the December heat. I wrestle a tiny window open for fresh air.

I’m here out of desperation because I don’t know where else to go or what else to do. All I know about HIV and AIDS is what I’ve been reading in the newspapers and they make it sound terrifying.

When I told Dee the news of Mandla’s status, she cringed, looking horrified, and then said, “Well, that’s that then.”

“What?”

“At least you can now put an end to this fostering nonsense since you can’t possibly still be considering going through with it.”

It’s exactly what I’d been thinking myself, that his status meant all choice had been taken from me, but her arrogant certainty made me cross my arms and challenge her: “Why not?”

“AIDS is a death sentence, Ruth. That child is going to die. It was a ridiculous scheme to begin with, but now . . .” She trailed off and then shook her head before adding, “As though you, of all people, would possibly be equipped to deal with it.”

If her words were meant to dissuade me, they had the opposite effect. Instead, they made me want to prove her wrong. And the only way I could do that was to seek out contradictory information, which is why I’ve signed up for this course.

A young woman with long brown hair strides in and pulls a binder from her bag. She looks like the kind of person who doesn’t take shit from anyone and I like her immediately. “Good morning, everyone. My name’s Courtney and I’ll be your course facilitator.” She walks around the room, thumping thick manuals onto desks. “This is the official course material but I have to warn you that it’s exactly what you’d expect from a bunch of bureaucrats with fancy degrees who push pencils all day and write training programs about things they don’t know the first thing about.

“These manuals are packed full of dense paragraphs with dry descriptions, and the language is so clinical and inaccessible that I wonder if this attempt at formal euphemism is meant to shield you from what awaits you instead of preparing you for it. Luckily, you have me to translate it for you. Now, let’s go around the room so you can all introduce yourselves and tell us why you’re here.”