Bombshell of extra 14 days in camp

Shortly after our colleagues had been taken into isolation camps, we thought that it was now time for us to leave the quarantine centre. After all we were clean.

Incidentally, some in quarantine didn’t seem as jovial to leave for they had issues to worry about. This shocked me. I later realised that some had left their jobs abroad in a hurry and had no one to turn to. I listened pensively to their stories.

For me, I was happy to leave. Most of us were eager to leave the ritual — queuing for morning breakfast, bathroom, temperature test, lunch, dinner, and supplies.

We were so programmed for this that some of us wondered how life, outside the camp, would look like. Would we ever go back to factory settings, after all this quarantine format?

What we wanted now was our clean bill of health, a letter to prove that we had done our 14-day term and tested negative of Covid-19. That was the most important letter. We were now on day 12.

However, we realised no health official had communicated to us on this. Where are our results? We had assumed that we were okay since we had not been sent to isolation. That was a matter of concern to many.

Three of our colleagues had already been taken into isolation after they tested positive.

As we awaited the temperature test medics to arrive, one aggressive man who we nicknamed “Orengo Jnr” suggested we communicate our concern.

We needed “written results”. Otherwise, how else would we relay to the authorities out there that we had gone through the mandatory quarantine and were now free? We scheduled our meeting for an afternoon.

Another fear that stalked us was the stigma. Now that we were labelled “watu wa corona”.

But what followed turned out to be the most devastating news ever since we arrived at this camp. It was more stressful than the stigma we wanted to duck.

Our self-appointed spokesperson had suggested that we pick two “officials” to air our grievances. Speed was of the essence.

My grey-haired friend “Kofi Annan” turned out to be everyone’s choice for “chairman” and a retiree woman, his assistant, for gender balance. Baas, we were set, or so I thought.

We voiced our concerns and demands to the officials and “Kofi” jotted them down. We needed masks, sanitisers and bathing soap.

The girls wanted sanitary pads, while others joked about condoms! In my mind, I was wondering why they were making such demands yet we had only two days to go!

Why were they asking for better living conditions while all I wanted was to go home? Our officials went to an adjacent hall and drafted the dispatch. I hoped and prayed it would work.

The following morning, Mr Chairman called a meeting. He said after a lot of haggling, the authorities had agreed to come and address our issues. The time had now come.

Before that, we were summoned by the accommodation personnel to queue for supplies and toiletries. It seemed our pleas had been heard, after all.

Then we were all handed typed rules to be followed by all. The rules included no alcohol, no partying, strict maintenance of social distance and the likes.

As for drinking, that was too late. Some people had already drowned their misery in alcohol and probably were now broke.

That afternoon, the long awaited doctor-in-charge finally arrived. There was palpable excitement. We all had questions and hoped for answers. Our able chairman ensured protocol was followed.

One question at a time, he said. We huddled and didn’t keep social distance. All we wanted to hear was when we were leaving camp.

Then came the bombshell. We would not leave the camp as previously directed, but would have an additional two weeks!

The explanation was that since we had three positive cases in our camp, we were all deemed contact persons! That did not make sense at all.

What is the essence of quarantining people if not to test and either isolate or release them depending on results?

We were informed that we hadn’t followed the stipulated rules. It was not our fault. The rules were given over a week late.

Everyone cursed. When people are confined in misery and suffering, they form a strong bond. There’s no manual work here and so people spend the whole day and night thinking, talking and plotting.