The subject of today’s Lockdown Diary is a school teacher whose neighbour tested positive for COVID-19, thereby putting the whole apartment at risk.

Tuesday, 24th of March, 2020

I teach at the secondary wing of a primary and secondary school in Lagos. Everyday, I wake up as early as 5:30am. I do my ablution and say my prayers, get the kids ready, cook their breakfast all before 7am when we leave for school. I have two children. The first one is 4 years old, and the second is 14 months old. I drop the little one at creche and take the first one with me to the primary wing of my school where he is a student. By 4:30pm, the school closes and I return home with my children.

Today though, I do not do all of that. The school I work in has shut down its doors because of COVID-19, and all teachers and students have to stay at home. When I wake up today, I feel a sense of relief. Relief that I don’t have to do my daily routine, and the relief that my children are safe.

When news of the virus became confirmed in Nigeria, my first instinct was to worry. When you are a mother with two young children and a horde of other children to teach, your default reaction to difficult situations is almost always to worry. What comes next is that you try to fathom a solution, no matter how temporary, to the problem at hand.

At the school, the solution we adopted was to take precautions and conduct orientation for the students. We bought more hand wash and monitor the kids to wash their hands every hour. We ensured that they sat apart from each other as possible. We told them to sneeze into their elbows, to not touch their faces with bare hands. We turned back sick students; even an illness as small as a headache was turned back at the gate. But all this was not enough. The government gave directives for schools to shut down, and the school director had no other option but to adhere. We were paid our salaries for the month and told to stay at home.

It is why I am at home today, waking up late and feeling a sense of relief that my children are safe.

Thursday, 2nd of April, 2020.

Staying at home is good. There is no rush again. And it is a great bonding experience for the entire family. My husband works with schools on the Island between Tuesdays to Saturdays. He is only free on Mondays and Sundays. He coaches Scrabble as an extra-curricular activity in some schools. It is more or less a contract job. He has two schools he works directly for, and he also works through some other consultant for some other big schools. So they pay him on a weekly basis and according to the number of hours he works for.

But now that schools have shut down and salaries are not forthcoming, my husband and I are practically jobless. Still, we don’t bother so much. There is love and there is laughter, and even though these things do not fill the belly, they go a long way to keep the family together. I do not allow myself to worry about what will happen if things continue for long. I allow myself to seize the day.

In this condition, worry is almost inevitable. There are news of robberies in Lagos and Ogun state. Everyday, updates from NCDC show a continuous rise in the number of infected victims. The government does not seem to have a clue on what is next. Everything looks like it is arranged to upset you. And this is why I make a conscious choice not to worry. I simply focus on getting through the day.

Wednesday, 15th of April, 2020.

We hear the sounds around 11pm. Loud banging against surfaces, loud noise. People outside are trying to get our attention. We soon find out why: there is a robbery going on in the street next to ours, and the people affected are the occupants of the house that links to our streets. I have evaded worry long enough. This time, fear jumps into my heart and takes a seat.

People are shouting. “Off your generator! Lock up, lock up. Lock your doors!” I know what to do, and then I don’t. I run into the room. I run out again. I grab a long hijab and jeans trousers and put them on in a hurry. I check on the children; they are fast asleep. My husband puts off the generator, locks everywhere and returns to the sofa to continue pressing his phone. I cannot believe that he is doing that. The whole area is panicking and he is calm enough to sit and press his phone?

Soon, the gunshots fill the air. I start to mutter prayers. We leave the sitting room and join the children in the bedroom. I sit close to them and continue to pray. I realise that I am shivering, but I am unable to stop myself. Later, we hear that the gunshots are from the area vigilante who are trying to scare the robbers. It is too late though; the robbers are done with their business and have long disappeared.

When I get the confirmation that we are now safe, I turn to my husband. I am angry. How can he be cool in the face of what happened? He laughs.

Thursday, 16th of April, 2020.

We are all still shaken from yesterday’s incident, but we are holding up well. Today, my husband starts to make jest of me. I laugh. Laughter is easy now. Finally, he admits that he was scared too.
“So your calmness was just fronting?” I ask and start to laugh at him.

One of our neighbour tells us that she fell down on her way to the kitchen door, the only door left for them to lock in their flat.

Now that we have seen that nobody is really safe, the entire street starts to make arrangements on how to secure our area. The price to pay for an external vigilante is too high; our salaries have taken a hit and we cannot afford to cut them further. We decide then that residents of each houses will take on vigilante duty. Some people drop money for whistles, torchlights and other things they consider essential to the business of being a watchman.

Nights after that and our men would step out to guard the street. Torchlight in hand, whistles to let everyone know that there are people on guard. We know it is not entirely effective, but little efforts are better than nothing. Night after night, I pray for safety. The night my husband joins them, I stay up, unable to fall asleep.

Monday, 20th of April, 2020.

Today, the NCDC officials visit our house. One of our neighbours tested positive for COVID-19 and suddenly all of us are to be placed under watch.

This neighbour lives in the flat next to ours. He is a father of two, an easy going man. Because of his health issues, he travels occasionally for surgery. This time though, no one knew when he left. The pandemic and the robbery incident are enough to make us not notice his absence. When we eventually asked his wife, she informed us that he went for another surgery. On his return, he immediately went for a COVID-19 test as a responsible citizen that he is. When the results came back, our man tested positive.

I peep from the window to watch the whole drama. The NCDC officials request to meet with him and his wife and the neighbours as well. My husband goes out. They all look calm, the NCDC officials. From time to time, they smile. I am not deceived by this.

“Daddy So-so has COVID-19,” my husband says when he comes back inside.

From that moment on, we are put on watch. NCDC requests our data and we are all given thermometers. The accompanying instructions are simple: For the next 14 days, we are to send or temperature readings to them. We all comply.

Still, my confusion remains. I become scared for my children. As soon as we are alone, I tell my husband to get black seed oil and powder. I begin to check on supply of cough syrup and Vitamin C. I don’t know what they are supposed to do, if they are supposed to do anything. I simply bank on them as my emergency remedy, in case things get out of hand.

Friday, 25th of April, 2020

We all stay at home as advised by the NCDC officials. It is a lockdown within a lockdown. But it is for our greater safety. By Day 5, we are used to it. We send our readings everyday and wait for signs of the virus in our body systems. Nothing happens.

We turn our gaze to the neighbour then. We wait for new of showing visible signs of illness, but there is nothing. He remains stable, even with his underlying health issues. I doubt the presence of the virus, but it is a brief feeling.

Monday, 4th of May, 2020

Our self-isolation ends today. We have all managed to maintain a normal temperature all through the 14 days. The neighbour’s wife tests negative too. A happy reunion is underway.

The NCDC officials dash our hopes. They insist that our neighbour’s immune system readings are too low. They insist on keeping him there. We do what little we can to make our displeasure known, but in the end, it is him and his wife who have to do most of the work. All of us in the compound put in more work to stay safe and clean now. We disinfect surfaces and wash our hands frequently. The days pass. Still, the neighbour does not return.

One day in May, the gate clangs open and our neighbour steps in with his wife. We are all happy. But even then, we are cautious. We avoid physical contact as much as we can, and we keep our distance.

“Welcome, welcome,” we say. Later, he will tell us that he fought tooth and nail to be allowed to come home. We will say “Ehya,” but deep down, we will be glad that we did not lose him to the virus.

The subject of this week’s Lockdown Diary is a sickle cell patient who is a student of Unilorin. He talks about having a Covid-19 scare — complete with all symptoms of the disease — after returning home to his family house in Kano and losing four people.

