We had been in school for over a month when the first case of Covid-19 was announced. We were released to go home.

When it became clear that school was not opening soon, Father decided to move us upcountry.

We were eager to travel to the village. When the curfew was lifted, we left our city house on that day and began our trip to the west of the capital.

"Why are we using your car?" My little sister asked Father.

"To avoid mingling with too many people," Father replied as he steered our old car down the foggy road.

An hour later, we were out of the city. It would be a long drive, so Father drove fast. He also wanted to beat curfew time.

The speedometer pointed at 120. "He is driving too fast," I thought as my heart raced.

Suddenly, a big trailer appeared on our side of the road. Father swerved quickly and the car went off the road at high speed.

Everybody in the car was quiet as we waited for what would happen.

Luckily the car was stopped by a coffee plantation.

It was only when the engine died down, that we began screaming and struggling to get out.

People gathered around and helped us to get out of the car.

If we had not secured our seat belts, I might not be telling the story!

The trip to the west ended three hours after departure.

We had to return to the city in a police vehicle as our wrecked car was towed away.

When we got back to our city house, Father said sadly, "I am sorry! We will have to continue struggling with Covid-19 in the city."