Grim reports from Africa south of the Sahara tell of millions of deaths from AIDS, and the prospect of millions more to come. With no available vaccine and no affordable treatment, young Africans are protecting themselves the only way they can. PNS commentator Steven Were Omamo is an economist and writer living in Nairobi.

NAIROBI, KENYA -- The other night, I was having a drink at a new club with two friends when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned and, to my surprise, found an old acquaintance (call him Jack) standing there smiling. Many years ago, we had shared lots of good times and adventures.

Jack looked good. That was the surprise. The last time we met, also by chance, he was thin, sunken-eyed, and weak, with the thinning hair and pink lips of someone approaching the final stages of AIDS. Nobody had wanted to sit near him, not even the many prostitutes who aggressively approach and solicit any single male at that particular bar. He seemed quite low in spirits. I did not know what to say. Part of me wanted to ask about his health, but another part did not really want to know the answer. The latter part won out, and as I walked away, I thought to myself that he'd be gone soon.

But here he was in front of me, many months later, looking good. We talked for a bit, and as he prepared to go, he handed me his business card and said, "Call me sometime, man. We should get together."

I took the card, but I doubt I'll call him -- we do not have that much to talk about anymore. I also feel guilty and disappointed with myself for assuming that he had AIDS, just because he looked as unwell as he did. But to be honest, I do this far too often. Given the high and increasing incidence of the disease in this country, many times I am right. But deep down I know that this is unfair. It is also very ignorant. Even people showing no outward signs of the disease -- like me, for instance -- could have it.

I really hope I was wrong about Jack. But if I was right, I pray his remission lasts for a while.

My encounter with Jack came just as the international conference on AIDS was kicking off in South Africa. The news emerging from the conference has been mixed. On one hand, we have heard of small but important progress in efforts to develop a vaccine against the disease. But on the other, we have received further evidence that the major drugs available for treating AIDS are still far too costly for most Africans suffering from the disease.

This means that changing the ways that African men and women have sex remains the best option for combating AIDS on the continent in the short term. And here I think there is reason to be hopeful.

I know several single women who were sexually active in the late 1980s and early 1990s -- just as AIDS was gathering momentum here -- but they have now been celibate for years, terrified of contracting the disease.

I know a few men like this, too. However, it would be foolish to make too much of these cases. There is still a lot of sex happening out there. But last night I saw for myself just how much things have changed since I was young, single, and "on the market."

I was out again -- my wife and children are in the U.S. and I cannot bear to sit alone in our empty house -- waiting to meet a friend and his wife. A young fellow, probably about 20, walked up and ordered what I thought was a drink. The barman nodded, turned, and reached for something in a box next to the cigarettes, matches, and aspirin.

He turned back and placed a packet of three condoms on the bartop. The young man indicated that he did not want all three condoms, just one. The barman insisted that condoms are not sold singly. The young man protested a little more, but then gave in, paid, picked up the condoms, and headed back to his table.

I was a little surprised that the bar sold condoms like that. But my friend said this is commonplace now.

But I was more surprised about the young man's casual manner -- in my time, even if condoms had been available at bars, I would have been more than a little embarrassed to be seen buying them. The young man's easy manner and the barman's unsurprised response as he reached for the packet -- just as he would for a bottle of beer or wine -- said both had done this many a time before.

For Kenyans in their 30s and beyond, like Jack and me, AIDS was once "new." But it has never been "new" for Kenyans in their teens and early 20s. It is a fact, and their sexual behavior reflects this. Hopefully, this means that fewer of them will "surprise" their friends like Jack did me, or wonder unfairly and ignorantly, like I did, if so-and-so will be around for much longer.