“It’s the rich people who go abroad that are getting this corona,”

Paul says, and I sense a sly movement, a forward gesture of his head, as if to say, “People like you.”

My mother calls and says, “Don’t use your air conditioner. They said it spreads corona. Open all your windows.”

My father says, “Have you stocked up sufficiently on food items?”

He is relieved that Aunty Adaeze and Chia’s father have just come back from Paris. “They’re closing borders. This thing, nobody knows,” he says.

“Nobody knows,” I say.

My ixora has flowered into the most beautiful red, like bursting into song.

In the kitchen, Philippe is sanguine, drying his hands on a dish towel.

He says it isn’t serious, this sickness they are talking about, it doesn’t affect Africans.

And as long as you stand in the afternoon sun every day, you’ll be fine.