A Very Badd Idea presents:

QUARANTINED: LOVE IN THE

MIDST OF CORONA

A short story by GOMOLEMO B.

MOYO

Written for and dedicated to MOTHER

NATURE AND HER CHILDERN.

To be read by everyone.
FINDING NEVERLAND…
Peace. Our beloved Mother Nature rests. Her hair strands, once forcedly pulled out
their roots, begin to grow. She sheds a tear in one eye for the fear roaming amongst
her people, and another as a sign of relief. After decades of babysitting a sinister and
ungrateful human race, she has finally put in leave. Long overdue, if you ask me. 21
days booked for a decade of uterine rupture. Each generation diagnosed with a more
evolved fetal macrosomia. Her alveoli production cannot match the demand. There
are simply just too many mouths to feed. She needs to rest.

Ironically her children cry out frantically. Prohibited from marching, in the month of
March, they journey towards the beginning of April feeling like fools for overlooking an
entire pandemic. Historically the Bible warned us of these coming days. The book of
exodus. I ponder if I should slaughter a lamb and rub its blood on my door frame?
Maybe then she will pass. She has to. My immunocompromised self, wishes to
celebrate a thirtieth birthday – Bottarga di muggine at La Botteghina, a glass of
aperitivo overseeing the picturesque Cefalù, wrapped in custom Brioni and morning
meditations at the cove of Grotta di Lord Byron… mmm. I snap out of the day-dream
as soon as my medulla oblongata releases the autonomic function that allows me to
sneeze – into my hands. A Musca domestica lands on my perfectly shaped nose and
my body reacts by signalling my left arm to brush it off. ‘Why are the people in the
streets so unobtrusive?’ I ponder. My attention span lapses as I find my concentration
on my left hand. There seems to be blotch of dry skin on my index finger. I mindlessly
nibble on it until it’s torn off. My eyes then jump off to the television station and goggle
at the statistics. ‘Shit – I didn’t wash my hands today!’ I scream out. I quickly rush to
the bathroom, foam my hands with soap, fill my mouth with 40ml of Listerine and
convince myself that the current epidemic is a state of mind. ‘If you think about it, you
will catch it’ I unconvincingly utter to myself. To be honest – I would rather catch her
than get quarantined.

I should treat her like the Volturi. Walk into the streets of Montepulciano draped in a
red robe and uncover my unprivileged immune system for the whole city to see. Alice
finally in Wonderland, with no raven fast enough to send word from the Cullen’s to
incept my lover with the idea that stopping me is out of an act of love. The robe would

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ease off my chocolate body – a counterfeit compared to the gift offered by a certain
adult company probing sanitized self-pleasure in the midst of mass hysteria. But who
am I to judge? I was born in a country where most fathers orphan their children but
raise the bar when it comes to memes. Good laughter has got us through tough times.
But only God can get us through this prequel.

I lie awake on the dawn of quarantine. My central processing unit refuses to fathom
the inevitable. I have stocked up enough supplies to open a small spaza shop – I’ve
never been a fan of minimalistic living. Monks, are so often associated with wisdom,
spirituality and tranquillity. All my friends cite The Alchemist as a book they’ve read
when seeking a revenue of depth. The idiocrasy of finding your own individuality by
utilizing man’s words as a map baffles me. How can I find myself in his story? How
can I find myself in history? Mother Nature refuses to answer my questions. Her kids
however run across social media as if it was a jungle gym. Dear Mother, why are they
so afraid of being quarantined? Have they not already isolated themselves in public
spaces like at dinner tables where the communication is minimal and the night is spent
updating their feeds with pictures of our meals, taking videos of everyone taking videos
– oh the tautology. But I know why they are afraid. Isolation amongst people isn’t really
isolation. For others the quarantine presents a time to rest, catch up on a book or two
and spend time with family. For me the quarantine presents the worst outcome of any
pandemic – a time where I have to confront my demons.

Unfortunately, there is neither a vaccination for this.

