COVID STORIES

I watch it all rapidly unfold—the vanishing of cheers at stadiums, pencils in school, suits at work—and stand mouth open wide at how every word that passes lips echoes

with the disease, the worries. Every word. A few welcome mats away I can still hear the neighbors gossiping about it like bats

squeaking in a dark cave. Their worries bounce off through the empty streets. And for those that don’t speak of it—the elderly couple five front yards down—

the silence speaks enough. Whispers of how long it’ll last, six weeks or six months, only cough up

how little we know. Medical soldiers march, hospital trenches sink, and ambulance tanks trample over

suburban streets, urban avenues, and rural plains, but I don’t know what flag the other side is boasting. It should feel as foreign as a blizzard in July, as

wearing someone else’s glasses. But as I watch it all go by, as I watch and feel an invisible tornado slice up countries at a time, I wonder if all this change is here to Stay.

 

 

 

I don’t think I ever emptied a bowl of water on my sisters’ hair when I was a kid. My father hurriedly separated us when I came of age. Before then, we—my three sisters and I—shared a bedroom. We slept in the same bed, positioning ourselves like logs of wood. That was in the early 2000s when we lived in Mushin, Lagos. After we moved to our new house in Ikorodu, Lagos, I got the chance to sleep in a different room, while all my sisters shared a room.

We grew, and my father sent me to boarding school in another state—Ogun. I and my younger sister, Flourish, attended a mixed-gender school, while my older sisters, Favor, and Perfecta, attended an all-girls school. My parents planned their childbearing so that there’s a two or three year gap between us. Even though I and Flourish attended the same school, we only ever saw each other a couple of times every day. And that was during open gatherings of both male and female students.

I have spent most of my life outside my home, collating memories and experiences in the world. In the past decade, I only spent a maximum of three months at home in a year, until now, when the pandemic coerced us to remain under the same roof.

If all the movies I’ve seen with female characters have taught me anything, it’s that women cherish their hair as if it were strands of stars their scalps produced.

On the day I remember like it was only an hour ago, Flourish barged into my room, halting my writing. I sat on my bed, editing and revising a story on my laptop. It rained and the chilly weather compelled me to wear a cardigan while indoors. Her face stiffened with gloom; her eyes watery as she spoke to me, almost like a slice of onions got stuck in her eyes. Following minutes of explanation, she revealed that her hair was itching, and she thought she had dandruff. I struggled to understand why she was reacting as if it was eating away at her brain. Soon tears dripped from her eyes in a thin line; the sight convincing me to desert my bed.

She googled how to get rid of dandruff on her Infinix phone. And her findings drove her to watch a video. On YouTube, the lady listed: apple cider vinegar, baking soda, lime, or lemon. Those were the necessities to send dandruff packing from her hair. Fortunately, we had the ingredients in the kitchen. The thought of rushing out to a store already put my heart on a racetrack. I watched her mix them in a bowl in the kitchen, stirring with a spoon. For a second, one could mistake it for a juice.

It hadn’t dawned on me that I would wash her hair until she carried a stool and crammed the air with utterances of my name. My father was asleep. My mom had traveled before the pandemic to visit Favor, who gave birth in January and was stuck in Ghana (Favor married and relocated). Perfecta who is an alternative medicine practitioner wasn’t at home. She hadn’t returned from the hospital. What’s more, my younger sister wasn’t ready to wait. She wanted her hair washed before the hour’s end.

When I realized there was nobody else, I followed her to the bathroom. She sat on a wooden stool and bowed her head underneath the tap. I dunked my hand in the bowl, scooped the substance, and scoured it on her head, massaging it as she requested. Yet she grumbled she wasn’t feeling my fingers on her scalp, so I pressed more enthusiastically until my fingers felt numb.

As instructed by the YouTube lady: apply the mixture, then leave for ten minutes. Afterward, you wash with shampoo. And you’re done.

Ten minutes passed and I applied shampoo on her hair. The shampoo I used contained aloe vera—her usual kind. Her hair frothed; her head looked as though she wore ice cream. I scoured her hair under the running tap. There was also a bucket in the bathroom filled with water. Intermittently, I poured water on her hair from the bucket using a bowl. With more water on her hair, it soon lost its soapiness.

