On a not-too-serious note. 

​On a not-too-serious note. 

I don’t like mosquitoes. That is hardly news considering the fact that that is a common factor to most humans. Mosquitoes are dangerous and you should avoid them by all means–especially the girls among them. Personally, there’s a kind of irritation my skin develops whenever it smells them. 

There are many things a normal person should never like about mosquitoes. Maybe the first would be the silly noise they make that sounds like an amateur fiddling the E string of an untuned violin. Very annoying something! 

Next to that should be their modus operandi

You lie peaceful in your bed, expecting to be transported to the realms beyond as you give your body a much needed rest. Then, out of the blues comes this creature, perching somewhere not too far away, and watching you become unconscious before launching an attack. 

First, you are anaesthetised without your consent, then it drills a hole in the flesh covering the calve of your left leg. After a successful drill, it brings out a straw, or pipe, or hose if you like (I don’t know why some people give such a dangerous weapon a beautiful name like proboscis) puts it in the hole, and begins to drink your blood. 

It drinks itself to stupor before the anaesthesia wear off, throws up on your skin, and staggers away. It manages to flap its wings once or twice, and flies; but because it is drunk, it soon lands on the wall just across your bed. 

Then, by some mystical alert system, you stir and wake. Instinctively, you know you have just survived an operation in a room that is not antiseptic enough for such open-skin surgery. You look straight to your leg and you find spilled blood on your skin. You know this is the work of a mosquito. 

As you raise your gaze, it rests upon the suspect. You close your eyes and reopen them, allowing the image to reform on your retina so that you can be sure you’re not hallucinating. 

“I have visual confirmation of the suspect,” your eyes tell your brain. 

“Aim,” your brain tells your right palm, “But don’t shoot yet.” 

You adjust your body and reposition yourself. You don’t want to miss this shot. You take a third look at the suspect; it does not just look drunk, it looks dead. But you are not deceived. The last time this happened and your hand came too close, it flew away and never returned. This time, you know it is just having a hangover and you need to act before it wakes. 

So you aim. Again. In split seconds, something is asking you what you will gain from killing the suspect. It is neither beautiful nor edible; you can’t set it in your room as a trophy, neither can you eat it to regain your blood. What! You can’t even get an intravenous recovery of your blood after the revenge. But you don’t mind. This revenge mission has to succeed. 

You aim again, ready to hit as hard as you can. After all, it’s against a wall, so you don’t think too much about how your hand will feel. You cannot care less. You would have cared a little if the slap was to land on your skin. But just a little care it would have been, and nothing more; you would have gone ahead anyway. The only occasion that would have made you care much before hitting–if you eventually do–is if the suspect had been on your scrotum. You would have thought twice–no, trice– about your mission, unless you have have prayed Samson’s last prayer, ‘Let me die with these Philistines!‘ 

The suspect stirs, ready to fly. Your thought is interrupted and in a rush of reflex, you catch the criminal mid-air smashing it against the wall. Blood spills, your palm blushes pink and begins to hurt. You feel your phalanges clinking like cymbals. 

Awkwardly, you catch yourself smiling wryly through the pain. You wear satisfaction like a mask and you can almost hear your head congratulating your heart. Mission accomplished. A smug smile creeps up your face. You can’t contain the joy. Revenge tastes sweet. Or, so you think. 

In the final analysis, your blood is still gone. Since there is a high probability that the name of the suspect is Anopheles, it is safe to assume that she left a package for in your vein. If you bother to check, you would find it wrapped with the inscription ‘plasmodium vivax‘. Don’t worry if you don’t know what that means; let’s just say it’s a time bomb that causes malaria. I’m guessing you already know what happens after that…headache, high body temperature, hospital, nurses, doctors, injections, tablets… 

And, just to add that the hurt in your palm may last for a few more minutes. Not to mention all the grey matter you expended in planning the revenge. Waste! 

In the long run, you sit down to evaluate your mission, and the uncontroversial conclusion is that your revenge was a total waste. Unnecessary! 

The same conclusion is applicable when someone offends you and, instead of forgiving and moving on, you choose the path of revenge. You waste so much. 

While seeking revenge, dig two graves–one for yourself. – Douglas Horton

PS: Now, I’m not preaching that you let that mosquito live after doing the damage. I wouldn’t either. Actually, you could just save yourself the stress by sleeping under an insecticide-treated mosquito net and let your enemies do touch-and-freeze while you sleep. Then you wake up to see them dead like the host of Assyrian army that besieged God’s people in the Old Testament. 😀  

©John Ogunjimi, 2017.


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