Every morning at 10:30, Cecilia felt her heartbeat race, not because she was nervous about class, but because her alarm meant it was time to take her medicine.

She would quietly unzip her purple schoolbag, pretending to search for a pen, while her eyes darted around the classroom. Her hands would shake slightly as she reached for a small pill bottle wrapped tightly inside an old sock, hidden between textbooks she rarely opened. Sometimes, she hid it deeper, in pages of her science book. She would then slip out of the classroom, pretending to look for a book and go to the back of the compound, where old bricks and tall grass stood behind the class room wall. There, hidden from sight, she would quickly open the small pill bottle and take the medicine.

She feared that if anyone saw the pills, they would see her, not Cecilia the student, not Cecilia the big sister, but Cecilia the girl living with HIV.

“I felt like the medicine was louder than my voice. Even when it was hidden, I thought everyone could hear it,” she says.

She would sometimes take the pill in the school bathroom, locking herself inside the last stall, balancing her water bottle on her knee, hoping no one would walk in. On other days, she skipped taking it altogether.

“Missing a dose was easier than being seen.”

Sometimes she would miss her classes. Her classmates joked about HIV unknowingly. Some called people with HIV “walking skeletons” or “the living dead” unaware that their words violated the right to dignity and non-discrimination of people living with HIV.  Cecilia heard every word. It was at school where she learned that stigma hurts deeply.

Born HIV-positive, Cecilia and her younger sister lost their parents early and were raised by their grandfather in Chawama township in Lusaka. Chawama is full of life, busy markets, crowded classrooms, and tightly packed homes. But behind the noise lies a difficult reality for many young girls: poor sanitation, high teenage pregnancies, limited health information, and deep stigma around HIV and sexual and reproductive health. Privacy is rare, and judgment is common.

Cecilia never told her friends about her HIV status. She never spoke to teachers. She never looked nurses in the eye when she went to the clinic. She carried her medicine, but also carried fear, shame, and silence.

But one afternoon, something changed.

After school, a group of girls gathered under the shade of a tree to listen to a visitor, a Tiko mobiliser named Ngala. She looked young, confident, and spoke clearly. She did not whisper like others when talking about HIV. She did not speak about statistics or sickness. She spoke about girls, and their rights.

She said:
“Being HIV positive is not your weakness. It is your knowledge. It is your power when you know how to manage it.”

Cecilia felt like those words  were pulled from her diary.

She stayed behind after the session, pretending to tie her shoelaces hoping, but not sure how, to speak to Ngala. That was when the mobiliser looked directly at her, smiled gently, and asked, “How are you doing?”

Not the usual …How is your health?
Not …are you on medicine?
Just…How are you?

Cecilia almost cried.

She followed Ngala to the youth-friendly space at Chawama Level 1 Hospital, a bright room with comfortable chairs, privacy, and no stares. There, for the first time, she learned that health could be private, respectful, and safe.

Ngala helped her register onto the Tiko platform anonymously. She introduced her to peer counsellors who explained how to receive treatment without missing school. She learned that she could pick up her medicine discreetly from a youth-designated collection point. No long queues, no questions.

Cecilia also began attending confidential counselling sessions that focused on her mental health and emotional wellbeing. She learned how to cope with fear, build resilience, and speak about her life with dignity.

“For the first time, I did not feel like a patient. I felt like a person. A strong person. They taught me how not to feel ashamed.”

She learned how to deal with stigma, how to speak about her status if she chose to, and how to rebuild her confidence.

The girl who used to hide her medicine now walks into the youth-friendly space with her head high. The same hands that used to tremble now help other girls fill in their forms, explain treatment, and speak openly.

She no longer takes medicine in hiding. She takes it with dignity.

Today, Cecilia is a strong voice for stigma-free healthcare. She encourages other girls to take charge of their health, use condoms, understand pre-exposure prophylaxis, and break the silence that once controlled her life.

She smiles and says:

“I used to think treatment made me different. Now I know it makes me stronger.”

Her dream? To join the Zambia Army. Not just to serve her country, but to stand proudly as proof that HIV does not silence the brave.

“Tiko did not just help me manage my medicine.
They helped me find my voice.”