The coronavirus turned our lives upside down

In the last few weeks, we’ve had the course of our lives turned upside down by an intruder. He looked so harmless and distant that we could not have imagined that he would cause a global upheaval. You guessed it; it’s the coronavirus, the name of the disease it causes is so charming that it was hard to fear it. The plague is at least a name that scared the hell out of people, made them want to barricade themselves in, to run away. But corona, who wouldn’t want a crown? But this crown, instead of being on the head, is grafted onto the respiratory system and like anything else in the wrong place, causes considerable damage. The supreme crown that can be obtained in case of contamination is death.

Very quickly, the virus was able to cross continents; it demonstrated its power of propagation by crossing the Asian continent at the speed of lightning, inviting itself onto the old continent and make the pillars of the coliseum tremble. Once Italy was affected, the virus continued to spread and laid siege to Europe. The common European response to the virus remains an illusion. Europe has clearly shown that it is a colossus with feet of clay, a monetary chimera, incapable of the slightest cohesion beyond the Euro. Full lockdown, semi lockdown? Each country has the choice to make the arrangements that suit it. We’re going to war in scattered ranks.

But the watchword is almost the same: get to safety, and the safest place to be, is home.

Schools, nurseries, all places of entertainment and social gatherings are closed.

 Parents who have become substitute teachers have discovered it is a real job. If we have trouble managing our kids, imagine having to put up with 20 of them.

Sports activities, events, all the distractions that allowed us to escape from our lives have been canceled.

Visiting friends, going to the cinema, etc. is no longer possible.

We will have to be content with being ourselves, 24 hours a day, a difficult exercise when we have only learned to live through the eyes of others.

Sartre used to say that hell is other people, and with quarantine, we discover the escape route is other people. Without them, there are no points of reference.

Here we are faced with ourselves and our “loved ones” within the four walls of our sanitized jail.

Now we are unteaching our offspring the elementary rules of politeness that we have instilled in them:

“No, you mustn’t shake hands.”

“No, stay away from everyone.”

We fight against a concealed enemy with the means we have, even if we feel they remain derisory.
Mandatory safety distance when shopping or meeting someone. The corona is a great pass for misanthropists. No need to engage in empty and hollow conversations about the weather or the color of granny’s sweater, existential questions certainly, but which you can do without.

All things considered, it’s still important to emphasize how lucky we are to have the comfort of a roof over our heads and to be surrounded by the people we love. Unfortunately, not everyone can say the same.

For some, the home is anything but a place of rest because of the physical or psychological violence they suffer there.

Africa, spared at the beginning of this pandemic, was astonishing to the experts. Yet it was known to be the cradle of all evils in the absence of the cradle of humanity.

But even if it is dragging its feet, Africa is finally making its debut, to the enormous relief of the birds of ill omen.

The privileged who, to escape the quarantine imposed in Europe, go to Africa will contribute by their unconsciousness to the proliferation of the disease.

They forget that under our skies a quarantine similar to the one in Europe is practically impossible, also, our hospitals are unequipped to cope with this pandemic.

But as a tweet widely spread on social networks pointed out, African leaders who can no longer treat themselves in Europe will have plenty of time to experience the realities faced by their people because of the under-equipped hospitals, while hoping this tragic episode will bring them closer to the populations they govern.

The media is giving us the gruesome rubble of the victims, so happy to have something to sink their teeth into. The virus has succeeded in relegating the migrant crisis and ISIS to the background. We forget that during this period, the most vulnerable are the ones to whom we can reach out and extend a helping hand…oups a helping elbow.
Anonymous, celebrities, rich, poor, black, white, this virus makes no distinction, “all equal in the face of COVID-19.”
The damn long-toothed virus gnawed away at two massive African baobabs, which eventually fell out.
Aurlus Mabele precursor of the soukouss died on March 19th, 2020.
Manu Dibango singer of soul Makossa affectionately called papa groove whose famous “mamase mamasa makossa” was sampled by Michael Jackson and many others, put down his saxophone for the last time on March 24th, 2020.

Great losses for the African continent. Dear departed loved ones, may the land of our ancestors welcome you. We will find you again every day through the legacy you have bequeathed to us. “The dead are not dead,” said Birago Diop.
If the animal vector is the preferred source for the origin of this virus, we can’t agree on the culprit. Is it the Pangolin? Or the bat? My vote goes to the bat. From the beginning, this virus has been turning our lives upside down.
Let’s take advantage of the fact that we have our head down to ask ourselves the right questions and get the right answers to enjoy our life, once we are right side up.
Happy quarantine, happy introspection. Take care of yourself, take care of us, take care of them.

