Recluse

A story about an isolated state of mind induced by the Covid-19 lockdown — from Chinenye Anikwenze

Would you look at me, even while I am hunched, curled up as a fetus and wondering why and when it will end? My pain, my angst, my troubles. Would you spare a look at my figure, wrinkled from days of internalised daily torment? My misery that I would rather pretend does not exist and sprawl across my bed in deep sleep and not go through the same bland process every day.

I wrestle with my mind most times, the contention stems from a place of subconscious mind. A place where I continuously doubt my capabilities. Maybe, I am culpable for the infliction of these pains upon myself but it does not hurt to discover that some external factors are responsible for my anguish, the fact that my freewill was wrongfully yanked from my grasp muddles my idea of stability. At least, before this imposition, I had an established notion of what life, love, sorrow, happiness, bitterness and pain was. I had the leisure to regulate how it affects my person, but the case is not the same anymore.

I had thought that awakening every day with no hectic responsibilities meant that I had ample time on my sleeves to do something, anything. I felt I could everything as I had nothing else that is occupying my space. Alas, that was not the case with me. I was not ready for the solitude that came with my social-distancing that tugs my chest, constricting so much that I wish that I could push in and chunk the enabler of my pain and toss it away to disperse.

Although I have always wished that I would have the leeway of never having to go out. But this kind of wishes are awesome when it is only but an idea that never comes into manifestation. Since the universe has a cruel sense of humour, my panic that had been induced from social interaction thus became prolonged to the limitation of going outside. All in all, I have realised that my angst and subsequent panic spurred from a place whereby I know that my liberty is being infringed upon.

I perceived that it would be better if I delay going back home, to stop for a week or two at a distant relative’s place. Somewhere I desperately believed would be a much-needed break from what awaits eagerly for me back at home. I was not ready for those chores, at least not yet. The chores in fact might not be much, if I were to go by the standards of what is defined as hectic. However, I was not ready nor cut out for fetching water, neither was I ready to pound fufu for the family, nor was I ready for the dreaded preparation of Semolina each night, a meal my father have never agreed that I had done it right in the four years that I had been trying to perfect the meal. After much chastisement and admonitions from him, I could hardly care if I did it right these days. Still, I figured that I better delay the reprehension that was bound to happen.

The first week went by easily with me trying to wrap my head over being welcomed in a place that I was not used to, more so with people who I had not exactly communicated with for a while.

My discomfort led to my concluding that I would be out of their lair in a week, but fate played a funny joke on me. The borders were blocked, to really enforce the lockdown policy. The second week rolled by slower than I had thought. Suddenly, those chores that seemed insurmountable when I was at home seemed minuscule to what I am experiencing. Funny enough, I was not getting any reprimand, but the snide looks came with bouts of satisfaction and I was never comfortable with just being there, thus my scuffle continues each day. Soon enough, those damn chores I thought wasn’t enormous were slowly shifted to me. And it is more difficult to grumble this time because not only are these people accommodating me for free, courtesy demands that respect is shown to the hosts. This time, I am befuddled with the fault in that logic, that I am unintentionally going along with same chores but no complaints came from me while the opposite would have been the case, had I been in my home. The hypocrisy, which is human cracks up maniacally within me and I’m left the bitter taste of it on my tongue. For the nth time, I ask myself the reason I decided to throw caution in the wind and go along with people I barely know.

Since then, once the evening dark creeps in, as it always does, I roll over and emit a sigh of exhaustion, wondering what makes me tired. How plausible is it to experience such as a person who does not undergo any exerting task, save for ones that is spent for preparation of meals? Or would I include my tussle with my brain and psyche as a fight?

This fight continues every passing moment I am left alone daily. I sit on the rickety bench on the verandah, glancing at my nails which had become chapped from the previous day’s activities. I spent a good chunk of the day peeling and grating the beetroots which were to be used in preparation of the commercial Zobo¹ drink, made from Hibiscus flower. At first, I thought that the beetroot was to enhance the colour of the drink, but I was corrected as the vegetable serves as a nutritious addition to the other fruit extracts that are to be added to the drinks. What she didn’t tell me was that the beetroot would chap my nails, and that I would get discolouration as a result of the beetroot. My cuticle is not left out either, spots of blackish substances rest on the ridges of my nails and despite my washing over again, even washing a couple of clothes, my hands still remain the same.

