I washed my hands, I worked from home as soon as they said we could at work. I used sanitizer and even had a cute bottle in my handbag at all times. I wore my mask.

What I didn’t consider is that my lover’s kiss would leave me bedridden and wheezing for a week, with a fever even while under three heavy blankets. They had latent covid and in the excitement of them coming home from overseas, I forgot to consider that they could have passed through a hotspot airport. We never think our closest people could give us an illness, do we?

It started with a tickle in my throat, a raspiness that made me drink lots of water. Then the sniffles started, but I’d read that Covid did not produce mucous (we now know it presents in a multitude of ways). I started coughing, and it felt like a rake was scratching across my chest. My memory got fuzzy, and even now over a year later, still is.

The thing with Covid is that, you know you’ve never had a flu this bad, it’s just next level. My joints hurt, my head throbbed behind my eyes that I preferred sitting in the dark and avoiding screen time in case the light cracked my skull. Reading Google didn’t help because at that time (April 2020), all the articles were screaming about rising numbers and death rates.

Then I started over-thinking. I felt awful in my own body, and even worse in my mindI was worried that I hadn’t paid my Nyaradzo subs in 2 months (would they bury me in plastics?), that if I went down to the Cimas clinic they would discover what I had and take me away in handcuffs – I was so scared of a scene. I wondered how long it would be before they found my body after government ordered lockdown. I worried if my neighbours would call me careless. I didn’t know if I should tell my landlord in case they kicked me out. I wondered if I should call the Covid Hotline, because the fear was that I’d be admitted to Wilkins, and never come back. I eventually reached out via WhatsApp hotline, and they just advised to isolate. But I already felt so alone. I cried everyday. I felt sad that I would never have children. I couldn’t believe I’d survived so much – accidents, poverty – that I would be killed even after following precautions. Thing is, coronavirus doesn’t care; it’s just you and your fate. All you have to hold on to is hope.

With the little fight left in me, I started listening to stand up comedy online to try and cheer myself up. I drank hot lemon water from a flask at all times, chewed garlic, steamed myself under blankets twice a day (when I could get up). I ate all the oranges in my house. I drank Mazoe too. I took paracetamol twice a day but till this day, I don’t know if it worked. I bathed while sitting on the edge of the tub because I got muscle weakness and spasms in my legs if I stood too long – but I made sure to bath everyday, no matter how painful. I prayed, not even to get better, but that if it was the end, could the last moments be peaceful and without the crushing chest pain. I also prayed for the nightmares to stop, because they were so bad.

After almost two weeks, I got better. I made sure to get all my blankets washed and cleaned my house with Jik. I tried to eat more as my appetite had been severely affected; my sense of taste actually came only two months later. It took months for the body pains to subside. I still have an odd cough at dusk, from about 6pm each day, but from x-ray’s it seems like my lungs are fine.

I somehow found the mental strength to pull myself out, and am thankful for people online who also shared their recovery stories, as they gave me hope.