Tired, and Normal

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Dear Kenyans,

I understand that we are tired; I am tired too.

I am tired of wearing my mask. Tired of staying away from my friends and family because I don’t know if I could infect them. Tired of being resilient, of being hopeful and of being cautious. 

But above all, I am tired of seeing the increasing number of dead and infected pass by. Knowing that each of those numbers represents promises unkept. Knowing that each of those numbers represents communities in mourning. Fearing that one of those numbers could be me. 

So, I will not remind you of those numbers. Because, for better or worse, many of us remain unaffected by the virus. And it is this distance, that allows us to look past the coronavirus. This distance permits my selfishness as I bemoan the containment measures. As I join others in calling for a return to normal. 

But this is normal.

If normalcy is conforming to a standard and the realisation of expectations; we now live in a world where we expect to stay home. Where we expect to stay apart. Where we expect to stay safe. In our calls to return to normalcy, we are rejecting our responsibility to protect that normalcy. We are acting as if “normal” is set in stone, when, in reality, it is whatever we make it to be. And this, Kenyans, is our normal. 

We can no longer call for a return to normal because the normal we took comfort in no longer exists. We can never, we will never, not know what it was like to be apart; physically and emotionally. That normal died the same day the coronavirus took a Kenyan life. 

And in its place is our current existence. Is it full? I cannot say, nor do I wish to presume that everyone has had the same experience. But we must take ownership of it. Not because it could get worse, but because it is ours.

We owe it to the people in the hospital to protect our new normal. Because fighting it, pretending it does not exist, will only entrench its worse aspects even further. The more we ignore it, the more we fail to abide by its expectations and its realities, the more people die. The closer the virus gets to our homes, our churches, our offices. 

We owe it to our children to protect this new normal so that they can create theirs. We owe it to each other.
So, am I tired of fighting? Of course. But is exhaustion an excuse to stop the fight? No. There is too much left to lose. It is when we are tired, that the fight matters more. That we must push ourselves a little harder to go a little further. Therefore, will I keep fighting to protect what I have left? Yes.

This is normal. And I implore us all to fight for it. Only then can we create the next normal, together. With the full force of our potential, rather than in shadows of what could have been.

Will you join me? 

Update:

I wrote this five months ago when vaccines were for the elderly, our healthcare professionals, our teachers, our security forces and, of course, the connected. Five months ago, Kenya's ability to procure vaccines for her citizens was severely hampered by vaccine nationalism and apartheid. But now, 2.9% of Kenya's population is fully vaccinated, over 700,000 citizens; and I am one of them. This was how I continued to fight; I did whatever I had to, to make sure we could develop a "new normal." And through it all, I remain fatigued and disillusioned with the state of humanity. But, nevertheless, we persist. Or rather, I must. For if there are millions of people around the country, make the same decision; to keep persevering. Then we might be okay.

Will you join me?


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