My hands are soft, too soft. While I was in secondary school, my classmates were always marvelled on the texture of my palms. They would indulge me by asking whether there were any bones on my fingers because I was able to bend the fingers backwards with no qualms. Then, they’d ask me if I ever worked at home. My fingers no longer bend these days, maybe this has to do with the increment in the tasks I had undergone at home.

But seating here, and looking anxiously at my palm which I love so much and reminiscing over the good ole days of my teenage hood and schooling amid mischief, I wonder if my palms would get harder than it already is. The distortion stands like a sore thumb, but in this case it is in the specimen of splotches all over my palm. My superego glares at me, as if mocking my earlier instinct to stay in the house. As usual, I am unable to blame my gut because my decision to be here came from spontaneity.

At times, I feel like I am intruding on spaces, which I am hardly welcomed. The ease among my cousins and my hesitance to engage in banter or small talks with them. It is not that they make me feel unwelcome, but I cannot follow through with their easy conversations, more so when the conversations tilt towards the church and all it represents.

Now that I have brought up the church, I am dreading the day my aunt will call me out for missing church activities. Truthfully, I have already planned the excuse I would give should the conversation come up with her. It would be along the lines of my not feeling comfortable with worshipping in the private fellowship that goes on in the minister’s house instead of the church as a result of the lock down. I would be isolated from the rapport among the small group.

I do know that the argument likely does not hold water, at least not where my overzealous aunt is concerned. She would give me an earful which gives me another alternative, my outfit. I did not come with any since I hoped I would be gone in a week. This does not matter because one of her children is roughly the same size as I am, so I would easily fit into her clothes. As such, I keep my fingers crossed hoping that she would not notice my presence but I know she does already. One of them told me a few days back that she inquired the reason I do not join them in service and my constant procrastination each Sunday morning leaves me more alone than I can mention.

As usual, it began just like every other day, a twinge of pain seeping through the pores of my stomach. I could not understand why each passing day came with its challenges. My aunt’s husband, announced that there would be a fast for the pandemic that have affected the society. I almost blurt out that the prayers are pretty much useless if the government are not providing measures to aid curtail the spread of the diseases. I almost chastise him for beseeching on a God that allowed the disease to encroach the world in the first place, but I fear they are not ready for that conversation yet. I am yet to have this sort of discussion with my father, talk less of this family that have provided my shelter when it was not their obligation. Again, I am left out in my solitude to analyse these in my mind while I exude courtesy outwardly.

I display the courtesy in going through with the fast and singing melodiously every morning through the forty-five-minutes devotion. A style that was alien to me. Back home, the prayers take at most ten minutes and there is no room for the daily devotion. However, my presence here calls for my immediate adjustment of my comfort zone and so I try hard to keep my drooping eyes open through it daily. Unlike my home where after prayers demand immediate movement to chores, I get the opportunity to sleep in after the devotion and I maximise this each morning. It does not help that her kids go on a run each day after the prayers and I am stuck inwards with the workload piling up and I go though each one with hopes that the lock down be called off already. The kids had invited me often to go with them, but I decline most times. I absolutely do not want to deal with the familiarity that might come with the association.

It struck me that my kind of person survives and thrives when I take people in tiny doses. When I get too close in the sense that I am accommodating more than usual, I am worn down with the weariness that spring up from where I have not pin-pointed yet. There are a lot of people, but I am secluded. It was then I came to realise that isolation is not only physical per se but the mind is inclusive with the term.

I am isolated from school and the projects that come with it, my entertainment which includes the movies and books I could have been lost in. Even music that had been a form of solace for me is far from providing the comfort that is much-needed. My varying thoughts are not close-by either. It was not long before I discerned that I am also isolated from my mind, it is far away from me, and I can only wish that I grasp it before this all ends.

1. Zobo: A maroon-coloured beverage made from dried hibiscus leaves.

Chinenye Anikwenze is a Nigerian undergraduate at the University of Nigeria Nsukka and a research assistant whose works has been published in Cogent Arts and Humanities. When she is not ranting on her blog — chinenye-anikwenze.blogspot.com, she is spinning screenplays to launch on Nollywood screen. Her Twitter handle is @laskelly_b.