Anxiety has accompanied this change. We are all afraid of what the future holds for our country.
We are afraid to make big decisions about money because none of us can confidently guarantee that we will still be having our jobs or businesses a month from now. We are anxious about sending our children back to school because we do not know if they will come back home healthy.
Every day, the government releases statistics about the latest Covid-19 deaths, active cases, and recoveries - and the numbers are growing exponentially.
What was once a pandemic affecting other countries, killing other people, is now killing our own.
While we battle these and other anxieties, we are also battling with the anxiety of wondering whether we, women, are going to die of coronavirus or if we are going to die in the hands of our intimate partners.
We wonder every day whether we are going to be raped and killed in taxis that are now loading fewer passengers.
For us, fewer passengers don't mean safe distancing, it means less people for the driver to drop off - which means a greater probability that we could be alone with him in the taxi.
We wonder every day if we are safe in our offices because the less colleagues there are, the less potential witnesses there could be should we somehow vanish and be found stuffed under our work desks.
We wonder and we are anxious because the scenarios are not imaginary, they have happened before, and they continue to happen.
We know the names of Tshegofatso and Naledi because they are the ones making headlines.
However, the reality of the situation is that there are many other women who have, since the beginning of the lockdown, been killed and assaulted by men.
According to the minister of police, Gen Bheki Cele, more than 87,000 gender-based violence complaints were reported in the country in 2019.
May I ask kindly, gentlemen, that you spare us at least until we get through the Covid-19 pandemic? Can you, just for now, cease fire and allow us to live?