Every day is a ruthless war between me and the bugs that inhabit my living space.
During the sun hours, flies work to destroy me using all areas of exposed skin as a landing pad. I feel their little legs on my nose, ankles and inner elbows. The sound of their frapping wings haunt my ears, taunting my existence.
At night, the flies end their shift and bigger ones take over. Without electricity and a replacement headlamp in the mail, I use a circular lamp with 20-some light to brighten my evening enough for Hausa studying, writing and reading. This light, though, is a goddess to the bugs. They swarm to it like, well, like a moth to a flame. They have no regards for me and use my books and body as a pit stop their mecca. I swat them away, but the darker it gets, the stranger and bigger they become. Tails and loud humming noises terrify me and I’m glad to be in the dark so I don’t have to face these flying beasts.
My patience with these creatures wanes and I throw in the white flag as I climb into my mosquito net for the evening. Still, they don’t leave.
They linger outside my net, staring at the light, which sits on top of my net on the outside. Some are small enough to swing right through the net’s small wholes and tease the others as if their name was on the VIP entry list.
“Ha, I got in and you suckers (literarily) must watch me take all the glory from this pathetic human.”
I turn the life off and close my eyes, no longer able to take the bugs. I hope complete darkness will ride them.
But it’s 8:30 p.m. and the nightly African choir of animals is only tuning up.