Monday, 23rd of March, 2020

My brother and I are at the bus park. We just left Unilorin where we are students and are waiting for a bus to take us back home to Kano. The park is surprisingly calm; with the way everyone has been talking about COVID-19, I would have thought there would be a larger crowd. Or maybe there are just not enough people going to Kano. The space for buses going to Lagos is a madhouse. Everyone seems to be going to Lagos. There are a lot of foodstuff though. More foodstuff than people, even. The fare to Kano is now N7,500. Usually, it is N5,000 or N6,000 depending on demand and fuel scarcity. Perhaps the pandemic is the cause for this increase.

The passengers in the bus stare at me and my brother strangely. There is something like mockery in the way they look at us. I know it is because of our face masks. They probably think we are ‘ajebutters’ or simply trying to form. Thankfully, we sit at the front with the driver who also wears a face mask to protect himself from the dust.

It is a long ride. We should have gone to Abuja instead, but the roads are closed. The week before we decide to travel, my Dad called us to come to Abuja where he lives, but I was still working on my project so I held back. He did not understand this, and so after the closure of schools was officially announced and we called him for money to come home, he refused. Perhaps he wanted to teach us a lesson. When he eventually agreed, the roads were closed so we knew Kano — where our mother lives — would be the destination.

During this trip, I think about all the things that are likely to change due to the Covid-19 pandemic. I am a Law student in my final year. I am currently working on my final year project. Five years is a long time to spend in the university; what are the prospects of additional time?

It is almost 12 AM when we arrive Kano. My mother and sister welcome us and offer us sanitizer and food. There is little to say; they are sleepy already. I stay up to watch TV.

Tuesday, 24th of March, 2020

Today, we catch up on the all the gist we couldn’t talk about yesterday. There are no cases of the virus in Kano yet, so everything looks good. After breakfast, my mother leaves for work. She is an administrator in the Mountain of Fire and Miracle Ministries (MFM) headquarters in Kano. My father is a pastor in the same church in Abuja. He used to live in Kano, but was transferred to Abuja in 2014.

After she leaves for work, I watch TV, write a little, check my class WhatsApp group for updates. There’s nothing out of the ordinary and I hope it remains like that.

Tuesday, 7th of April, 2020

Kano records its seventh case today. The first case was recorded on the 3rd of April. An ambassador or something. It didn’t really hit then. It’s only just hitting now at case number seven. I’m not alone in feeling this way. A lot of people do. Everyone begins to say, in Hausa, “Tor. Kano finally has it.” It is a tone full of realisation and resignation.

It is funny because a few days back, there was a video circulating of a guy washing his hands a basin and then drinking the water while saying there was no virus.

The government takes the lockdown seriously. Churches are declared closed, and videos of soldiers flogging people who break the lockdown start to circulate. We have no choice but to adhere strictly. Soon, the roads are empty. On our street, people talk over balconies and boys play football on the empty roads. People bring out game pads and HDMI cables and board games. There is a new sense of community.

Monday, 13th of April, 2020

The heat in Kano is a respecter of nobody. It burns through everything; you just have to find ways to protect yourself and cope with it. My coping mechanisms are simple: I drink a lot of cold water, take cold showers and sleep under the fan. All these are things I’d ordinarily not do. And soon, my body fights back.

It began yesterday with a mild pain in my chest. I am on my home from the fuel station when I notice it. I dismiss it as nothing. Soon, I start coughing and sneezing. Then come the headaches come with full force. It feels like my head is being split in two.

I have the sickle-cell disease. When these things start, I am a bit confused, because I take my medication religiously. My mother makes sure of that. When I’m ill, she’s usually all over me with Lucozade boost, food, blankets, etc.

This time, it is different. She does not come near me. Nobody in the family comes near. They all put on masks before coming into my room. Every hour, my mother wipes down the furniture of the bed. I know that they are scared. From where I lie, I hear them debate on whether I have the virus or not, and whether they should call NCDC for the test. My mother decides to hold it off for three days.

I understand and support their decision, but it does not stop me from feeling low. Nobody can give you the care a sick person needs. Everyone avoids you like a plague. It is depressing. I start to imagine what might happen if I am taken away, no family or friends. Or if I die. If my own family can do this while I’m sick, then nothing is impossible. I know then that it will be lonely, and this makes me feel even sadder than I was before.

Thursday, 16th of April, 2020

My miracle arrives today. My illness is gone, and my mother no longer has a reason to phone the NCDC. The relief is visible on everyone’s faces.

“You need to rest,” my mother says to me each time I attempt to do a chore. She asks frequently, too frequently even, if I have taken my drugs. I tell her that I have.

Later, my brother and sister tell me that they prayed it was something different, anything apart from the virus.

The recovery doesn’t take away my feeling of depression. It stays with me. I want some alone time, but the way things are wired in our house, such a thing does not seem possible. Everyone wants you to do this with them or do that for them. At night, generator sounds come on and noise fills the air. It doesn’t feel helpful at all.

Wednesday, 22nd of April, 2020

Today, I call my supervisor. He doesn’t even waste time. “We are on strike. Leave my phone, my friend.” I do as he commands. I am notified that an essay I wrote for a club in school came third and I got a prize. A win.

We are all dealing with the lockdown in our own little ways. My brother prays a lot more. My sister’s secondary school arranged for online classes, so she’s manning her own angle. My mother is the one who is hit the hardest. She watches movie after movie – so many movies I lose count. For the first time, I consider that she might have OCD. There’s no way to explain why she keeps folding and refolding one piece of clothing 8 times.

I worry about her. Three people she knows have died recently. Diabetes, stroke, and one sickness. I wonder if the movies are her way of coping.

The man who died of diabetes was a church member who was close to her. The call came about 4 days into the lockdown. After the news was broken to her, she was told that they could not take the body home to Anambra for burial. Eventually, they smuggled it in a goods truck.

The second person is a distant acquaintance of hers too. After she received the call, the only thing she said was, “People are dying o.”

The third was a man too. Another acquaintance. She just sat with us that day and said nothing, she simply watched us. It seemed to me like she was considering that she too was getting old and could soon join these people.

And I understand how she feels: In the second week of the lockdown, a neighbour’s dead body was carried out of the house. It was around 2AM in the midnight. He was a Muslim. We heard a call to prayer or something, and because no mosque has done a call to prayer in quite a while, we found it strange. A few minutes later, they brought someone wrapped in white sheet out. His wife was crying. His children looked stunned. Wide-eyed and sleepy. They put him in a car that drove him away. For days after, we thought it was the virus, and so everyone was extra careful.

The body bounces back after grief, I think. It is how we are wired. How much of that grief we are able to get out of our system is what I cannot quantify.

I take a walk today. I’ve started taking long walks and doing a lot of writing. I am learning Spanish on Duolingo and working on my project. All these activities give me a sense of fulfillment. Slowly, my depression eases.

Sunday, 26th of April, 2020

Today, I feel a lot of uncertainty. More uncertainty than fear. I hate being uncertain. We were supposed to be four weeks away from our final exams, we were supposed to be submitting our project, but now there is no feasible plan in place. Worse is that money is dwindling. My mother doesn’t want to say it, but I feel it.

For a lot of people here, life goes on no matter what we have passed through. The traders here are a proof of that. They have turned the front of our house to a market because they are not allowed to sell in the actual market. Adjustment without considering if it might be inconvenient for the other person. But what can one do?

In all, anything is better than the fear which was what I felt at first. I was deathly afraid. Right now though, nobody knows anything anymore, so we all turn to hope. And hope is such a powerful thing, so powerful for something that’s illogical. But I guess it’s all some people have.

Check back every Sunday by 1 pm for new stories in the Lockdown Diary column. If you have an experience to share and would like to appear on this series, kindly reach out to me: kunle@bigcabal.com. I look forward to hearing from you.

The subject of today’s lockdown diary is a musician and a father of two whose source of income has been hampered by the shutdown of churches and event centres. He worries about his children, and what might happen if the lockdown continues indefinitely.

