Day Whatever,

Things have changed.

I’ve lost track of time – and by that I mean I have misplaced my watch. It matters very little to me because time is nothing more than a construct. Gone are the references to hours, minutes … seconds. The day is split into; when I woke, when I ate, when I worked, when I ate again, when I freshened up- not always in that order.

The man staring back at me from the mirror is gradually retreating, hidden behind a wall of hair. I can already see the barber at that salon drooling again. I’m fast becoming the stuff of his dreams. “Let me have a go,” he will say. His eyes glazing as he takes in the strands sticking out from my face, “I will not go all the way,” he will plead, his fingers twitching anxiously, eager to reach for the machine, “just the tips”, he will attempt to bargain.

My clothes are undergoing what can best be described as an iron deficiency. Creases sprawl across the expanse of cloth, with great abandon. I’m resigned to their presence – they probably mean me no harm. Mostly. I shift on the couch trying to find a position conducive to get work done – A task made all the more difficult by the sad realization that there is no such thing as the perfect position.

The sound of a boda-boda pulls me out of my reverie, drawing me to the balcony with the allure a flame extends to a wanton moth. I notice the passenger on the back of the bike. She’s brave, I think to myself, recalling the clip that was shared on whatsapp earlier featuring a man, his stick and gravity. I watch them take a turn and vanish from my view.

The stage is not deserted for too long, as a new cast of characters limps over, masks over their faces, sunglasses trying to occupy what little real estate is left on their visages. They could pass for a pair of thieves. . . Who’s to say they aren’t? What ‘working from home’ means to those who help themselves is open to interpretation.

My phone vibrates. Or at least I think it does. I pull it out of my pocket and smirk at the screen staring back at me. No missed call, no message… no sign that the network icon is trying to push itself to give 110% and bestow upon me another bar. For all intent and purpose, the phone might as well be on airplane mode or worse, house a Uganda Telecom SIM Card.

The neighborhood kids are running riot downstairs and I have to admit; I am a little bit jealous. I envy the apparent blissful ignorance that’s affording them the opportunity to scream in glee, letting in whatever virus happens to be in the air. I wish I too could shove people about with reckless abandon, but these days the fear that I may pick something off the lint on their shoulder will force me to settle for a menacing wag of the finger, “Some day, you will get your comeuppance”… and then I will retreat into the shadows where the spray produced by an award winning jeer won’t find me.

The calendar app on my computer springs to life with all the excitement of, well, a calendar app that’s eager to mess up someone’s day with a reminder that a meeting is imminent. A link is clicked and I’m transported to a world with workmates, nay, colleagues. We discuss things, schedule others and say our goodbyes. We will meet here again.

I look outside. The sun looks inside. Something about my disposition rubs it the wrong way, I expect, for it starts to retreat. It’s almost curfew O’clock. Somewhere out there a member of the Local Defense Unit is stroking his cane. Waiting eagerly for the sun to set so that he can rise. Screaming at people as he lashes out menacingly, running as he has never before hoping to land a blow here and there – It’s the small things that give us meaning, I suppose.

As his ehnth day of quarantine begins, mine comes to

the end.