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A QUARANTINED MIND…
The television station is flooded with news about her. Covid-19, that’s what they have
named her. I would love to keep her identity a secret but we all know who she is. Her
name is Corona (Rona for short). She is the daughter of Thanos. Anguished by an
ungrateful universe, hell knows no fury like a woman scorned. She could not live with
her father’s failure, and where did that lead her? It led her to us. Mere mortals who
continuously abused Mother Nature.

“Mother,” she says. “Your children are going to bed hungry, scrounging for scrap. You
are on the brink of collapse. The children born after my departure will know nothing
but full bellies and clear skies – Paradise. The hardest choices requires the strongest
wills.”

Mother Nature ridicules this statement. Mother Nature has been diagnosed with
Stockholm syndrome. The genesis of the psychological alliance between Mother
Nature and her children predates captivity. It was present in birth and formed during
conception. Mother Nature continuously reproduced to affirm her belief in life,
disregarding the blunt fact that she was poverty stricken. Her labour could not provide
for all, her sheep could not clothe all and her near-depleted resources could not be
replenished. But still she had us! Semi-identically to an improvised woman from the
rural areas with 8 kids who laboriously beseech free resources from the Government
but fail to utilise the most important – a condom. Her solution is volcanic tantrums,
agitated tremors and postpartum hurricanes which uncounselled, leads to the
abandonment of her infants, who with a pinch of entitlement, are left under the care of
the preluded generation through an act of giving back known as black tax. This could
prevail, but corruption can be defined in a picture of a fully grown man who leaches on
his mother’s udders, to empty out her reserve and expects the infant to seek
opportunity in whatever spills over during the process. How we love to praise these
men. Philanthropists is what they are called. But aren’t we all? The material objects
that empower us could have been spread out to help the less fortunate. I don’t mind
helping those who are without resources. Those who are not privileged enough to
stock up before the lockdown, and would have to endure violence and threats from the
soldiers roaming the streets of neighbourhoods they never lived in, during the

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quarantine period in order for them to purchase the necessary goods needed. I’m
referring to the idiocrasy of some people. Our hard toil in order to support those who
blatantly laugh in the face of education. Those who continue to roam these streets
during the quarantine and believe their immune to the disease. Knowing very well
should they fall sick, they would be dependent on us for assistance. Rona should
eradicate these pseudo intellectual malcontents and leave us here to heal with Mother.
Then she can smile on a grateful universe.

I lay dormant as my mind overworks. I have an archer’s mark in pin pointing a needle
that could crumble any corrupt organisation. Olivia Pope is my spirit animal. If only I
could turn back the hands of time, or refresh with no recollection of Scandal, it would
be the perfect binge for this quarantine. My lover on the other hand, as dedicated as
Wallace Hartley’s band’s rendition of “Nearer, My God, to Thee” as the titanic sank,
stands in the midst of the pandemic. I call him Molly Brown, he is unsinkable. A whole
snack. 50 shades of Grey’s anatomy. I yearn to hear him group a couple of words
together and form a sentence. He could utter anything. His voice is hoarse. He’s gifted
– horse. Ironically he can’t take any of my calls when he is on-call. It is in this moment
that I start to panic – not because of his unavailability, but because of mine.

If I’m being honest, I thrive of instant gratification. My social media profile paints a
prolific, confident and beautiful young lady, whilst my anxiety shoots through the roof
when I stare in the mirror. I remember a time where my hour glass frame wasn’t vogue
material. I had to endure insults about my body – they referred to me as waistless.
Today, my structure is praised and a numerous amount of my old foes spend mammon
on waist trainers, buttocks implants and dietitians in order to look like me. Ironically I
spend mammon trying to look like anything but me. Have you ever taken a day off,
switched off all electrical devices, closed the curtains and locked yourself in a room
and asked, “Do I love myself?” The answer is appalling.

