Dear Corona,

I AM writing to you from a distance like a penpal. I called you dear not because you mean a lot to me, but because of these issues at hand that we’re not discussing.

Should I put the pen down and stand aloof? No! I’m not a spectator, but a concerned Ghanaian. Though I was born on a Thursday, just call me Citizen Kofi.

Guess my introductory paragraph is convincing enough to make you give a listening ear my pleasure. Please, don’t make us fall like Troy.

A week ago, a hundred million bounty was on your head. The next day you showed up, all the way from Norway.
Shoulder high, you walked through the porous borders. Now, your footprints are evident on the news outlets.

New cases each day and I know you’ll surely tip the scale when we count our loses at the end of your wrath. To the victor goes the spoils, but you’re just a coward.

Uncle Coro, with all sincerity and modesty. When you painted China red with grief, my people saw your handiwork, but only gave you nicknames — Colonial, Colombia, Corolla and Colloquial, just to mention a few.

We have heard your official name and calculated your fatality rate. But we are God’s people, let’s focus on the Cathedral instead. And soon, we will be forced to live life from the homestead.

When you navigated the Mediterranean that fateful day towards Africa, the sacred stone from Jerusalem crossed the Red Sea too, even with testimonies from those you left dejected.

My people here are unperturbed, your bluff can do us no harm. But please, don’t vent your full anger on us because we are still not ready.
Red Hunter

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