Sunday, 26th of April, 2020

The flash of the light bulb wakes me. It is 6:05AM. My wife is still asleep beside me, and my two children are asleep on their own space on the floor. I take care not to wake them as I head to the living room. In the living room, I plug in my keyboard, balance myself on a seat, and begin to play “My Faith Looks Up To Thee.”

We haven’t gone to church in about three Sundays now. Every morning we wake up, we do our family prayer, bathe the children, eat, and simply carry on with life. The children go out to play with the neighbours’ children, and my wife gets busy with other things. But I sit and wonder what I will do about money.

I am a musician and an instrumentalist. My source of income comes from music. It is what I know how to do, what I have been doing since I was old enough. My father was a very popular musician in Abeokuta, and I learned from him. I was more or less born into music. Right from secondary school, I used to go out to perform for people. After secondary school, I read music double major at Federal Government College, Osiele because it was hard securing admission. I eventually studied Economics at Tai Solarin University of Education, and even while I was in school, I did music. I played for prominent people, I played at events, and everywhere music was needed. Whatever money I made was used to pay for my education. That was how I funded my education.

Here in Ibadan, I have played for Evangelist (Dr.) Bola Are, I have played for the Army Band, Dele Bravo. Once, I was asked to come audition to be a member of Yinka Ayefele’s band, but between playing for the Army Band and other engagements, I could not make time to attend.

Before Coronavirus happened, I always thought that there was nothing that could affect music and church, because both of them are very important parts of human life. But then, the order came that no churches should open and we should all stay at home and worship God there. This is where the problem is. 

I play instruments at a church in Felele. I play at other churches too, if the opportunity comes, but this church at Felele is a constant one. I am paid N25,000 monthly. This money comes from the tithes and offering the church receives. Now that we have been asked to stay at home, it means that there can be no tithes and offering, which means that at the end of the month, there is no salary for me. 

After I am done playing “My Faith Looks Up To Thee”, I move on to a series of other hymns. Soon, my wife wakes up. She wakes the children too. “Good morning, Daddy,” they say. I answer them with a smile on my face. I am afraid, but I do not show it. I do not know what will happen if this virus continues. I do not know what will happen with money. But I cannot afford to show that I am afraid.

Tuesday, 28th of April, 2020.

I am alone at home. My wife has gone to her shop and the children are outside, playing. It is what I dread most in my life, but here I am, alone without something to do. When I moved here about 7 years ago, I worried that people might think low of me. A man who sits at home all day, they might think I am a criminal. And so every time I get the opportunity to attend shows and perform, I am always happy.

Since I moved here, I have performed at clubs, burials, birthday parties, and any other events where music is needed. I have a band. There are about 13 people in the band, including me and my wife. . Together, we have played in Abuja, in Ebonyi and a lot of other states. When Dele Odule, the actor, turned sixty years old, my band played for him. The payment ratio is 30 – 70. 30 to me, 70 to them. When we get events, we charge based on distance and the logistics needed to get to the venue. The least I have charged is N50,000.

As I sit at home, I think about what they might be doing to cope with this pandemic. I know that they are thinking the same about me, too. They will most likely want to know how I am coping as a band leader, what I am doing to keep body and soul together. But the truth is that I am doing nothing. I wake up, play the keyboard, and listen to the news, which day by day, keeps becoming unbearable. It is always news of the virus, how many people have become infected, and how the world is failing to produce a vaccine.

It is strange how this virus has taken centre stage. There is hardly any news of Boko Haram, or other things we used to hear of before now. It is just COVID. Right now, there are 1532 confirmed cases. It keeps spreading. 

Thursday, 30th of April, 2020.

My wife goes to her shop. She sells provisions: biscuits, sweets, soft drinks, and other things that she believes can move the market. I am glad she still has the shop. I often imagine what would happen if she  lost this shop. How would we feed? More importantly, how would we pay the bills? I don’t even want to think about school fees now. I hope that everything has cleared by the time the schools ask the children to resume.

By 10AM, I am bored, so I decide to call the owner of a studio I manage. This one fetches small change too. Managing doesn’t mean big work or big money. I do simple things. When people come in to do their advert jingles, I supply the tune needed, and the words too, sometimes. A studio session can pay up to N20,000. Sometimes less. It depends on the budget of the client.

The studio manager says that there is nothing for now. No business. Everywhere is on lockdown, nobody wants to advertise or pay for studio sessions. I tell him I understand and hang up. I understand that people are more focused on surviving and that there might be no need for other things yet. What I don’t understand is how one virus can come suddenly and put a pause on the whole world. It baffles me.

Friday, 1st of May, 2020.

Today is Friday. Before the virus, Friday meant playing at a nightclub. I miss it. It might be an odd thing to say, but the truth is this: in nightclubs, people are more appreciative of God’s blessings than they are in church. I was performing at this club one time and singing a well-known gospel song. When I opened my eyes, I saw this man weeping. When I was done, I asked him why he was crying. His answer was that sometimes in the previous year, his wife had an operation. He sold his car, sold a lot of things and he was still afraid that he might lose his wife. But she survived. Singing that song made him realise how much God did for him.

This is just one of the many encounters I have at nightclubs. If things were normal, I would be at Carlton Gate Hotel in Ibadan, doing what we refer to as “jump.” It is when musicians perform for the people drinking and chilling. It’s not so profitable, but it helps people know about the hotel and helps me get recognition too. And when people like what I am playing, they invite me to their events. It is almost a win-win situation for me and the hotel. Besides, any money the audience sprays belongs to me.

The children are making a lot of noise. They are too happy and I am annoyed that they don’t know how things are going. I can’t blame them. In fact, I worry about them. I worry about what will happen should they become infected. God forbid, but I know it is one of the fastest ways to contract the disease.  I wonder what we’ll eat for dinner.

Saturday, 2nd of May, 2020.

There is a level of responsibility that comes with being a first child; everyone looks up to you. There is also the responsibility of being a husband; you have to provide. And then the responsibility of being a father; the whole family is on your shoulders. Right now, my shoulders are tired.

Because I upload most of my shows online, I know that some of my family members think I am doing fine. It is only a matter of time before they start calling for money. And because I try to look cheerful around the house, I know the neighbours think I have no worries. But what is a man supposed to do? 

Before Covid19, at the end of each week, I would drop N6,000 for foodstuff. I drop money for other things too, but foodstuff ranks high. Sometimes, I drop N2,000 for these miscellaneous expenses and sometimes more. Sometimes, nothing at all. In my line of business, nothing is constant in terms of money. I have gone to perform at a show where I came back home with N60. And I have gone to perform at a birthday party on the ship where I returned home with N175,000. If there’s anything I am grateful for, it is that God chose to bless me with a wife who understands.

I am thinking of new skills I can learn. Something to make money in this period. But my options are limited. I often think of how long I am going to spend mastering it, and how long before they start to fetch me money. For someone who has spent all his life in music, how well can I function at another skill? It is something I am worried about. 

Sunday, 3rd of May, 2020.

Today, the flash of light does not wake me. My worries do. Beside me, my wife turns slightly as I rise up. The children sleep on. I rearrange the cover cloth and pat their heads. I step into the living room and sit on the couch as I contemplate life. There is so much to think of, but I remember the Bible’s injunction that tells us not to worry.

“Which of you by taking thought can add one cubit unto his stature?” is what Matthew 6:27 asks. I rise up and plug in my keyboard. And then I start to play the popular praise song, “Ah, ope lo ye” which loosely translates to, “Indeed, God deserves thanks for being alive.” 

Check back every Sunday by 1 pm for new stories in the Lockdown Diary column. If you have an experience to share and would like to appear on this series, kindly reach out to me: kunle@bigcabal.com. I look forward to hearing from you.

The subject of today’s lockdown diary is a 21-year-old university undergraduate who is forced to stay with her family during the lockdown. There is no assurance of graduating this year and her family intrudes on her privacy. She is thinking of running away from home.

