'God Knows His Way'

My first set of home visits was a particularly confronting experience. The point is to visit those who are unwell and struggling, but even knowing that it was still hard to bear.

I bought five sets of basic supplies including rice, beans, oil, flour, sugar, tea, soap and match boxes and joined a group of local women going out into the community.

Community organisers in a couple of different wards of Arusha guided us to those most in need and we were warmly welcomed into each tiny one-room home, without them really knowing who we were. Each time we crowded into the dark space and were urged to sit on beds, tables and buckets.

We had a community nurse with us who was trying to make sure the people we visited had the medical attention they need – although I suspect what is on offer is still quite limited.

Both the nurse and the leader of the women's group I'm with are HIV positive and take a message with them of life beyond a traditionally shameful illness and practical advice on self-care.

Each person we visited shared their heart-breaking story and I was looked on to say something in response through a translator. It is so hard to know what to say in the face of such suffering and yet real affection for you just visiting and showing an interest.

When asked if they knew if we were coming a couple said: 'No, but God knows his way.' Others stressed 'God bless you.' It is heart-breaking to be bringing what feels like such an inadequate response to immense need to find they think you are a divine answer.

Many people here appear to have very little but a whole lot of faith. There are so many churches which are little more than shacks and there is far more gratitude for each little blessing than you will ever see in my home countries. It is very humbling.

Although I am not here in a religious capacity, the convention is that missionaries visit poor countries in Africa to share their faith. As far as I can see it ought to be the other way around.

Here are the brave people I met on my first home visit.

Babu Magunga

Babu Magunga acted with quiet dignity despite his struggles

Babu Magunga stands up unsteadily his thin legs slightly shaking to welcome us into his home.

Once we crowd in he plops back down on the edge of his bed. We hear how he lives with his two granddaughters and it turns out the barely covered chaise I am sitting on is one of their beds.

Magunga is living with aids and now throat cancer. His eldest granddaughter is 11 and both are at school when we visit. But we soon hear that it is they who cook for him, while he is largely bed bound. Sometimes the neighbours help.

I say I'm glad to be able to do a small thing to help him.

“It is not a small thing,” he says. “The beans will feed us for four days.”

'But what happens when you run out?' I think but don't say.

Bibi Tabou

Bibi Tabou pictured on the left

Once my eyes adjust to the gloom I find Bibi Tabou is also sitting on her bed when we enter her home. I gesture to check it is ok to sit on the bed beside her and she welcomes me. Another of our group tentatively checks the little side table will hold her weight.

Several small children shyly enter from playing outside in the dust as Tabou tells us how she had four children, but three have died.

Her sole remaining 25 year-old daughter who is deaf and mute, stands in the doorway speaking with her mother in sign language. It is she who looks after the whole family, including her departed siblings' children.

Tabou's smile sparkles at her guests, even before I give her the modest gift we have brought with us.

Did she know we were coming? "No, but God knows his way,” she says.

She says next time we come we may find her dead. But she says it with a smile as if it doesn't bother her at all.

Bibi Angela

Bibi Angela pictured centre in the red and white patterned shirt

We cross a bright courtyard where a group congregates sitting on the ground.

Bibi Angela is in her little home with faded newspaper covering the wooden frame of the walls.

She tells us that she had six kids but she gets little help from them as they live far away. She had one child pass away leaving two grandchildren in her care.

We hear that to look after her family Angela collects food parcels that fall off the back of trucks to either eat or sell.

She has problems with her legs and is living with HIV.

I am told she is “suffering from pressure” a term I hear regularly and take to mean high blood pressure.

'Is that not something that can be managed with simple medication,' I think.

Bibi Doris

Bibi Doris pictured on the left

I walk through a maze of corridors and duck under a curtained doorway into a tiny home.

I find Bibi Doris who also lives with her grandchildren after deciding that she didn't want to be lonely and idle. Doris lives with HIV and chest problems.

But when her daughter-in-law saw Doris was sick, she left her son, Bibi tells us.

The health worker shares her personal story with her - “There's a life after HIV,” she says.

Doris is currently living rent-free in this crowded room while she looks after the furniture of a previous tenant who had a sudden work transfer. She is worried what she will do when they return for the items and she has to pay rent.

'Someone is coming back for this decrepit furniture?!' I think. 'Worse – as unappealing as it is, when it goes she will have no furniture at all.'

“But I have this man helping me now,” Doris says smiling up at the community organiser, who looks as if he may be a pastor, standing in the doorway.

Mama Selena

Mama Selena pictured in the white polo shirt

I take a deep breath steadying myself and head for our last visit of the day. Selena's home is brighter but just as small – no more than what we would see as a study.

Selena does not smile as much as the others – clearly she is not in high spirits.

And understandably so – she lives with HIV and after moving away from her support network for her husband he passed away leaving her with four children.

She tells us how she used to have a cooking business, but her chest problems stopped her being able to stand over a fire all day.

She is given medicine for her chest and HIV advice that partly stresses abstinence which makes me somewhat uncomfortable – but I don't say anything. Imperfect solutions are better than none at all.

“You must keep on fighting,” she is told.

And when we take the photograph she clasps my hand and squeezes it tightly – there is spirit in her yet.