Part-time mother, full-time woman

Ango diva(mom of 3 kids, fashion and lifestyle blogger) with her son

Last year, I officially with great fanfare joined, the group of unworthy mothers.

What’s my crime? You may ask. I decided to travel without my family.

To be honest, I didn’t think that taking a solo trip could be considered as violating the rules of the book How to be a good mother. A manual intended to be useful, written by superwomen, for all women, even ordinary ones like me.

So, in this manual, the main rules are as follows:

-Be at the disposition of your family 7 days a week.

-To concoct healthy and balanced menus for your kids and husband.

-Participate in all the extracurricular activities.

In short, to be omnipotent, omniscient, at a push “omni stifling”.

Not content with not meeting almost any of the criteria listed above, I violated the rules: leaving my family behind for a limited period. The inadmissible affront!

 A weekend without the kids? It was borderline but still forgivable. A week? Now we are downright in the middle of infanticide!

If I was to be condemned, I thought, I might as well do things right.

 I was leaving for three weeks.

The reactions were not long in coming.

Some wanted to make me feel guilty:

“But you’ll never be able to do three weeks without your kids.

Others somewhat macho, coming from women:

“But how is your husband going to manage? “  

Yes of course, fortunately, they are present and active, to defend these poor abandoned husbands. Altruism that the world would gladly do without.

And then there were those, who in a barely veiled way was telling me that I was a bad mother:

“I would not have left my children even for a weekend.”

“Yes, of course, but no one is forcing you to do it. It’s a good thing I am who I am, and you are who you are! “was my answer in this case.

A year counts 365 days or 366 for leap years, so it is not 21 days without me that would create an irreversible trauma in my children, quite the contrary, it would allow my family to breathe. I was convinced of this.

I’m the kind of mother who doesn’t carry her role like a cross. Being a mother does not mean burying the woman you were/are. Sometimes I give in to “guilty pleasures”, like thinking about my well-being. Taking care of others is a good thing, to be able to take care of others, you have to take care of yourself, so taking care of yourself is a good thing. Coherent Syllogism, right?

In the name of this sacrosanct maxime, I go once every six weeks to Erica’s to lie down for three hours. Erica is not my psychologist, but my beautician. Spending three hours at her house is doing me a lot of good. I can entrust her with my projects, my desires, my frustrations between a hair removal session, a massage or, a facial treatment. The advantage with Erica is that she is multitasking, and I come out of her house relieved of a lot more than just my hair.

In the name of the same maxime, I authorize myself activities that have nothing to do with motherhood.

I love being a mother, a wife, but I will only be able to fulfill her roles in the freedom to be me.

So this trip? Well, I went, and it was a great experience.

I can hear you from here, no! That doesn’t mean I didn’t miss my family.

I prefer to reassure you it was far from being the case. At least it won’t add a stone heart to my status as an unworthy mother.

 But the absence is not a punishment especially when you come back with the batteries recharged to make up for it.

After the end of my retreat, when I expected to be benched at best,  or burned alive at worst, great was my surprise to find that it was the opposite.

 I was, without being hyperbolic, considered a heroine when I returned.

I had a hard time understanding this 360-degree turnaround, but soon, tongues began to loosen little by little and made me realize that many mothers dreamed of this break.

But they were depriving themselves of it either because they put pressure on themselves, and believe that without them the world would collapse, or because they do not have the opportunity, or are simply afraid of being judged by others, and their entourage.

In their eyes, I was probably the one who had defied the ” forbidden “.

 But to tell you the truth, I certainly am not a heroine, an unworthy mother even less so, I am just me.

An imperfect mother who does the best she can, allows herself breaks, a part-time mother and a full-time woman.

“The insult made to a book lover”

One can plan a day carefully but predicting the future is a fool game.
Yesterday, we went to Paris with as intention to visit the “classics “.The day started out great!As planned. But what we did not know was that in the Metro a beautiful encounter with a pickpocket would force us to shorten our one on one with Paris.
The irony of the story is that before being robbed, I was the one telling everyone to pay attention.The good thing is,robbery does not know discrimination. As long as one has a bag,one is eligible.The action took place in a record time to be included in the Guiness book.
Among the items in my bag, there was a book of Yasmina Kadra” the insult made to Sarah Ikker”(own translation)
The pickpocket had carefully avoided this treasure and picked something as mundane as a wallet!He could have had at least the decency to take the book as well.It would have more useful than this catch all .
He would have read it, shared with his colleagues,told stories to his friends while reviewing their booty in the evening…
I dream of a world in which pickpockets read, quote verses to their victims to numb the pain.
I advocate for educated pickpockets.