My mind is better of preoccupied with pointing out what is at fault with the world. The
fault lies with me. I have not dealt with the trauma of the sexu... I wonder what is on
the news. Quite recently I read the story about a woman who lost her lover in a car
crash. I specifically said lover, because the man was married with kids. Yet she
proceeded with the relationship. Melanin Brown was her name. Social media labelled
the dead man trash, more especially after Melanin’ suicide. I on the other hand, felt no

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remorse for Melanin. It’s much easier calling out men as trash, for forging a vision of
an alternative universe where he leaves his family for her, than accepting that women
like Melanin should be shun from society for willingly supporting the vision. Melanin
would have rode off in the sunset with that man. The man’s daughter would have had
to endure her first heartbreak – Thus leading to the genesis of her trust issues. I am a
by-product of this. My father fled with Becky. He would later attempt a franchise reboot
with my mother upon realisation that he had traded in a glass of freshly squeezed
lemonade for some lemons. My father’s departure invalidated me. It gave birth to a
seed that sprouted and grew thorns to choke out any belief that ‘I am good enough.’
There I go, trying to go off a tangent that redirects me back to the fact that I have
issues I haven’t dealt with. Issues about sexu… I wonder what I can binge watch now.

During this quarantine period, I foresee a majority of us Netflix binging, living on social
media, always eating, attending virtual calls on Zoom, watching news about Rona and
tweeting about it. Only a handful of people will take this time for self-introspection. I
don’t blame those who flee from themselves. It is much easier to listen to someone’s
problems than to face my own. I would not survive the head on collision. I refuse to
believe that I am the only one that fears the depths of their own minds. It is the pits. I
ponder what my angels would make of this? Father God have we lost faith in you? In
an uncertain time where our faith should be exercised we stand ready to pursuit fear.
Rona’s arrival has presented us with a long overdue break. The whole world stands
still and we could utilise this time to repaint the world as we know it. Rona has
highlighted how the privileged run frantically and hog the shopping lines, purchasing
a surplus of goods without being considerate of those who will come after them. Similar
to how we continuously abuse Mother Nature and deplete her resources without
considering the next generation. Our lack of compassion has us expecting the poor,
who have no access to basic rights like water, to wash their hands. Our prisons are
more structurally equipped with access to basic education and nutritious meals whilst
our rural communities are the direct opposite. Never had I thought I would live in a
time where being locked up is far healthier than being locked down. Our pastors have
not made any contributions towards Rona, but now offer online services for us to tithe
to you Father. There are those who will endure abuse during the next 21 days. Those,
who university provided a safe haven with meals and a decent place for them to lay
their heads are forced back to the exact locations of pain, heartache and hunger. Our

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elders’ pitiable health demonstrates the importance of developing a healthy lifestyle at
a younger age, whilst food markets overcharge on good nutrition. It is far cheaper for
me to buy a streetwise 5 and a loaf of bread, than a 5kg brown maize meal. I could go
on about the sins of this world but it would be pointless if I do not provide a solution.

The truth is we are all sinister. Self-worshiping beings who praise God for aid. “We
receive,” is our mantra. Traditionally raised in churches to seek God’s blessing and
acquaint it to material success rather than to bless others. “We receive” should be
phased out by “We give.” The pastor preaches about spontaneous blessings rather
than hard work. As I reconnect with my favourite bible stories, the story of Noah to be
exact. Noah’s pastor would have uttered “You will receive an Ark.” But the book of
proverbs 24:33 - 34 states “Have a nap and sleep if you want to. Fold your hands and
rest a while, but while you are asleep, poverty will attack you like an armed robber.” A
blessing is unlocked by a pair of safety boots, an overall and long hours of labour. Yet
we persecute false prophets for overcharging on spontaneous blessings instead of
also calling out their followers for being lazy. To see God’s blessing you would need
to build your own ark, whilst people ridicule you. The praises will come after the flood.
“Be generous and share your food. You will be blessed for it” Proverbs 22:9. Yet
society looks upon Billionaires to give charitable donations to society whilst the
everyday man cannot buy a loaf of bread and donate it to a home. I’ve cheered the
excuse that a loaf of bread cannot be compared to a billion, until the man I donated a
loaf to said “It’s not the weight of the gift that counts, but the act.” Our index finger are
sharp when pointing out what is wrong with the world, but blunt when pointing back to
ourselves. What is wrong with the world? …I am.

