When I first began to write about 2020, it was before our national peak of Corona virus infections. During the lockdown, I had began to see the world for what it was, an oyster. Every day was the same. The sun rose and the sun set. Every day. It was what we chose to do with the time that mattered.
It had been predicted that November would be the month when infections surged and, they did. There was a collective trepidation when it was first reported that we had 1 infection and then 3 in the country. Between June and August, one newspaper had termed ‘Black Thursday’ a day when 14 people were reported to have died of Corona. The next day, it retracted the statement rectifying the terrible misinformation that all 14 had died on the same day. The nation breathed a sigh of relief. By November, we had over 20, 000 cases.
Perhaps this was one of the most distinguishing thing about this disease, a collective pain, a collective loss, a highlight to the lives that have been lost, different from the everyday lives killed by other shy diseases which lacked the diabolic infamy of the corona.
Fresh from the Presidential tea parties that had been somewhat numbing, we peeled ourselves from the domestic and into the capital. There were reports that the business community was being intentionally strangled by the closure of malls and arcades. There were rumours that the disease might not even exist. Then, people started getting sick and people started dying. The stigma was not half as deep as the HIV/AIDs stigma of the 90s, when it was believed that those who had it deserved to have it, that they were immorally complicit, but there was fear.
Contrary to African culture, vigils became smaller and funerals became virtual. People usually hurdled close to the bereaved families for long hours. This time, attending was a test of courage and solidarity with a soundtrack of ‘foolishness’ playing in the back of your head, saying that you were walking right into the devil’s trap. Yet, there was still space, a hollow drumming on of the loss of the vibrant personalities and unmistakable voices and laughs that had forever left our world. In the mind of a mourner, there are two things, fear for the lives of their loved ones that still breathe, and the pitch black image of what happens when the door closes. Do they stand besides their earthly container and watch the people they loved break down and get torn apart or do they just sit and laugh with God and say, ‘Owo, this was all part of the plan, wasn’t it? Ha Ha Ha.’ But, at least in your dreams, they should not talk, mother said. They are not supposed to. And they don’t eat either. If you invite them to eat, they will stop haunting you.
Suddenly, 2020 had become the bleak Armageddon of March when it was announced that the Wuhan virus was no longer in Wuhan.
When Ebola came, it was an African thing. it was the year 2000 and at our Primary School assembly we were advised to stop shaking hands, to just do the bonga like the street people. The symptoms were, bleeding out of every outlet, fever and eventual death. There was no cure. Dr. Lukwiya and his nurses died saving lives. The rest of the world was safe. It was just us, third worlders.
The end of the year has coincided with a history repeating itself. Civil unrest, blood on the hands, blood on cameras, blood on the streets, a once national ideology evolved into a personal ambition. How at peace, are those who sit powerful, above on thrones, knowing how it all began and how it will all end.
2020 did revive old dreams. It sparked new ways of thinking, changed the status quo. It threw off the best laid plans and it revealed our desperate yearning for an anchor.
