Johannesburg | 29/03/2020 🇿🇦
Lockdown Diary: Day 3
Jailbreak
Sunday, 29 March
I went out today. Like out, out.
I’d been desperate for a good excuse to leave the house. I tried pointing out that we were low on certain groceries, and most worringly: rusks — that poor little Ouma was out there somewhere in the Karoo, baking away tirelessly, and it was up to us to keep her business going. But that just wasn’t cutting it with Nicola as a good enough reason to risk exposure to the virus. Fair enough, I suppose. But then our can-opener packed in. Bingo.
Driving out of our suburb was fine. It’s the sleepy kind that would be empty on any given Sunday (decent movie, that). But Jan Smuts spooked me. It’s one of the city’s main arteries, almost always pumping with taxis, and it was empty except for me.
It wasn’t cool. It didn’t feel like being on the set of The Stand or I Am Legend. I didn’t see The Walkin Dude or glimpse any zombies. I just felt like I shouldn’t have been there, like I was a criminal.
And maybe you’ll judge me as one — for leaving my isolation chamber when there was no emergency. But I was careful. I followed the rules and the necessary precautions. And we needed a can-opener.
A friendly gentleman at the Woolworths entrance blasted me with sanitizer, and I was ready to go. Inside, things felt close to normal. The mood might have been a little more sombre than usual though. People sure looked serious. But then people at Woolies tend to look like that. Maybe it’s the high prices, or the temperature, or the stick up their asses. Who knows?
The rusks were all gone. Mercilessly raided. I should have known. People know where their nutritional priorities lie. I was disappointed, but it was heartening to think that Ouma was going to be okay.
It was a similar story over in the chocolate aisle. Only the dregs left, like Woolworths’ own brand and some impossibly-priced Belgian shit. But then I spied a couple-a Beacon Hazlenut slabs. And next to them, some long-forgotten Aero bars. I was back in the game.
Things that are actually good for you were way easier to find. So were the can openers. Considering my upturn in tin-wrenching power, I chucked a fresh batch of canned food into the basket. Then I paid for the lot without touching the point-of-sale machine (like a fuckin’ pro) and got the hell out of dodge.
I was on a high when I got back. I’d seen the world. And it didn’t matter how much it was starting to lean toward a strange dystopia. I went at making lunch with the vigour of a man born again. The result was this bad boy:
And that’s it. The rest of the day was pretty much dedicated to eating the cottage pie.
Weird to think I’ve got work in the morning. Right here, at this desk, on this chair. But hey, long may it last.