14th of March 2020

I just got off the phone with my mother. That is the third time she has called me in the last 2 hours. Is there some kind of emergency that warrants such incessant calls? No, there isn’t. She simply wants me to come home. I attend Nasarawa State University, Keffi. Some days ago, ASUU embarked on one of its infamous nationwide strikes. A two-week warning strike they called it. But we know better. It is ASUU, after all. ASUU of the endless strikes and disruption in academic activities. After it was announced, a lot of students were excited. We were in the middle of a really difficult semester and we all needed an opportunity to chill out. Besides, we  were to write a test in our toughest course —  Syntax. Given the strike, we wouldn’t have to write it for a while. My coursemates excitedly packed their bags (really big bags) and left for their homes.

I live off campus. We are just four in the compound: myself, my friend Ani, and two other ladies. These ladies weren’t pleased. One is a 100 level student, the other is a seamstress who works from her apartment. Keffi is basically a student town. Once school is not in session, the town becomes a ghost town. At least most of it. A strike means most students will go home and the town will be empty and unsafe. It is also bad for business. She did not like the idea at all.

I’m in 400 level, and so after the excitement of not having to write the test wore out, the next thing I thought of was graduating this year; I know how mad ASUU can be.

When my mum calls me today, it is just me and Ani left in our compound.  Mercy has travelled; she said her mother called her home. The seamstress packed some things and went to stay with a friend, still in Keffi.

Ani leaves later on when her  mum tells her to come home. I have been a little sick the past few days and with the recent entry of COVID-19 into the country, I have been excessively worried. It started as an itchy throat one night and metamorphosed into a fever and a dry cough. I went to the school clinic and the receptionist received my hospital card without wearing gloves. I was worried for her. The doctor said it was malaria and I didn’t believe him.

A lot of people here don’t believe that Coronavirus is real or valid. Before I left, my salonist said he doesn’t believe it can touch him. He believes it’s if you believe something that it will affect you.

A few others believe it is fake too. Nobody is taking any precautions, even though it has been all over the news. The belief that Coronavirus cannot survive in hot regions might have aided this belief. Keffi is hot. Very hot and dry. And I mean that socially as well. It is not a very educated town either, even though it houses the state’s university.

Anyway, I have to go home tomorrow. I am dreading every moment of it.. I’ll be on the first vehicle to Jos tomorrow morning.

16th of March 2020

As expected, I already hate my stay at home. My health has improved significantly but I still feel fatigued. I can only be out of bed for 10 minutes at a time before the bouts of weakness and tiredness hit. Because of this, I lay in bed all day and pretend to be asleep when anyone walks into my room. My brother has been doing his best taking care of me but I don’t like the attention. I’ll prefer it if you just drop the food and leave.

I don’t like interacting with people. I like to be by myself, minding my own business and not having to answer unnecessary questions. In school I can spend an entire weekend locked in my room and my neighbors would think I traveled, because I wouldn’t even open the door to anyone who knocks. Enjoying my own privacy is something I love. But this is impossible if I’m at home. I have to interact, and I hate this.

I also hate being told what to do. And being the last born, all I ever hear is people telling me what to do. Then there’s my brother who is always trying to show me a meme or video he found on Instagram. Sometimes he just positions himself in my room, and I hate this.

And yes I have to cook with my mother sometimes. Most times, I would be in the kitchen and suddenly it turns into a gisting session. My brother comes and sits in the kitchen. My mum is usually doing one or two things, so everybody is in the kitchen at the same time. The kitchen is roomy; it can take all of us at once.

My other brother is always in his room so he’s hardly a problem. He’s the first born so everybody lets him do whatever he wants. Usually I cook or do chores with music on. But once they crowd into the kitchen, I have to turn the music off. I hate this. I’m mostly listening to Jhené Aiko’s album Chilombo. I don’t think I’ve sat in the living room for more than 10 minutes. Except for devotions or something.  

23rd March 2020

Unbelievable! I’m stuck in Jos. Stuck at home with my family. ASUU’s warning strike was to be over today. I had planned and was ready to leave for Keffi today when my mum entered my room and asked,

“Where are you going?”

“I’m going to school. ASUU’s strike is finishing today.”

“Madam you are not going anywhere. Can’t you see that the number of confirmed cases is increasing? If you go and catch Corona in that town, who will take care of you?

I am not having it. I have to leave this house today. But my mum isn’t having it either. She tells my brothers to keep an eye on me and phones my other brother in the US and asks him to talk to me. I want to cry. What sort of nonsense is this? This is not how or where I planned to spend my lockdown. I had already envisioned the bliss of being all alone in my apartment in Keffi, literally just eating, sleeping, watching movies and reading good books. Instead I’ll be in this stupid house with all these people who have no respect for privacy. I am so frustrated, I want to cry.

30th of March 2020

Today I wake up on the wrong side of the bed. I am moody and upset for no reason. I just want to be alone and scroll through Twitter and Pinterest till I get hungry. I don’t want to see anybody or talk to anybody. I don’t like having to interact with anyone when I don’t want to. I know you might say that this is my family but it still makes no difference! They’re still people who get all up in your space and don’t understand why you want to be left alone.

I think every child has made plans to run away from home once or twice in their lifetime. I’m 21 years old but here I am thinking of running from home today. The number of confirmed Corona cases is climbing drastically but I’m not bothered; Jos is still safe. I really need to leave this house.

Mumsy comes banging on my door and asking me to go make breakfast. But these boys are not kids, they can fix something up for themselves, I grumble inwardly. When I’m done she asks me to bring out tomatoes from the fridge and blend in order to make stew. What nonsense is this? Why do I have to slave away while my brothers sleep till noon?

What’s worse is that as I finally settle into my room with my earphones plugged in, my brother comes in and tries to gist with me, sitting comfortably on the chair in my room and chatting on his phone. Why on earth is he here? Did they really plan to drive me crazy?

The only reason I’m still in this house is because my charger got spoilt so I have to share a charger. Once I figure out how to get a charger, I’m leaving. For real.

29th of March, 2020

Today, Buhari announces a nationwide lockdown. We watch his speech on TV. There is no light so my brother puts on the gen. My room is right next to the living room so I just listen in from my room.

We already knew a lockdown was unavoidable. In fact since I got home from school I haven’t gone out at all. Not even once. My mum strongly discouraged it. My elder brother used to go out every evening, once he returned, she usually scolded him mildly and asked him to go straight and take his bath and dump his clothes appropriately. He never did this.

It’s hard to say what the situation is like in Jos, because I don’t go out. Regardless, I hear cars actively passing on my street. Besides, the lockdown is for  Lagos, Ogun and Abuja, not Plateau State, so nobody is necessarily bothered.

Life goes on almost as usual. People like my family who do not really have any business outside, stay indoors. But we always hear the sound of cars passing outside, so I know that not everybody is staying home.

16th April, 2020

On the 2nd of April, our governor announced a two-week lockdown. It was said to be a preventive measure, a means of reducing the chances of the virus getting into our state, since almost all surrounding states have confirmed cases. The day the lockdown in Plateau began, no car passed on my street. It was awfully quiet.

I have a cat who is potty trained, so I have to change the sand in the litter box about twice a week. There’s a farm right across from our house (I don’t know who owns it) where I usually go to empty the litter box. As I stepped out, I was scared that I would get arrested because I had heard a lot of stories from Lagos. I ran out and ran back in.

Basically Plateau people complied with the lockdown pretty good.

After two weeks of total lockdown though, the governor relaxes it for the weekend. I’m very much an introvert but this news excites me. I am tired of dealing with my family’s madness. Today I’ll be meeting a new friend I met on Twitter. For context, I have a boyfriend, a best friend, and about 3 ride or die friends. What this means is that even though I am an introvert, I do actually have friends and a social life. Besides, Ahmed seems fun; what could possibly go wrong? 

