Who wrote the laws of society that now certain people believe that other people are not people enough—that their rights are not rights enough and so they should be flouted without any iota of reverence?
One might thus wonder what society has become—a beast that consumes those who refuse to be what it wants them to be—those who stand on the top hill and remind the world of their identity and that they will not dance to its tunes—those who are unapologetically free.
In a world where everyone becomes angry when one becomes what they think one should not be, being what one must be anyway is heroism, as many people waste their lives away suppressing their real selves only to please other people, who do not even care about their well-being.
A hero is not only an individual who goes to war for their country’s sake but also one who boldly refuses to be a victim in a society that continuously tries to make one a victim—a hero is one who soars above a labyrinth of laws that criminalises one’s sexuality and one who fights for one’s total liberation in a country where human dignity is only a political term used for political interests.
Alas, how hypocritical that we are invested in liberation talks while discriminating against the minority groups; that we preach national unity but detest Queer Ugandans and treat them as if they were half-people. But what is liberation without inclusivity and without regard for all rights regardless of our religious or political beliefs?
In this 8th Edition of the Bombastic Magazine, we share Yosephina Mukwaya’s story, one that has survived time—a story of healing, resistance, and resilience, and one that reminds us of how societal hate can break us if we surrender to it. Of course, sometimes, stories like these die a natural death for fear of one’s life, especially in a society like Uganda, where minority liberties, like freely identifying as queer, are more treasonous than swindling public funds, and where religion and politics determine what is moral and what is not—and with the progression of the Anti-Homosexuality Act, 2023, the already-worse situation only becomes unbearable.
But speaking or standing up for the truth in a society where lies and hate are engineered is such a daunting, yet uphill struggle, and warriors are those who continue to remind such a society that liberation of oneself from societal shackles is worth one’s blood and that total liberation is not just about politics but also about being at liberty to love whomever we choose to love and living whichever way one finds fit without any societal pressure of prejudice—and Yosefina is a warrior.
Yosefina Mukwaya is a transwoman sex worker, human rights defender, and also the head of the Come-Out Post Test Club (COPTEC), a non-government organisation focused on HIV/AIDS awareness and support for the LGBTI community located in Nansana. Most courageous of all, Yosefina is an HIV patient who is open about her status, and when asked why she is so open about her HIV status in a society where stigma is so normalised, she says that it is so important for one to always come out.
Ever since COPTEC’s inception, Yosefina has been advocating for HIV healthcare for transgenders living with HIV, a struggle that has stiffened every single day—however, in the darkening days, there comes a paltry of hope—initially, it was criminal for queer people to access medical care, but Yosefina is grateful that now, even though there is the acute Anti-Homosexuality Act, 2023, hospitals no longer treat them as they used to. “Hospitals like Mulago now call and tell us to go pick up our medicine, but before, we feared going there, but now we tell doctors and nurses about who we are,” Yosefina says in an interview with the Bombastic.
COPTEC was born out of urgency—trans-sex workers had always lived in hiding due to the hostile Ugandan environment; primarily, people like Sam Balaba, Sande, et al., were dying from HIV, and their families, too, had rejected them, and so they did not have anywhere to run to. “I remember comrades like Suula, whose family had rejected for their identity, yet their health was deteriorating—at that time, our only rescue had been SMUG—they helped us a lot…” Yosefina says.
She pauses, nods, and continues, “It was hard for us to know that we were sick since we were not going to hospitals, but Dr Thomas Mukasa started doing outreaches and providing test kits to the people of the community. He urged us to test our blood, and for those who did not have food, he could give us money to buy food.”
That was a time when the community lived on hope, when their biggest dream was surviving the next day; it was a time of belief; it was a time of severe despair; it was a season of darkness, and the community people had nothing before them; many were homeless, many had found out that they were sick and that they were dying soon, and the disease had broken others down; there were no medicines, and the only treatment people could get was from Frank Mugisha, who could visit them in the slums, and even that was not enough.
“We used to live in my mother’s small house in Bwaise, but it was a terrible place—still, it was better than being homeless. People there were notorious and always called us gay, and sometimes urged their fellows to beat us up, but even in such uncertain times, we used to urge trans-sex-workers to have hope—it was then that I confessed to them that I was also HIV positive and that there was no need to worry…” Yosefina recalls.
Even though the community had been so hostile to Yosefina and her fellow trans sex workers, even though people had advocated for their crucifixion, the storm of indomitable hate started subsiding, and now the once-hostile people started tapping into the community’s growing services: the community extended HIV services to the people, and through Dr Tom, the trans sex workers started doing outreach.
“We were going crazy—thoughts were mincing our minds—it was at this time that Dr Tom urged MARPI (Most at Risk Populations Initiative) to extend their services to us from the grassroots level,” Yosefina says, as her voice breaks down, with pain in her eyes.
But amidst tribulations and trials, Yosefina recognises the fact that there was love among the community people—they cared for each other even though they did not have any money: To them, care was beyond handouts or cash; it was empathy—it was carrying each other’s cross, and when someone was sick, everyone ran to their rescue. Love was grace—it was the lifting of others.
