Friday 12, the day I was scheduled to travel home. I wake up at 7am to numerous “travel safe” text messages from those that know about my plight.
I didn’t have the heart to inform them that the trip had been postponed, if anything, saying it out loud would have made the situation even more distressing for me. It’s very sad day, but life has to go on.
The call I had been expecting on Tuesday, to inform me that my Covid-19 test results are ready, didn’t come. I had intended to visit the testing centre, but when it became clear that we were not travelling as promised, I opted to go today.
PUBLIC HOLIDAY
Lanre will be picking me up at 8am, so I quickly get ready. He still hasn’t arrived by 9am, so I text him.
He replies telling me that he forgot to inform me that today is a public holiday — one of two Independence Day holidays that Nigerians celebrate — he therefore decided to take his time since he did not expect to get caught in traffic.
He also tells me that chances of finding anyone working at the centre are quite slim. Nonetheless, he tells me, he will come and get me as agreed.
He arrives at 10am and we set off. Being a cold rainy Friday morning, and a holiday at that, there isn't much activity on the road. We soon arrive at the centre and find a handful of people waiting to get tested.
On enquiry, we are told that they do not issue results there, that we should have waited for a call.
After explaining the urgency of my situation, a gentleman with access to the results comes over and writes my name down then goes back in, only to return a few minutes later with some shocking news — my results were inconclusive and I’ve to retake the test. I can feel tears welling up in my eyes.
PAINFUL EXPERIENCE
You see, the memory of my first one is still raw. It was a painful experience that left me with a nosebleed. He’s talking, but I hear nothing of what he’s saying.
Seeing my distress, he tells us to wait as he consults about the retest. When he returns, he informs me that even if a retest is done, they don't issue certificates, that I should only expect a call with good or bad news.
I’ve never been so miserable. I express my displeasure at everything he has said as he apologises profusely for their lack of proper communication.
Lanre and I leave in a huff, heading to the other government facility where the other Kenyans in the WhatsApp repatriation group took the test. Traumatised, I sit silently.
I can tell that Lanre feels sad for me. He has no idea what to tell me. We get there soon enough since there isn’t much traffic, and find a crowd at the gate.
At both testing centres, I’ve noticed that everyone has their masks on properly, probably because everyone assumes everyone else is here because they have Covid-19 symptoms.
EMAILED INVITATION
When it is our turn to get in, the security guard asks us for an invitation code; they’re turning away anyone who doesn’t have one.
Fortunately for me, I had received an emailed invitation two days before, but because I had already been tested on Monday at the other facility, I ignored it.
Thankfully, I hadn’t deleted the email. I am handed a slip with the number 89 and asked to wait for my turn. We all wait in the drizzling rain as they are only allowing a group of 10 at a time.
As I’m waiting, I receive a call from a Kenyan friend and we chat for a few minutes in Kiswahili.
When I’m done with the call, a man and a woman that had been standing next to me say hello. It turns out that they are in the WhatsApp repatriation group too. The gentleman informs me that he had been tested earlier and already got his results. He brought his friend.
I cannot even begin to describe the relief I feel at finally meeting fellow Kenyans face to face.
The waiting immediately becomes less torturous as we share our experiences. It will be at least two hours of waiting in the rain before our turn comes since they are just ahead of me by a few numbers.
The people are not taking the waiting kindly. There is lots of disgruntlement, and at some point, there is confrontation when some people begin arguing about who arrived before the other.
PERSISTENT COUGH
This is not all; there’s a man with a persistent cough, and each time he coughs, you can see the alarm on the faces of the people near him.
At one point, the man takes off his mask to talk on phone, and it takes all of my willpower not to take off even though I’m not near him.
Finally, my turn comes and I’m let in, sprayed with a disinfectant and instructed to wash my hands before I join the queue, which is well marked with social distancing in mind.
Our information is collected by a gentleman seated at least two meters away in full personal protective equipment. The workers here are not taking any chances. We then wait to approach the sample collection point. I’m pleasantly surprised
When I get there, I inform the gentleman that will collect my sample about my previous experience. He is gracious enough to assure me that he will be very gentle.
He was telling the truth because when I open my eyes two minutes later, I’m not in any form of pain, neither am I bleeding.
I’m pleasantly surprised at how painless it was, and this time round, I walk out with a smile on my face.
Lanre, also relieved, offers to buy me a celebratory meal for what we consider a small win under the circumstances. He then drops me off at my hotel and returns home to enjoy what remains of the holiday.
Ms Ndinda is Research Manager, Transform Research Africa Ltd. She is stranded in Nigeria, where she has been since March 21. TOMORROW: The waiting game continues. All we have is hope, hope that come June 19, we will finally fly back home. Something has to give.
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