But nothing prepares you for being forced to stay inside, not by choice, but by circumstance and without internet to even distract your thoughts.
When the curfew was announced, I didn’t think about politics or protests… I thought about dinner. About my children’s next meal, water, and the little things that keep a home running.
But nothing prepares you for being forced to stay inside, not by choice, but by circumstance and without internet to even distract your thoughts.
As a journalist, I’m used to moving. My days are filled with people, deadlines, noise, and screens.
But for six long days, all that went silent. No emails, no social media, no calls.
Just the sound of my two toddlers in the house, their laughter, their fights, their endless questions. It’s strange how quiet can feel so loud.
My toddlers love Miss Rachel, but with the internet shutdown, that small comfort disappeared overnight.
Suddenly, I had to be Miss Rachel… singing, dancing, explaining the alphabet, and pretending to be cheerful even when I wasn’t.
Food was another challenge. Bread, milk, and maize flour, the basics, vanished from shelves.
Groceries we took for granted became rare. We ate what we had, not what we wanted. Every meal required thought, creativity, and compromise.
You know that feeling when you do something because you have no other option? That was it.
Even a short walk to the Mangi shop a few houses away felt like a mission. The streets were empty, the air heavy with uncertainty.
Now and then, we’d hear mirindimo ya something… maybe gunfire, maybe explosions. I’d freeze, hold my children close, and wait for the sound to fade.
Being indoors for that long changed the rhythm of everything.
As a mother, I had no off switch, no pause, no quiet coffee break. My children needed me every minute. As a wife, I tried to stay calm, to keep home steady even when I didn’t feel steady myself.
And as a journalist, I struggled with the silence, not being able to know what was happening out there, to report, to connect.
Messages from family and friends abroad couldn’t come through. The simple text “uko salama?” suddenly felt like the most important sentence in the world, but we couldn’t send or receive it.
By day four, I started counting how many scoops of rice were left and how many litres of water.
Every drop mattered. Every plan became a backup plan. Six days indoors taught me that survival isn’t just about food or safety but about endurance. It’s about holding yourself together when you can’t step outside, when you can’t even scroll to escape your own thoughts.
When the restrictions finally lifted, I didn’t feel relief right away. I just sat quietly and took a deep breath, realising that I had spent six days surviving not just the curfew but the stillness itself.
Because staying indoors against your will, cut off from the world, changes something inside you.
You don’t come out the same, but you come out stronger, more aware of the small things that keep life moving even when everything else stands still.