***

I meet Ahmed and he’s a really nice guy. I enjoyed the meeting a lot.  . But now I’m back home to these people I’m forced to live with every day.

As soon as I enter, my mum makes me take my bath even though I try to tell her it isn’t necessary. She makes sure I lick 4 vitamin C tablets as well.

I saw a post on Twitter saying introverts must be having the time of their life. We’re not! My mind screamed out. The entire point of being indoors and isolated from the world is defeated by the family we have to live with. We’re not having the time of our lives. Don’t be fooled.

23rd April 2020

Today is my birthday. I am now 21 years old. You want to know what is interesting about this? Plateau State records its first confirmed Corona case today. What a birthday gift. As the number of confirmed cases nationwide reach 1000, I know that I’m doomed. No hope of returning to my own house anytime soon. No hope of graduating this year. Meanwhile my rent is wasting. I just might run away after all.

Lockdown Diary: Today’s subject is a 26-year-old young woman who lost her job as the lockdown began. The loss of her job, the pandemic, and the lockdown has changed her perspective of life and what she intends to do with the rest of her life. 

Friday, 20th of March, 2020.

I’m moving back home today. I live in Maryland, Lagos, because of easy access to work. It was in my plan to move back home, find my own apartment, and relocate. But when Corona happened and the talk of a lockdown started to spread, I decided to move back home. Home is in Magboro, along Lagos Ibadan expressway. Yesterday, my boss told us to start working remotely. 

I call a cabman and he helps me move some stuff back home. It’s still the 20th of March and nobody knows what Nigeria is planning. Will there be a lockdown or not? So, I just pack my things. By 2 pm, I am done packing; we leave soon after. 

 I do some more work in the car. The roads are free, so I get home in an hour.

My parents are happy to see me. They are always happy to see me, even though I come home often. I unpack, take a shower, and continue with work. When my task ends, I type up a report to send to my line manager. I have free time on my hands.

I watch a bit of anime to relax. I spend some time tweeting and texting. I even eat some cake. 

By my own standards, it is a good day.

Saturday, 21st of March, 2020.

Saturday at home is like Saturday in every Nigerian home. Wake up early, morning devotion spanning into eternity, house chores, cooking — that order. But I am exempted from some of this. It is a hard-earned freedom. Ordinarily, I would have been forced to join the morning devotion and then gone to slave in the kitchen afterwards. But since I returned from university and made it clear that I don’t like cooking, they learned to make peace with it. It doesn’t mean that I can’t cook, though. I can, and some days I just feel like it and decide to cook for everyone. But not today.

Morning devotion is another thing entirely. My parents attend MFM, and they gave them “Coronavirus Prayers.”  Back when we were younger, my father wanted to enforce family devotion. He’d come to our door, knock and say, “Oya come out,” but I never did. Sometimes, my brother didn’t come out too. We dragged it for quite a while. Once, he started yelling and I had to come out and join them. But when I got out, I sat down and didn’t participate in anything. That was when he surrendered. Now, he doesn’t bother calling us. He just leaves us alone.

So this morning, I wake up around 10 am. It’s late, but so what? I do some yoga, grate coconut for tapioca and take a bath. Everybody goes about their business. My father has a farm at the back of the house, and that’s where he goes to. At 61, he is still very agile and hardworking. He is an easygoing man. His own is to ask what you’d like to eat and sometimes make it. My mom is the same way too, but she doesn’t have a farm at the back of the house. One thing she does is yell a lot, and I hate yelling.

They don’t think the virus is as serious as we are all making it to be. And I know that they would have gone out if I were not at home with them. So, I sit them down and tell them that they need to stop going out, and that if the trip is a very important one, then they should wear a mask and carry hand sanitizers. For a brief moment, it feels like I am their parent and they are my children, and I am telling them what to do, protecting from harm as a parent should.

Monday, 23rd of March 2020.

I wake up and start reading manuscripts from work. We have a meeting but some of the team members have issues connecting, so it takes a while for the meeting to start. We have a group chat. Here, we talk about things that are work-related. I keep reading manuscripts. I decide that I will send a weekly report rather than a daily one, because frequent daily reports might get tedious for my line manager. 

Around six in the evening, a colleague texts me to ask why my boss removed me from the group chat. I am confused as well, but tell him not to worry that I’ll ask her. When I do, she says she is sending me a mail. A few hours later, I receive my termination letter.

It is brief and cryptic. Something about cohesiveness and a strong team and all of that. I am not bothered. I thank her, and wish the organisation the best going forward.

The first thing I feel is relief. I exhale, and then I lie on my back for a while.

Friday, 27th of March, 2020.

Losing my job allows me to do the things I have always wanted to do. I decide to learn UI, because I have always had an eye for design and I think I am pretty good at it. The only thing holding me back is the fear of failing, but I am ready to fail now. It will only make my victory all the more glorious.

In the days since I lost my job, I have done a bit of self-evaluation. It is one of the things that losing does to you. I know I am supposed to worry about cash, but I do not. Finance has always been a rollercoaster for me. Growing up, we had just enough to get by, nothing extra. Sometimes it feels that way, but working changed and changes everything. I can afford to buy things I want. The best part is buying stuff for my parents; they light up and it makes me so happy. It is one of my motivations for making money. I want to buy stuff they like and want for them.

Losing my job does not change so much. I decide I will spend this time polishing my skills. I register for courses on writing, editing, UI and UX. I decide to learn how to play chess. 

Sunday, 29th of March, 2020.

Today is a quiet Sunday. Nobody is going anywhere. My parents are now starting to see how serious the Coronavirus is. Before the pandemic, Sundays came with a bit of activity in our home. My parents would have woken up early to prepare for church. My father is a member of the ushering department and my mom is a member of the watchman group. But this Sunday is quiet, uneventful. We wake up in our separate rooms and conduct our separate businesses. There is not much to look forward to.

My parents move about the house, quietly. I’m sure they miss their jobs. My dad works in a school: Dowen College in Lekki and my mom works in the fire service. My dad stopped going to work after all the students at the college were sent home. My mom, on the other hand, is an essential worker, and so she still goes to work. She does 24-hour shifts — if she leaves home this morning, she’ll be at work till the next morning, after which she gets two days off. She works in the control room, which is where all the calls about fires go to. 

By 7pm, Buhari announces that there will be a nationwide lockdown. I look at my parents so I can gauge their reactions, but they do not seem so surprised. It is almost like they are expecting it.

Saturday, April 4th, 2020.

My days have taken on a new, simple routine. I sleep a lot now, and when I wake up, I feel calm and very much in control. In the morning when I wake up, I do yoga or cardio exercise. I do some speed writing, then get on with my day. I eat breakfast, read a few articles, write and take a break to play games. I FaceTime with my friends, read, and try my hands at chess to see how much I have learned.

The lockdown has changed the order of my parents’ lives. My mother especially. She still goes to work as an essential worker, but her shift is no longer 24 hours; when she goes to work in the morning, she returns home in the evening, not the next day. Today though, she is at home, nowhere to go. I feel a tinge of pity for her and wish, for her sake, that Monday would come quickly.

Tuesday, April 14th, 2020

Today, Buhari announces an extension of the lockdown for two weeks. I am on the phone when I come across the news. Again, it doesn’t catch me by surprise, I knew it would happen. In all honesty, everyone can see that Nigeria did not really have a plan to contain this virus, they just did what other countries were doing. Nigeria, my country.

When my parents hear the news, they go out to buy more foodstuffs. I do not go anywhere. I spend the rest of the day thinking of how much change this pandemic has brought to my plans. My plans to get an apartment has been postponed. I am applying for an MFA, but if I am granted an admission, travel might still be a bit difficult. I hope I’ll be able to defer my admission for a year. Everything is now based on hope. It is all we have left.