Seconds later, she wrapped her head with a blue towel and stood in front of a full-length mirror. The smile on her face after I finished washing her hair could probably banish a gathering of dark clouds. Her feeling of happiness infected me and I returned to my room grinning at a job well done.

I am not happy with the way things are going. I know there are other people like me out there. Before this lockdown, eight hours was always too long for me to sleep. I would fall sleep around twelve and wake up by six. Gone are the days, and maybe they are returning, because right now, I don’t know when this is going to end.

I have been thinking maybe I’m depressed because the listless emptiness in the way I feel does not seem far away from depression. I now have a mercurial aura about almost everything; sometimes I’m happy, sometimes I’m sad, and both seem to occur for no apparent reason. It’s almost like the turn of the weather: sometimes expected, sometimes unexpected.

It’s been six weeks now since I left my parent’s house and moved to my grandma’s— both in Kwara State, Nigeria. But it’s now getting worse day by day. My parent’s asylum was lively. I could joke a bit with my siblings. I could also go to my friend’s place to have tête-à-tête with him. Sometimes I went to the football pitch down the street where I live, to play or watch football. Nonetheless, I got fed up, carrying out the same routine every day was unbearable.

Grandma’s place has been like an inferno for me, no one to talk to, no one can relate to the type of life I live. I’m on my own now, I wake up anytime I like, eat anytime I deem fit, and whatnot.  What was constant when I got here is reading and writing; for now, it’s incessant reading and occasional writing. My writing became occasional because of boredom, I just can’t think straight. Now is one of the occasional times.

Something positive that I can point out here is that my reading coverage per day has increased, and my writing output, increased. If that’s only what I’m taking out of this cul-de-sac epoch, I would be happy. It has always being my dream to be a creative writer. The problem now is this odd time. When we are resuming back to school is what I need to buoy up. Just like most Nigerian students, I want to go back to school. I’ve missed the aura like an addicted drunkard who has long been ostracised from alcohol. I’m antsy to hear our resumption date.

I’ve been contemplating going back to my parent’s home or staying here. If I see some signs that we are resuming soon, and if my writing improves the way I want it to, I would stay here and live with the constant mercuriality of my feelings and depression, while I soothe myself with the loving sounds of Lindsey Stirling’s Violin, pending the time we resume.

When you think of running, what comes to mind? Some may say the feeling of exhilaration and being carefree, while others may just think of it as another tiresome and energy-consuming sport, and, up until recently, I was part of the latter group. Although I had been a runner for years, I only ran during track meets and practices when I had to, not for fun. My perspective changed one day when I decided to stop sitting around my house and go for a run. The weather outside was cloudy and cool, the perfect weather for a jog around the neighborhood. I stepped outside, only to retreat back into my house, because I had just been reminded of why I hated running so much: the first steps.

Every day during quarantine feels cloudy, gloomy, and gray, and I never really looked forward to leaving the comfort of my home and running around my hometown of Palisades Park, New Jersey. It was depressing, seeing the deserted streets, which were once teeming with people. The rather urban jungle of shops and restaurants, which used to emanate the sounds of chatter and the smells of Korean BBQ, were now boarded up and lifeless. I told myself that it would be too sad to go for a run and see the town looking so different. However, that was only part of the reason. It may sound a bit lazy, but I found myself dreading the thought of taking these initial steps because I wasn’t fond of the transition out of my comfort zone. My lack of motivation soon became a pattern, but I eventually realized that the hardest part was taking that first step out of my house. After this first step–when I am actually running–I find the sport enjoyable and exciting. Running helps me find a rhythm and escape the doom and gloom of staying still for too long. And even though my town looks different now, I console myself by remembering that this pandemic can’t last forever. Running reminds me to keep moving, even if each individual step feels so small. Sometimes, starting to tackle a challenge is the biggest obstacle in my path.