The solution reflects in the mirror. I am what is wrong with the world. You are what is
wrong with the world. We believe the gospel when it said Jesus saved us from sin by
granting us eternal life. Yet we call upon the poor devil and denunciate him when things
don’t go our way instead of taking accountability. That man has no power! But it’s
much easier to denunciate him for our addiction than take responsibility for it. We place
him on a pedestal as the king of mischief whilst preaching how God has whitewashed
him. We act as if we are caught up in a tug of war between the two. Truth is the devil
lies powerless and only is awaken when we deem it. If we accept eternal life, it comes
with responsibility of accepting that it is an unbreakable coven between you and God.
It cannot be shaken, interrupted and destroyed until you deem it so. I am testament to

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that. I haven’t dealt with my sex…. sexual abuse. I was raped by my favourite uncle.
The pain lies in the fact that though I didn’t bring this unto myself, I’m bestowed with
the accountability of actioning steps in order for me to heal. Imagine that. Like I said
my current relationship finds me unavailable. Emotionally unavailable. My hate
towards men is justifiable, but the same hatred stops me from accepting love I deserve.

When my uncle got caught, he blamed it on the devil. He said that he was bewitched.
The pastor declared it fit. “How could a happily married, leader of the community, well-
educated and prolific man taint the purity of an innocent 16-year old girl? The devil
must have also used her by summoning the spirit of jezebel to lure the man in”. I
refuted that statement. The same pastor who condemned the man who killed his wife
and children, prayed to reinstate my rapist into the church. It’s not the devil that stops
atheists from entering the church, but the hypocritical Christians who bend the law
God brought forward to be beneficial for them. My uncle who once said “no weapon
formed against him shall prosper,” was quick to hide behind the devil than take
accountability for what he did. There is no faith without works. It is much easier to point
the finger than take accountability. My uncle was lustful. He failed years ago to
approach the church and get help. I believe once you’re born again, that devil cannot
taint you. This does not mean you won’t sin, it only entails that you are blessed with
the knowledge to know the difference between wrong and right. You live lavishly in an
anointed plastic bubble with your Lord and Saviour, which gets poked every time YOU
peek out to the life you had prior to your blessing. And peek he did, and thruste…

The sinister behaviour that shattered my innocence into pieces finds the tip of my
fingers bleeding from the cuts probed by attempting to pick them up. I have to take
accountability that it is up to me, and only me, to cry out for help and beg on the door
of forgiveness. I need to forgive the cunt in order to heal. The shackles of hatred I cast
upon him, find his ankles and wrists vibrating from his laughter as he has long forgotten
the trauma he engraved on my skin. I lie there, drowning in a puddle of my own tears
cursing my father for leaving with Becky when I needed his protection. Protection from
his own brother who promised to be more of a father figure. Ironically the man who
raped me showed me more love than my mother’s sperm donor.

However it is entirely up to me to deal with this pain.

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THE OPEN LETTER: FROM
H.E.R TO THE W.O.R.L.D…
Here lies my pain. My quarrel with the world. Before I try to decompose the ashes of
my past, I first have to inhale the smoke. I rose from the concrete paving that never
paved way for people like us. Not black people, but black women. Incarcerated by the
cells in our minds or lack thereof. Strangled and left winded by our medulla oblongata.
At war with our pigment, bone structure and all the features that make us rare. We
fear our fellow black men more than we fear the Boko Haram. We are raised as glass
only in theory. In reality we are broken, both physically and emotionally.

However I am drained from the all-black marches, the victimised role that society faults
us prey too, the #AmInext protests that paint a clear picture – I am next. The only
difference this time is that I carry a loaded barrel ready to pierce holes into any animal
that cannot contain its third leg. I am ready for war. If these bodies turn cold on my
account, then I’ll be condemned to live eternally in hell. I only hope I’m granted the
privilege to take my barrel with me so I can finish off what I started.