Being stuck at home during this period has made me realise that the things I want are very much in my reach, but something small can also push them out of my reach. A few months ago, something as easy as going to Ibadan was possible. Now, I can’t even go to a friend’s place. It makes me think about the fact that I don’t want to spend the next few months or even years in an office. I have realised that I want to freelance, travel, see friends, and spend time with them. It’s scary, but I will do it anyway. Death can claim us anytime: it is one of the things this whole lockdown has taught me. We are like grasses that can be pulled out without a second thought. And life will still continue to go on.

Check back every Sunday by 1 pm for new stories in the Lockdown Diary column. If you want to be a part of the series, kindly reach out to me: kunle@bigcabal.com. I look forward to hearing from you.

The subject of today’s Lockdown Diary is a university undergraduate who is self-isolating with her mother and her brother. She has had enough of her mother’s frustration and needs to go out.

Day 1: Sunday, 22nd of March, 2020.

I return from school today. I have just finished my examinations at the University of Ibadan, and home is the next thing. It feels like the beginning of a holiday, not like I am self-isolating or anything. There is talk of the virus, but it feels distant, like something that does not concern us at all. And I really do not feel so concerned. Before leaving school, I traveled to see a friend. I applied for an internship — and got it, I put things in order. A small holiday was what I planned and then I would return to my normal life.

But then the virus found its way to Nigeria. And even then, I still do not feel really worried. For me, it’s just a holiday. Things will be back to normal shortly. 

Day 3: Tuesday, 24th of March, 2020.

Today,  I am working on my phone when my mother asks me to go wash the plates from yesterday. I say okay, but I continue pressing my phone. She does not leave me alone. “I want you to go and do it immediately,” she says. This is when I start to realise that maybe my egungun has danced makossa and entered express. Here’s one thing you should know about me: I’m not lazy. I swear, I am not. I just like to do things at my own convenience. I feel like I have earned it: I’m a law student, a public speaker, a writer. I’m an adult. When I’m alone in school, I wash my plates whenever I feel like. So long as they get washed, right? And then again, I am yet to adapt to the routine at home. So when she says that she wants me to go wash the plates immediately, I protest.

“But Mummy, I’m doing something now. I’ll do it when I’m done,” I say.

And then all trouble is let loose.

“Oh you think you know everything now, abi?” She says in Yoruba. “You think you know more than me?”

I say nothing.

She tells me that she is worried that I would start looking older than my age because of how much time I spend on the phone. “Phone is evil, don’t you know? Even the Chinese people that made the phone, they know the evil effects of it. And that is what is manifesting in your life now.” 

She tells me that she is doing all these because she wants me to live a balanced life, and washing those plates is one way that can happen.

At this point, I realise that there is no way out of this. I obey.

After washing, I scroll through Twitter. Almost every tweet is about COVID-19. A mix of false news and true ones. People tweeting conspiracy theories and whatnot. Is the world ending? Can we re-install 2020 please?  Wash your hands. Don’t touch your face. Boost your immune system. Anybody can be carrying the virus. #COVID-19. What is Buhari saying about it?

My boyfriend texts to say we should meet-up. Yes, my body needs it, but am I ready to host this virus? I spend a lot of time weighing my options. Go out or stay at home? Please myself or let God have his way?

“Will I see you?” my boyfriend asks on the phone.

“Yes, I’ll come. I’ll come,” I assure him.

On Twitter, there is more news of the virus. In Lagos, there are new cases. My boyfriend works in Lagos. I do the Maths: what are the chances that he has come in contact with a carrier of the virus? What are the chances that he has not? I’m poor at Maths, but I am good at making phone calls. So I call my boyfriend.

“I’m sorry, I can’t come again,” I say.

And then he goes: “Oh okay. No problem.”

This is when it hits me that I really cannot go out anymore.

Day 5: Thursday, 26th of March, 2020.

Staying at home gives me the opportunity to work more. I am a writer; I do academic writing on oil and gas law, sexual and reproductive health law and areas like that. There’s this feeling that comes with knowing that people are at home, reachable and willing to give me what I want. Before, I would wait hours for someone to respond to my message or reply my email. Now, the work flow is better. If there’s any benefit to this staying at home, then this is it.

Still, I can’t help thinking. I’d pause randomly and say, “Wait a minute, so I can no longer go out?”

Today, my brother is in his room, and my mother too is in hers. It feels just like a holiday. A very long holiday or an extended weekend. Or maybe a Sunday. You know, one of those days when everyone is at home. 

It is a very productive work day. I tidy up old writing and try to meet some deadlines. Once in a while, my brother comes out of his room to show me something on his phone: a meme, a joke, a savage tweet. 

Still, I need to go out. I need to go out.

Day 7: Wednesday, 29th of March, 2020.

I NEED TO GET OUT OF THIS HOUSE BEFORE MY MOTHER FINISHES ME WITH WAHALA.

It feels like I have been exposed. Everything I do just does not seem right anymore. My mother thinks I’m into online fraud. Bitcoins or MMM. Why else would I spend so much time on the laptop? What is writing to her? She does not believe that anyone can make a decent profit from writing, let alone live a comfortable life.

I’m surfing Twitter and she’s peeking at my phone.“Is that where they trade?” What trade, plis ma?

I know how to cook, but she thinks my skills are mediocre. Look, Iya Oyin, I am fine with what I know. I am a considerably good cook and I think it is enough. Abi? I can cook rice, beans, stew, amala, egusi, porridge —what else do I need?

“Ah, Oyin. The world has changed o,” she tells me.

What does this woman even want from me? An upgrade of my cooking version? Oyin the cook, version 40, newly upgraded. Can cook the whole world and more.

“Wo, all men are traditional.”

Not my own man, mama. This woman does not know that I have carried biro and paper and planned my marriage with my own hands.

I will get married to a journalist that will not be coming home every time. He will be traveling like two weeks out of one month. (Fisayo Soyombo dear, will you answer me now or should I take this romance to a spiritual level?) He won’t need me to cook. He’ll travel and I will be at home doing my thing. We will live happily ever after.

“Wo, all men are traditional.”

Before, she tells me to avoid boys. Now, in this self-isolation, she sings daily that I should get married. A woman’s nightfall happens quickly, don’t say no to men when they come.

Why isn’t she stressing my brother this way?

Day 10: Thursday, 2nd of April, 2020.

My head is hedek me.

Apparently, today is the day I’m supposed to mentor somebody. I gave the person Wednesday, Thursday, Friday and I didn’t know that it is Thursday already. I thought today was Tuesday.

I have lost track of the days of the week. What other things will self-isolation do to me?

No gum body with the bae, no hang-out, no waka-waka and now I can no longer keep track of days? At this point, I want Aunty Rona to appear in flesh and blood. I want her to be bold enough and come in human form. Let us face each other eyeball to eyeball, so I can tell her to her face: “You no do well. You no do well at all.”

Check back every Sunday by 1 pm for new stories in the Lockdown Diary column. If you have an experience to share and would like to appear on this series, kindly reach out to me: kunle@bigcabal.com. I look forward to hearing from you.

The subject of today’s Lockdown Diary is a 67-year-old woman who lives alone in Lagos. She doesn’t have a job or enough food and money to see her through a lockdown extension.

Day 1, Sunday 29th of March, 2020.  

It is on the radio that I hear news of the lockdown. Faaji FM. It is on that same station that I have been hearing news of the disease too. They say it is from China, that anybody can contract it, that we should wash our hands. When I hear it, I pray that it does not come near me or my children. I wonder if it’s a rich people disease. After all, they are the ones travelling up and down. They are the ones with all the money. Why will they implicate those of us who are God’s poor people?

