Beyond our borders
Kenya’s corona crisis
In my dream, the three sisters in the sky began to dance and were joined by the rest of the stars. When they descended, we realised that they were spaceships that had always kept watch. They poured healing incense on the world and we clapped as children sang. This dream is in a series of many that I have had ever since I began to work from home. Each dream, surprisingly, reminds me about kinship. The Kenyan government has imposed a dusk-to-dawn curfew (7pm to 5am) and nights are now quiet, absent of any commotion other than odd, brief sounds, such as a door closing or scree sliding off a roof. Strange because Nairobi nights have always been loud. Clubs and churches, which operated close to residential areas, would rock their music till morning. In the central business district, food vendors would sell coffee, boiled eggs and mandazi [fried bread] to passers-by, long after midnight. Marikiti Market, which sources vegetables from across the country to feed Nairobi, would open as early as 4am and be thronged by market women eager to choose the freshest kale, cabbages or tomatoes to sell at their stalls. Now, only those working in essential services, such as health care, are allowed to be outside at night. On the day the curfew was imposed, the police whipped and teargassed those who were not yet home by 7pm, an act of cruelty that the president called out and apologised for.
We are free to move during the day. But the usual hustle and bustle is gone. Matatu [taxis] and buses can only carry half the passengers they carried before, restaurants only do takeaway and bars are closed. Those who can afford to be indoors, and these being employees with regular salaries and the option of working from home, stay home. You can cut the anxiety with a knife. We know the virus lurks everywhere — on the onions you select at the stall, on the surface of the door you push in, in every exhalation from each person you pass by as you walk.
I chat with my friends endlessly in order not to be lonely. We complain about internet access, endless trips to the fridge due to boredom and how we delayed to stock good office chairs in our homes. A friend suggested that the pandemic could be a possible blessing in disguise, a chance for us to reinvent our lives, and I reminded him that it couldn’t be a blessing for those already sick, for those caring for the sick and for those already dead. Still, I understood his need to make meaning from the chaos and to derive from that meaning a sense of faith. My reprieve has been trying out new recipes. I made chapatti for the first time, following a recipe from YouTube. I shared pictures with friends and they marvelled, telling me how delicious my chapatti looked even though they were not round.
I feel powerless. There is an onslaught of information and very little capacity to act on the information, other than to stay indoors and wash my hands. The government was slow at the beginning. International flights kept on even as coronavirus ravaged through China and Italy. Passengers would be cleared and asked to self-quarantine, and of course some misbehaved.
A deputy governor from Kilifi county flew in from Germany and mixed with his constituency. A priest from Italy went to Siaya county and oversaw a funeral, then later tested positive for Covid-19. On Twitter, there was a claim that a lady isolated at a government facility snuck out to drink and party. A section of nurses based at a government facility catering to Covid-19 patients had to go on strike, stating that they were inadequately trained.
Restrictions came hard and fast. It began with the indefinite closing of schools, the suspension of international flights and now we cannot travel outside Nairobi or walk outside without a face mask.
When I do my groceries, I eavesdrop. A lady said that if Italy, which looks like Karen (a posh residency in Nairobi) could be overwhelmed then what about Kenya? Another woman jokingly said that the only remedy was to learn not to breathe, because the virus lingered in the air like an aerosol and you could never be sure of the air you were inhaling. I tell myself that I am safe in my house. The outside world may be contaminated but my bed, sofa, utensils, curtains are clean. I keep a sanitiser at the door to use whenever I walk in, and I take off clothes I used when walking outside and wash them immediately.
Since I cannot travel, I keep calling my siblings and parents who are upcountry and we comfort each other and share tips on keeping safe. There is good rain in Iten where they live and they are able to grow their own vegetables. They feel blessed to be able to stay within the farm for weeks on end.
Kenya was founded not on the will of its citizens but on the basis of colonial exploitation. When the colonialists left, ethnicised elites took over and kept on with the wanton plunder. The test we have now is to define for ourselves what a country should mean to us, and how it should care for us. We now know how essential it is for public services to be available for each person. Before, the rich and the middle class could push aside the need for these facilities. If there were no roads, they bought themselves fourwheel-drives. If there was no water supply, they drilled boreholes. When electricity was intermittent, they invested in generators. Now, safety means each one of us being able to access water and soap to wash our hands.
The debilitating thing about coronavirus is that it attacks what is fundamentally human, our desire to be with other people. Now that has been defined dangerous and as social creatures we find the need to social distance unnatural. Still, we are reminded how much the action, or inaction, of one person affects so many other people. This is the power that each human being has, and from now on, caring and minding over each other has to be central in our communities, in our politics and in our international conversations. Perhaps what I saw as stars and spaceships in my dream was just us, filled with light, watching over each other, knowing that life is fragile and needs protection.
The day the curfew was imposed, the police whipped and teargassed those not home by 7pm
I feel powerless. There is an onslaught of information and very little capacity to act on [it]