Please, don’t get me wrong. Yes, I’m talking to you. You are the one reading these
words, right? This is not a diary of a mad black woman. I’m not linear with the same
idiosyncrasies as Tyler Perry’s female characters. I’m the epitome of a black woman
– multi-layered, intelligent, strong, powerful and beautiful. We are not damsels, we are
Lionesses. Queens of the jungle who birthed a nation and raised the bar, whilst our
weaker counter parts cowardly ran from their responsibilities only to return year’s later
needing help from the children they once orphaned. I grow weary of the same story.
Deadbeat man, abusive man, rape man, lying man – oh Adam, what do you have to
say about your decedents? But an apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Was it not you
Adam who failed to ‘man up’ and get Eve to let go of the fruit? Why was it only after
the bite that you made the conscious decision of putting on some pants? Did your
naked body evoke emotions about your lack of masculinity? Is that the reason why
your descendants are more concerned with the size of their third legs rather than

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putting food on the table? I doubt you would know. After all you were tricked by a
snake when God had given you dominion over all the animals in the world.

The truth is the moment a man steps out of his God given purpose, he becomes
inoperable. Ashamed of his own reflection, he finds it pleasing to shift the blame. How
dare you label us gold-diggers when you have no gold for us to dig! These are the
thoughts I ponder on as the pastor preaches about the good woman. The proverbs 31
woman. Why should she exist? Where are all the men worthy of the proverbs 31
woman? Where is the proverbs 31 man?

My friend says she is happily married to one. A man who is worthy. The only question
I posed to her is: “If you and I, know at least 3 women who have either been raped or
abused, how doesn’t he know of one rapist or an abuser? Is he only deemed good
based on how he treats his wife? Or how he treats other women? But if he knows of
an uncle or any man that is an abuser or rapist and remains silent. Is he still a good
man? Or is he a good man only to you?”

Men’s worst fear is going to jail because they don’t want to get raped. I guess jail is to
them, what life is to us.

I grow weary of having to go through a dozen animals in hopes of finding a man. I

would rather kiss frogs.

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THE QLA: QUARANTINED
LOVE AFFAIR…
The dawn of a new day had a bitch named Karma slap me silly, until I found myself in
the trenches ironically full of red roses and palm trees. This must be paradise! My
hatred for men had my heart locked in a Svalbard global seed vault. Not even Johnny
Ramensky could break in. But Karma let someone in. A man, who abides by his word.
His actions paint a vivid picture that only an aesthete could elucidate. A cognitive and
social phenomenon – love could this be you? Banging on my vault as if you have a
pair of drumsticks composing a lullaby stroking my hatred into a vegetative state.
Continuously skipping a beat as you compose a ballad to awaken my love. “Oh,
sweet Jerry, the man that she would marry. He'd say, "Oh, darling don't you cry, for I
will always be by your side," Sonya Isaacs words serving as mediation for my tainted
soul. I had been swept off my feet and this brother didn’t have a broom, but a
stethoscope. He could hear my heartbeat louder than a boom box. Beaming at his
sight, longing for his touch, heart rate synchronized with his, Blue Morpho’s soaring in
my abdominal, are all the symptoms of my diagnosis. I self-medicated and stole a box
of antibiotics from the pharmacy. I self-quarantined for 14 days and kept my distance.
However my infatuation had spun a cocoon and morphed into beautiful intense feeling
of deep affection. The government had warned us against handshakes, but he touched
my heart. Sunken deep, paranoia alluding my mind with hallucinations that he could
be my uncle reincarnated. I pushed my body above its limits to get out, only to tremble
in shock and anxiety. Paralysed on the floor, I pleaded with Isaac Newton to reduce
the gravitational force between him and I. He was an external force that found me in
a state of uniform motion. The more distance I covered, led to my ankle monitor
signalling him that I was no longer radius bound. A flood of blue lights stomped on my
tracks and found me paraplegic. My hallucinations had hoodwinked me into Forest
Gumping out of my apartment. Fleeing from my love, my past and the four walls
moving in on my claustrophobic self. My immunocrompised soul, with a tint of asthma
and the Rona possibly airborne, caused an alert that my software could not

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troubleshoot. With my medical history and health state, this could be seen as
attempted suicide.