But everyday, they repeat it on the news. They say someone in Lagos has it, that it is already in Lagos. In my area, everybody is wearing masks to cover their faces and rubber gloves on their hands. When the government announces that there is a lockdown in the evening, saying that we should all stay at home and not go out, the first thing I worry about is my children. There are two of them, but I have grandchildren who are adults and who don’t live close by. One of them is in *Ilorin. I call them, my children and grandchildren, but their numbers are unreachable. All of them. I go to bed. Before I fall asleep, I pray that God keeps them safe. Even without the lockdown, it is the same thing I do. I mention all their names and pray to God that he will keep them safe. When your children all leave home and you cannot be where they are, the one thing you can send is prayers, and I do this every night.

Day 3: Tuesday, 31st of March, 2020.

Today, I call one of my grandsons who is my first child’s son. He is the one in Ilorin. I ask him if he will come home for Easter. I have missed him; before he traveled, we used to sit together at home. He is like a friend to me. Each time he is at home with me, we talk. He tells me about his friends; sometimes, he lets me speak to some of them on the phone. I tell him about my friends too, about my days as a younger woman back when Lagos was still Lagos and I was working on the Island. He usually puts a movie on his phone for me to watch, and in the evening, he will read a part of the Bible to me in Yoruba. I repeat it after him, and then we pray together.

He has been gone since February. He planned to come back to get some things, but with this lockdown, he can’t. When I phone to ask him if he will come home, his reply is that he does not know yet. Everywhere is closed, no one can go out or come in. I tell him that I understand. I pray for God to  keep him safe. I tell him that it’s okay if he does not come home now, after all, we will see each other again.

Day 4: Wednesday, 1st of April, 2020.

We have been hearing that the government will share something for those of us at home, maybe food or money. If it is money, then I don’t know how I will collect my own, because I don’t have a bank account. I cannot read and write, how will I operate a bank account? If they give us food, it might help. I will have something to eat, at least before my children send me money. I can no longer work because of my blood pressure, and the pain in my leg. I used to run a beer parlour and make enough money then. I went to all the parties where good musicians were, ate good food. But life changes. When I moved to Igando, business declined, so I started selling local gin. But a lot of people here want to sell the same thing that you are selling, so they all took over the business and it became hard to make profit. Not that I was making that much profit anyway. How much can you make on gin and ten-ten naira cigarettes? I managed until there was nothing anymore. Now, I have become the kind of woman who has to depend on her children before she can feed. Now, I am waiting for government food. If anything, I am happy that I built this house I live in. Because how else would I cope?

It is food they share. But it is so annoying when I see it. One De Rica of beans, one De Rica of rice, and four slices of bread per house. Just that. How long can we survive on that? Besides, what should we cook it with? Should we just soak it in water and start drinking it? I tell them to keep their food. They can give it to other people, but they should not bring it near my house. I don’t want it.

Day 6: Thursday, 2nd of April, 2020.

Before the lockdown, my granddaughter sent me money through someone who lives on our street. 3,000 naira. I did not know that there would be something called lockdown where nobody will be able to go out. If I had known, I would have spent the money on food. Instead, I used it to repair a door frame in the house and I bought some drugs. By the time they said we should stay inside, I did not have any more money on me. It is this lack of money that wakes me up from sleep this morning.

The food seller in front of my house sells food for me and lets me pay for it anytime I want, so maybe food is not so much of a problem. It can be embarrassing to buy food on credit, so I sometimes stay without eating. I don’t eat so much anyway. Sometimes I just pour powder milk inside water and I go the whole day with it.

But I need money to buy medicine. My health is failing. I have trouble sleeping, and I think a lot. They say I have to lose weight, and reduce my blood sugar, but I have tried all I can and it is not helping. I don’t eat a lot, so I know that it is not food that has made me this way. My father was like this before he passed on. I must have gotten it from him. I think about the time when I used to have a lot, I think about how my children barely visit and instead focus on their own family. I think of how they don’t have so much too. I have worked hard to raise them, this time, I should sit back and enjoy the fruit of my labour. But it is nearly impossible.

The first one rides a motorcycle. Not that it makes me happy, but at least it is better than nothing. Long before the lockdown, he would come with foodstuff to visit me. Sometimes, he gives me money. But one day, the governor of Lagos said he does not want to see motorcycles on the road, so my son can no longer work. He tries to do other things, but I don’t think he gets enough money. He does not come to see me anymore because he believes he does not have money to give me. But sometimes, everything is not money. Sometimes seeing him is enough. I am thinking about this when someone comes to give me money. 5,000 naira from my grandson, Mayowa, the one who is out of Lagos. I don’t know why, but I am crying. I didn’t expect that he would send me something.

Day 8: Saturday, 4th of April, 2020.

Thieves are a major trouble with this lockdown. Today, we hear that they are in our street, and everybody should come out for vigilante. They don’t bother me. They know I am old. All through the day, area boys walk up and down, getting high. They smoke, they gather at a joint to drink. They say they are ready to face any thief that comes into our street.

Nighttime is like daytime even though we don’t have light. From my place on the bed, I hear their voices: loud and angry. I turn up the volume of my radio and adjust it by my pillow. I listen to these voices until I fall asleep.

Day 10: Monday, 5th of April, 2020.

Today is Monday. We still cannot go out, but that is just the government saying their own. People are moving about. They are hungry, they need to eat. They are going out. How can you ask people to stay at home without giving them something to eat? Is it one De Rica of rice and beans that will feed a whole family? How long will it last?

With the money I have received, I go to the woman selling food stuff beside my house and ask her to give me yam, yam flour, rice and wheat. I will manage it till they send me money again. We still don’t have light. No light, no food, no money. When the barbing salon across the road opens, I send someone to help me charge my phone. It has been dead for nearly a day.

When I get the phone back, I call my grandson. I pray for him. Again, I ask him when he can come home. He says everywhere is still locked down. He says they have extended the lockdown again. I sigh. I pray for God to keep him safe. He asks me about my next birthday, December, I tell him. Will he be home by then? He says that he will. I hope he comes home so we can celebrate the birthday.

I will dress up, wear make-up, get my hair done and ask them to bake a cake for me. Me and my family, we will sit together and take pictures. I will ask them to enlarge it and frame it for me so I can always look at it and remember that we survived.

This interview was done in Yoruba and has been edited and condensed for clarity.

NB: Image used for illustrative purposes.

Here’s last week’s story: Lockdown Diary: Coronavirus Made Us Postpone Our Wedding

Check back every Sunday by 1 pm for new stories in the Lockdown Diary column. If you have an experience to share and would like to appear on this series, kindly reach out to me: kunle@bigcabal.com. I look forward to hearing from you.

The subject of today’s Lockdown Diary is a 28-year-old man who postponed his wedding due to the Coronavirus pandemic. He talks about the process, and all the things he and his wife are discovering about each other in isolation.

Day 1: Saturday, 21st of March, 2020.

Today is for sleep and nothing more and I’ll tell you why: planning a wedding is hard. Yesterday, we went to the registry in Ikoyi for our court wedding — the first half of our marriage plans. The original plan was registry first in Lagos and traditional in Port Harcourt, eight days later. At the time, neither me or my wife knew what the Coronavirus pandemic had in mind for us.

Registry was stressful, but we were prepared. We arrived early enough, got our numbers, and stayed in the car so we wouldn’t sweat too much. When it was our turn, we did the necessary things — documentation, exchange of rings, etc. More people turned up than we expected, and if it wasn’t for Coronavirus, perhaps the coordinator would have allowed more people. But everyone is trying their best to flatten the curve, so new measures have to be put in place.

And so today, we spend our time sleeping, collecting our strength. We have not slept properly in a while; preparing for the wedding did not really allow much time for sleep. We go again in eight days, but now, we rest. My mother-in-law is at home with us. She arrived in the morning. She will stay with us until we travel to Port Harcourt for the wedding.  While we rest, she makes plantain frittata. 

Later in the evening, we watch the news. NCDC announces that 10 new cases of Coronavirus have been confirmed in Nigeria; 3 in Abuja and 7 in Lagos, bringing the total number of infected persons to 22. Only 2 have been discharged. There are no deaths yet. We are anxious about how this affects our wedding plans. 

