Mr. Mosquito

In the middle of my village I challenged the mosquito, but I found him reduced to laughing at me.
¨You don´t know what you´re up against,¨ he droned mercilessly.
¨But Mr. Mosquito, I see that you´re wrong, I came to this place prepared for anything. I have endured chicken feet and cow intestines. I have stepped on locusts of termites. I have dealt with the cat calls of drunken men at all hours of the day. I have ridden my bike continuously up and down the giant hill. You don´t have anything on me.¨
He had a gleam in his eye and continued to say ¨You may have big dreams of changing the world. I see the goals you have set, but you underestimate my power. I have only one goal, to hunt you down.¨
Disgustingly I glanced in his direction. ¨You are such a puny creature. You make idle threats that will amount to nothing. Be on your way.¨

Later that night I lay in bed drenched by a pool of my own sweat. I abhor inhaling the blistering air. I might as well bond a breathing tube to a blow dryer and suck oxygen from the vacuum it creates. It feels like Las Vegas in my room, only there is no alcohol to dull the effects of the habitual heat.
It has just occurred to me: this is Africa! There is a wide availability of alcohol as proven by the continuous stream of drunken persons frequenting the local pub. The pub scares me but there is yet another alternative to the aquisition of ale: we brew our own beer here. Perhaps I could use this solution to dull the effects of the the heat. Then again, it takes at least three days to brew beer, and somehow the end result would miss the Vegas glamour.
The pool of sweat runneth over. There are small tributaries forming. Soon erosion will begin and ravines will form throughout my skin. I ponder if going into a coma and not moving for a number of years would cause a scaled version of the Grand Canyon to materialize. I think the cockroaches in my room would enjoy that. They could bring their child roaches to visit, forever carving an image of awe in their tiny brains. Perhaps some thrill seeking roaches would crawl carefully to the bottom of the abyss:
¨Wow! Joe look at that crater.¨
¨Yes, they call it the belly button.¨
I would be fearful that some depressed cockroach (perhaps he accidentally inhaled a small portion of doom insect repellant) would attempt to commit suicide by jumping in the canyon. I don´t know if I want the responsibility of that tragedy bearing wait on my soul.
I have come to regard the weather woman as the devil. I see it as a fitting persona considering that the information she provides to me proves that taking a vacation to hell would in fact provide cool relief from my time spent in Rasewana. In the end, I don´t know if I actually fall asleep in this heat. I think ¨passing out¨ would be a more accurate representation. I experience fitful dreams of air conditioning, igloos, and icecapades.
I awake abruptly to a loud drone. There is something on my face! The mirthful giggle of Mr. Mosquito erupts in one of my ears as I ferociously scratch at the rapidly forming swell on my cheek.
In the morning I drag myself from bed. My body feels bloated from:
a. the heat
b. dehydration
c. the mosquito bites
d. lack of sleep
e. all of the above
I begin to count the number of mosquito bites that have overwhelmed my body. I soon realize that doing this would be as fruitful as attempting to count the stars overhead. How is it that I have a bite on my knuckle? There seems to be little skin or blood to draw from that particular spot. My knuckle is swollen and itchy. In fact, all of my body parts have sections of swollen itchiness. I need more fingers to reach all the itches at once. My body is on fire in agony; I might as well have caught chicken pox again, at least I could have gotten more sympathy. Perhaps, I would have a acquired a trip to Pretoria to recover from my illness at the Peace Corps medical office. I suppose I still have the opportunity to get malaria. There are always more things to look forward to.
¨Mr. Mosquito, you have won, I bow out graciously. No longer will I challenge your dominance. If I surrender will you let me go peacefully?¨
Mr. Mosquito has a knowing gleam in his eye and a smug grin on his face: ¨This is war. There are no sympathies afforded to the victims.¨