Of course, Yosefina attributes all this to leadership; it is from leadership that one takes up the responsibility of feeling what others feel, of loving others even when they do not reciprocate. But with leadership comes unavoidable problems—often, Yosefina would be accused by the same people she served of siphoning their funds—they always, and still, say that Yosefina spends the community money on herself, which money is not available, and even the little they have, it is Yosefina who has to look for it. Sometimes, both now and previously, Yosefina has to attend to people who are bedridden for a month or more, and she often ends up contracting tuberculosis, among other transmittable diseases.
Regardless of all the challenges, COPTEC continues to survive: Yosefina admits to this magazine that she is an uneducated person, and through a flashback, she takes us back to her school life: Yosefina used to spend most of her time with girls, but teachers could punish her for that, and a certain teacher could rebuke her and say that she was like girls. Yosefina did not enjoy school like any other child; teachers could even rally pupils to attack her for her identity—and it was then that Yosefina had to choose between school and her liberty, and of course, she chose to be free. But the good thing with leadership is that it’s independent of education. Leadership is character, not the many books one has read.
When Yosefina dropped out of school at a tender age, she worked as a house girl—she used to cook and clean houses for people, who would in turn pay her. It was not so long before they started understanding Yosefina, and they loved her so much, and this too much love healed the wounds she had sustained from her primary school, where she had been hated and ridiculed.
“Some people used to disturb me on the road, but I got used to it. Sometimes, they asked my cousin what I was—they asked whether I was her sister or brother—but she would protectively tell them to leave me alone. But a time came when I was tired of hiding—the community had become so harsh to me—and I even tried to commit suicide, but I was rescued. I was hated by almost everyone, including my brother—but surprisingly, that same brother has a child like me, and now he chased him away from his home. I live with the boy, and now he is a better person,” Yosefina narrates.
Healing is not a one-day thing—it is gradual. It is painful. Yosefina continues to battle stigma—she still has scars from her past life. As a beautiful young girl, men always approached her, but she could boldly tell them that she could not offer them free love—she was a trans sex worker whose intentions were purely monetary. Worse, the people who cursed her during the daytime were the same people who wanted her love at night.
“Once an elderly man raped me. This was the same man who hated me during the daytime. I had to be operated on after the rape. I endured a lot of pain. I stank, and everyone feared to enter my room. He hurt me so badly that I had to undergo surgery at Mulago Hospital. My friends could wear masks whenever they visited me. But Morgan Kanyiike was always there to tend to me. He even taught me how to write my name…” Yosefina narrates as she drowns in pain.
She coughs, sneezes, and continues, “In this community, we are raped without any iota of mercy. The man spiked my beer, and then he handcuffed me. He started beating me up and dehumanising me. He was full of rage. Surprisingly, it was not only me that he dehumanised. Women always complained about him. Of course, rape is a crime, but with the insecurity we were facing at that time, I never bothered to report him to the police. How sad that I have never been the same person after that rape.”
When asked about love, Yosefina says that it is sophisticated, especially as a trans woman, to find love. But she is grateful that she found someone who loves her without casting discernment upon her. One, she is a trans sex worker; two, she is HIV positive, but someone finds comfort in her, and that is Mukwaya, who loves Yosefina unconditionally.
“I had been HIV positive ever since my rape, but I had never swallowed any medicines until this year on Thursday, 10 January, 2025, when my partner tested both of us and told me to start taking medication. We have been together for five years, and he is HIV negative. He even set the alarm for me, and whenever it rings, he brings me the medicine. It is good to be open—I urge you all people to always tell your partners everything and also try to understand each other. My man has been so supportive to me. He is a photographer, and when I told him that I was a trans sex worker, he wondered why I did not dress like my other colleagues, but I told him that I fear this bitter world. So, I only wear dresses when I am with him in our house. I am tired of hiding, which is why I dress up as society expects of me whenever I am out there,” Yosefina says.
COPTEC has brought forth change, and Yosefina says that at least there are glimpses of freedom—they can now open up to medical workers about their health; the organisation has taught different people that it is not a crime to be a trans sex worker and that it is also not a crime to talk about one’s challenges.
However, Yosefina fears that without the US funding, the work they have sacrificed so much for might be undone. Without the funding, they might be unable to rent out a place for the community members and access better medical services. Even though COPTEC has taught its members to work for themselves, as they now make detergents and bathing sponges, which they sell, their sales are not sustainable, and that worries Yosefina so much.
Above all, Yosefina imagines a liberation where she is free to be the person she was meant to be, and she wants to be remembered as the first trans person who confessed to being HIV positive at a time when everyone feared to disclose their HIV status. She wants us to remember her as someone who urged her fellow trans sex workers to take medicines, and because of the challenges she has been through, she wishes to build a trans hospital where all trans people and other HIV victims can access medication without being judged.
Yosefina’s story is one of courage and hope; it reminds each of us that however difficult life might get, we should not give up on ourselves, and that amidst so many trials, we should not stop living up to the people we were born to be. Her story should not only be read by the LGBTQ communities but also by everyone out there who is almost giving up on their lives; life is full of challenges, but giving up has never solved any of one’s troubles. Sometimes, all we have to do is to leave our comfort zones and live defiantly. Be like Yosefina. Live your life; live so loudly.
This article was extracted from Bombastic Magazine: Special Edition – The Road to an AIDS-Free 2030.
Read/Download the full edition here 📖: https://bit.ly/BombasticMagazine