Day 3: Monday, 23rd of March, 2020.

Today, my wife cries because we have finally decided to postpone the traditional wedding. It wasn’t like we did not consider that this would happen before. We knew that we might have to do it, but we kept hoping the virus would blow over. We have spent over 3 million naira on the preparation — could we risk letting that amount go? Before arriving at the decision, we considered the possible alternatives.

a) Make it a close family wedding. 

Pros: A bit of money saved. 

Cons: Anybody can still fall sick. We’d still have to travel and we have old relatives. So, no.

b) Go ahead with it anyway, but with hand sanitizers as a major part of the event? 

Pros: A bit of money saved. 

Cons: Still doesn’t guarantee anything.

My wife’s crying is quiet, her shoulders shaking softly. I hold her in my arms and tell her that it’s okay; we are doing the right thing.

Later, we sit in the living room with my mother-in-law. I am on one end of the couch and my wife is on the other end. My mother-in-law sits between us. When we tell her of our decision, she nods her head and says “If that’s what you have decided, then it’s fine. I understand.”

I scroll through Twitter later. The NCDC announces that there are 4 new cases confirmed, bringing the number of infected persons to 40. 2 people have been discharged, 1 person has died. I feel sad, but I know it is just a matter of time before this happens.

Day 4: Tuesday, 24th of March, 2020.

We notify our friends. We send a short note telling them that we considered our options and didn’t want to risk people’s lives, so it was best to postpone indefinitely.

Hello guys,

The COVID 19 pandemic has moved beyond control. My wife and I do not want to risk the health of anyone. No one can guarantee that we will all travel to Port Harcourt and back without catching the virus. We cannot put anyone at risk. But every single one of you has spent money and time and made plans so this decision is really difficult. We stayed up going over every possible scenario. So we have decided to postpone indefinitely. We are deeply sorry for any inconvenience caused, we also understand how difficult refunds can be, if you would like us to refund transport or accommodation plans made, please send me a message privately. We know we cannot give you back time lost. Once again, we are deeply sorry.

Once this is done, we look at what we would lose — mostly money. We call the planner and tell her to pause on buying drinks and stuff. It is a little too late. She has bought most drinks, souvenirs, done part-payment for the venue, decorations, photographer, and hotel. A lot of the vendors say they already bought items and refunds are impossible. Our flight tickets are nonrefundable too, the only option is to suspend the flight and then see if we can use or resell them.

We call my father-in-law and tell him about the new change in plans. He is very understanding. He says there is no problem. The update comes that evening: 2 new cases; 1 in Abuja, 1 in Bauchi. Both cases have travel history to Germany and the UK. There are now 44 confirmed cases in Nigeria. 2 discharged, 1 death. It’s all very scary.

Day  6: Thursday, 26th of March, 2020.

My mother-in-law returns to her house today. But before she leaves, she stocks us up with food. She is a chef; cooking is what she likes doing, what she gets paid to do. And so when she leaves us, we have a fridge full of Afang soup, Editan, Egusi, stew. We make some pancakes for breakfast and drink tea to wash it down. Afterwards, we head out of the house to do some furniture shopping. Nothing much: a dresser and office chairs for the workroom. 

It is a warm day, the sun coming up slowly. Even with news of the pandemic and the daily increase in the number of infected persons, Lagos is still Lagos. It is still as hectic, people plying their trades, vehicles doing their thing, people rushing to their various destinations. One is almost tempted to think that they don’t know about Coronavirus or maybe they simply do not care.

We make a stop at Spar. We realise that they are only letting five people in at a time. Thank God, these ones care about human lives, we say. We don’t stay long though. We find what we need  — a dresser  — at Bedmate in Opebi. These ones give us face masks to wear. We go all around Allen looking for office chairs. We sanitize our hands more times than we can count. It is a hectic day. Even after finding the chairs, ordering two Ubers to transport everything we bought and getting home around 6pm, we realise that we left the screws for the chairs at the shop. Double wahala.

We take a shower and try to relax. We warm some afang soup and make semo to go with it. After eating, we watch some television. I scroll through Twitter once in a while. The #BuhariChallenge is trending. 65 confirmed cases in Nigeria and the president has not addressed the country. Where, really, is Buhari?

Day 8: Saturday, 28th of March, 2020.

Today, my wife notices that I’m ticklish. We are lying in bed, watching a movie, when her leg touches my rib by mistake. I jerk. She notices, and it dawns on her that I am ticklish. We have lived together for two years and a few months. In all those years, she hasn’t tickled me before. I don’t know why this has never happened. Maybe an opportunity didn’t present itself. But now she knows, and she won’t stop tickling and laughing at me.

For the first time since we’ve been together too, I notice that my wife likes to watch Korean movies while playing Candy Crush on her phone. She does both at the same time. When she watches Netflix, she divides the screen into two. On one side, she watches the movie. On the other side, she plays Solitaire. It’s nice to notice things about your partner that you’ve never noticed before.

I tease her about this, and then I watch with her. We cuddle up. Somewhere in the house, our cat does his own thing: intermittent purring, a nibble at his food, sleep.

On Twitter, the NCDC update shows that the numbers are skyrocketing: 8 new cases, bringing the confirmed number to 97. How did we get here? 

Day 9: Sunday, 29th of March, 2020.

President Buhari is said to address us by 7pm today. We wonder what he will say. In the meantime, we work, eat, nap — our routine since the beginning of this social distancing. 

I realise that our neighbours make a lot of noise. It feels like they are constantly redecorating. Everytime, we hear them moving big stuff about. I don’t want to blame them. The day after we bought our own furniture too, a carpenter came to make a shelf, table and a cat litter container. Someone from Bedmate also came to put the dresser together. Who knows, they could also have said that we were making too much noise.

I realise that the water in the dispenser finishes way faster than I thought. Is this an effect of staying at home or do we just drink a lot of water naturally?

By 7pm, Buhari addresses the country. We catch the highlights on Twitter: a 14-day lockdown. Oh well, additional stay at home time for us. Not that we go out that much anyway. We are homebodies; going out for us is likely a drink and a movie. And maybe Chinese food. 

In a way, we feel excited about this lockdown. Among other things, it means that working from home is now ascertained. We don’t have to worry that either of us will be called to come in to work. Not that working from home is any fun too. If anything, it feels different, more hectic. There’s the constant need to prove to them that you are working. Even though we have a work room, it does not necessarily mean that everything is easy. Usually, we are out of the house by 6am and we return around 8pm. Now, I wake up as early as 8am and work all the way to 11pm. 

In our free time, we play a bit. We talk about our court wedding. Almost 10 days after, and we are yet to get our photos and videos. Coronavirus changed everything. Perhaps it might have changed the court wedding too, if we fixed it for a later date. 

There are now 111 confirmed cases. April is around the corner. We wonder if the curve will flatten or if there’ll be more cases. 

Day 10: Monday, 30th of March, 2020.

The sound of children playing in the yard wake us today. They should be in school, but unfortunately, the lockdown keeps them at home. In spite of the noise, everything is quiet. We no longer hear the sound of cars passing, and it’s easy to hear other things: people fighting in the midnight, someone practicing on a piano. 

At noon, my wife wears make-up in preparation for a #DontRushChallenge that her friends forced her to do. It’s things like these that fill the long days. 

When all this is over, we look forward to resuming life normally. We’ll plan our honeymoon, go out to the movies, catch our breath. We are still navigating this phase, seeing how much we can take. If anything, this phase has drawn us together as a couple. It is a new hurdle for us, one that we will surmount together.

Check back every Sunday by 1 pm for new stories in the Lockdown Diary column. If you have an experience to share and would like to appear on this series, kindly reach out to me: kunle@bigcabal.com. I look forward to hearing from you.