“Stay with me… Charge the defibrillator. We are losing her!”

…………………………………………………………………………………………………
………………………………………………………………………………………………….
…………………………………………………………………………………………………..

I have SCID – A severe combined immunodeficiency. The medical term reads of like
a sentence constructed by Einstein, so in short, I have the immune system of a 5 year
old. I frequent at hospitals as much as an epicure frequents at bistros. My life is an
adaptation of bubble boy without the suit. I’ve shown a numerous amount of
progression over the years, so my body survives the cold – only if I continue my life-
long medication. Sanitisers, soap, masks, gloves and periods of quarantine have been
part of lifestyle from the day I fought out my mother’s womb. So it’s disheartening when
my peers grumble about 21 days of quarantine and the drastic measures taken for
their own health. I, on the other have been in combat with Rona and her predecessors
all my life.

The first time I took a step outside my mother’s house I was 16 – That’s when I met
him. I was a modern day Cinderella, draped with the regalia of the nurses fighting
covid-19 today. Only permitted to inhale the fresh air and gaze over the sun until it set.
An outlier to the majority of my peers who could not fathom any explanation of my
condition. From the moment he laid his eyes on me, it was excruciatingly difficult for
him to conceal his affection. My ghoonghat fuelled his assumptions that I was
practicing Pardah. My brown eyes served nostalgia of the tranquillity of his birthplace.
My personality must have been Gold Logie material, as he spent the rest of those days
by my side. The fruitless tree hidden behind an abandoned house a few metres from
my home served as our tryst. On days where SCID posted me in solitary confinement,
he would carve out my name on the tree and envision it to propel into the sky like the
batman distress signal device. Three quarters within the year, he had won my mom’s

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favour and had been granted visitation rights. A man of his word at only 17 – he
professed his love for me and exclaimed that the day we became acquainted he found
purpose in his life. 50 shades of Grey anatomy, my lover carved a plan to become a
medical doctor with the sole purpose of curing me off SCID.

Since the first contraction of Rona, he has become sedulous. Not only he, but the
entire health force, the army, police force and all essential services required during
this quarantine. Risking their lives on a daily. This is the primary reason I haven’t seen
my lover since the pandemic started. Just a pinch of Rona, could shove me into ICU.
Self-isolation has taken a toll on me. I yearn to go home, but without a bubble suit I
remain stranded in my apartment. I cannot afford to takes any risks

Going outside and flooding the streets doesn’t make one cool. It shows a lack of
compassion, selfishness and entitlement. If you can’t stay home because of your lack
of concern about your health, stay in for the concern of those who live with you.

But if so… then why did I just bolt out of my apartment?

…………………………………………………………………………………………………
…………………………………………………………………………………………………
……………………………………………………………………………^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

“We have a heartbeat. All vitals are stable. She’s going to make it”

My lids were tightly sealed, as I heard a woman scream frantically for someone to call
911. Her rage and pain as she recited Wyclef Jean’s infamous lyrics. My life flashed
before my eyes. Correction – it wasn’t my life flashing, but a mixture of blue and red
lights. Fire and Ice. The paramedic rushed over, charged the defibrillator in hopes to
resuscitate my near-corpse body.

I am alive.

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PRETTY BIRD: DAY OF THE
UNCAGING…
He failed years ago to conceal his affection. His doing a pretty good job now
concealing his anger. My lover, the first name on my emergency contact list, plunged
by my side. He beamed. I knew what that meant – he had found a cure. A bone
marrow transplant. An Allogeneic transplantation never appeared possible, but he
had found a donor. An exact match. He had kept his word. Our auspicious occasion
of his noteworthy Nobel peace prize achievement of curing me off SCID cut short by
the inevitability of our truth. Our time had run its course.

