Alagi Yorro Jallow
I met an elegant young lady the other day, and somehow we started talking about the Coronavirus pandemic, the critical subject of the year, and how the pathogen changes our way of living. She told me:
“My biggest problem is that my husband is now always at home. He likes to watch English Premier League football, a true Arsenal fan, but there is no football anymore on Television. All the European Leagues have been suspended. He has become restless and demanding. I don’t know how I will cope with him.”
“Cheppeh,” I fondly call her, and I said as quietly as I could. “Don’t worry. You will be fine. The worst that can happen is that in nine months, we will come for the naming ceremony of a CORONIAL baby.”
“Me? I reject that. I am done. What do you think I am? A baby-making machine?. You can’t sexualize me. I am a professional,” she thundered.
I didn’t push further, but a big concern about the Coronavirus lock-down is that nine months from today, we may end up with a spike in the Gambia’s population. Husbands are being forced to stay at home with their wives. A week ago, commercial sex workers I heard were already complaining that Coronavirus is not suitable for business. The stock exchange in that sector has crashed, far worse than the spot price of essential commodities and the crisis in the foreign exchange market. All the customers are now at home. They are not allowed to keep roaming about, sowing wild oats.