Instead of dreading the opening steps of my run, I began to think of them as a gateway to further enjoyment and exhilaration, which surprisingly altered my mindset. I started going on daily runs around my town, all because of this change in perspective. Every challenge we tackle comes with the challenge of getting started, whether it’s hopping off the couch for a run, unzipping your backpack to study, or opening your mouth to speak up. Starting up leads to action. Action leads to habit. Habit leads to change. What’s that one task that never gets crossed off your to-do list? What’s that New Year’s resolution you’ve been conveniently ignoring? What’s that one thing you’ve always wanted to do but just… never started? Taking the first step makes the rest a bit easier, even on a cloudy day.

 

 

 

Remember, the ashes of history still pulse – Plato,
and τὰ πάντα ῥεῖ καὶ οὐδὲν μένει.Tà pánta rheî
kaì oudèn ménei. Meaning everything flows,

nothing is frozen. Remember, when the world
withers into shaky, misted shadows, we are still here.
Nectar still quenches the hazy beginning, the solemn

end. Mama’s crescent outline still gleams heavy and soft
and slow, guides child to womb. We must be
brave/we must be brave/we must be
brave ripples smooth and afraid

from her mouth, a silken mantra. Our faces still undress like peeled
clementine at the kitchen table, unraveling from the comfort
of steamed idlis piled high. Remember, loneliness is only

a flexing touch, the act of feeling the weight of the universe
flush under a single raw palm, trembling. We are not alone.
Night watches silently, skates holy fingers through the earth

for reprieve. She knows fear and ignorance always tastes
better in the dark. Remember, in the nearby grocery
store, everyone is paralyzed. By the register, apologies uncover

themselves faster than truths. We are all just hands lifted
from wavering moments, pulled in by gravity, reaching
for steady heartbeats that feel impossibly distant. It’s a bitter

Monday night. Our heartstrings are pulled taut against
the unknown, against zoom windows and breaking news.
The streetlights are cold and drained and alone. Time cloaks

our bodies with something fierce and we can’t stop counting
our bones to make sure they’re still there. But remember,
see the beauty in everything. Watch the sunflowers turn

away from their own shadows, basking in the hardened sunlight.
Remember, prayer requires only a throat and intention.
Remember, we are more together than ever before, crying stars

shifting light across our aching bodies, tumbling
in the dark. Remember, we will be okay. Now, we spoon
comfort from the universe into our lungs like a second

dawn, fluxing with color. Soon, we will be reborn,
strength blossoming, flush
with a new understanding of our world.

This season is hazy and overripe. I’ve been working from home or more accurately, sweating from home, since I prefer the occasional sauna of my childhood bedroom to our wintery basement. My carry-on sits unpacked in the corner of my room where I placed it four months ago — a single sweater lolling out of its mouth as if it missed its chance to speak up, as if it’s expecting to be thrown roughly into the trunk of a car and taken back to the city at any moment. But we’ll both have to wait until next summer, at the earliest.

In the meantime, I open the windows and wait for the smoky blues of rain. I could sit in it for the rest of my life – I could believe anything with those cool honest hands on my face.

*

On dryer nights, fireflies glitter leisurely near the garden like ornaments. It turns out that although they can’t bite, sting, or carry diseases, their lights are poisonous. I’ve just turned 20, which means less than I expected, which means that I’m banished from the kingdom but I’m still on TikTok every day. Which means that people are dying every day and if I hadn’t been thrown out of the world, I wouldn’t have finally figured out who I want to be. It turns out that fireflies only have an adult lifespan of two months, despite spending a year growing as larvae. It turns out there have been doves nesting outside my window despite living here for almost half of my life, and I had never known until they were pointed out to me.

*

I have to say it’s impressive that the sun completes its rotations daily without fail, without ever falling gracelessly into another sky, or showering us in flames. I’m growing restless, on the other hand, even though I love my own company. The days have been at their brightest for weeks, but the nights grow darker. I bike across town and see my friends, the black-eyed geese in their elegant suits, the butterflies drifting like tiny fires near my wheels, and several storms of birds. If I was someone else, I’d know each of their species. But the wind, sweet and white as ice cream, can lull you into any comfort.

*
How fortunate I am — to have only small worries, buzzing around my ears as mindlessly as flies.