I lay dormant as my mind overworks. I have an archer’s mark in pin pointing a needle
that could crumble any corrupt organisation. Olivia Pope is my spirit animal. If only I
could turn back the hands of time, or refresh with no recollection of Scandal, it would
be the perfect binge for this quarantine. My lover on the other hand, as dedicated as
Wallace Hartley’s band’s rendition of “Nearer, My God, to Thee” as the titanic sank,
stands in the midst of the pandemic. I call him Molly Brown, he is unsinkable. A whole
snack. 50 shades of Grey’s anatomy. I yearn to hear him group a couple of words
together and form a sentence. He could utter anything. His voice is hoarse. He’s gifted
– horse. Ironically he can’t take any of my calls when he is on-call. It is in this moment
that I start to panic – not because of his unavailability, but because of mine.

Romeo and Juliet. Bonnie and Clyde. Jack and Rose. Olivia and Fitz. Him and I. All
star-crossed lovers whose love was thwarted by external forces. In our regard, the
needle pain that corrupted our fortress lies embedded in the fact that since my hymen
was forcedly torn apart, I haven’t loved myself. The day after the incident, I lured my
lover in under the false pretence that I was ready for fornication. My lies completely
transparent to his naked eye, he held me and assured me that we would see brighter
days. Sweet as honey he is, and waited until I was ready year’s later to voluntary
surrender my body for the first time. Our love-making as beautiful as Gustav Klimt’s
1908 beloved “The Kiss.” I had never buried my past, instead I attempted to build on

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it. My foundation as solid as The Tacoma Narrows Bridge. During those brief moments
of limbo between life and death, the solution had dawned on me. I simply had to
breakdown my fragile structure, unpack each brick and consult the Architect in heaven
to hand me the blueprints of my purpose on this earth. I have to do this alone. At this
moment I resemble Rose, keeping my Jack in the ice cold water when there is enough
space on the chunk of wood for the both of us. His life’s dissertation solely dedicated
to the uncaging of his Scarlet Macaw. Traumatised at the sight of his graded paper,
he and I had failed to realise that it was never his purposed mission to grant me a
normal life. He had channelled his spirit animal, Mike Ross, and endured the pain of
writing the bar for me. The bar in this case was the bone marrow. However granted
my new found freedom to roam the streets, with Rona in the midst, would free doom
upon the realisation that I never felt alive. Not because I was quarantined by SCID,
but rather by a past that I fled from. I couldn’t go to the side, or up nor under. I have to
go through it. I needed to let go off the shackles I placed on my uncle, collapse the
bridge I built between my family and I, delimit the relationship with my father and free
the pretty bird known as my lover. Today is the day of his uncaging. For it would be
selfish for him to wait. For I would rush the process and return half-hearted into his
arms alluded by fear that he would grow impatient, or I would emerge a different being
who would find love in someone else’s arms. I take accountability that I broke my
lover’s trust, the same way my uncle broke mine. I find solace in hope that his
optimistic self would take time off to heal. Then take time to love again.

Hurt people hurt people. We have hurt each other. We have hurt Mother Nature. We
have been hurt by our uncles, aunts, fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers and lovers.
The cure to the pain is accountability. We have pointed our index to the problem, which
has served to be part of the problem. During this time of Rona, where Mother Nature
is at peace. I urge you to diverge from your regular routine. I prompt you to swim to
the pits of your thoughts. Towards the inception of your jealousy, greed, anger and
most importantly pain. I plead you forgive those who have trespassed against you. I
pray you crave a hunger only God can fulfil. It’s no one’s responsibility to find you.
Though you are golden, you are not Nemo. You are. Brilliant. Beautiful. Immaculate.
Flawed. An Outlier. Prolific. Most importantly you’re human. God moulded you for a
reason. A purpose. Find it. You will stumble and then get back up. So I plead with you,
FORGIVE YOURSELF. And begin to LOVE YOURSELF during the midst of corona.

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