The Kwerekwere Saga (Warmest Welcome in Durban)

Chapter 7

With the dreadful pains the mosquitoes gave me, I make no attempt to kill the bug, so that the smell won't invite others to attack me en masse. I respectfully pick up the bug and drop it on the floor below for it to crawl away injury-free.

That philanthropic move proves a mistake. Unbeknown to me, relocating a bedbug is an offence. They don't communicate by buzzing around like mosquitoes. These use Bluetooth. The one I dropped sends signals to its peers that dinner is served. That first excruciating bite in my jaw is only a warning.

An army of bugs march out of their hiding places on the mattress, making the whole of my body an occupied territory. It turns out it isn't just the pillow that's infested. The entire bed is bug-ridden. The crawling creatures suck me so hard like I'm laced with food seasonings. I never read anywhere that insects engage in division of labour, but these function in batches, sucking me at regular intervals as if they have an appointed timekeeper.

They sometimes allow me respite and I'll assume they've had their fill, only for a new batch to attack a different part of my body. These callous entities attack my face, neck, arms, shoulders, belly, thighs and back. One can slap and kill mosquitoes, but smacking bugs on the mattress don't stop them from extending their pipes to suck my blood after which the offender will bury itself under a crevice. The more I search around to locate them, the less of them I see.

I wriggle and twist in pain, extending my hands around my body, trying to rub the problem spots. Where my hand can't reach, like my spine, I stifle my back to relieve the pain but all in vain. I then realise that mosquitoes are religious. These bugs have no human sympathy or regard for rule of law. Have they been targeting me for months? Did they get the message I'll be coming? They must have sucked four litres of blood off my body.

When I can't bear it anymore, I take a peek at the wall clock which displays 9:52 pm. I wish three seconds make a minute and five minutes, an hour. The clock moves too slowly, making 5am seem an eternity.

No one in the room feels my pain. The white guy below has since dozed off. Those still awake look at me like a troubled alien. And the manager who collected fifty rand is nowhere in sight. So, I actually paid these people to suffer me.

Expectedly, itches and irritations spread through my body, reminding me that my face, arms and legs are all bumpy by now. Blisters and freckles have developed and a wave of nausea takes over me. Silent words of prayer creep into my mouth – sleep should take me away. Fatigue has taken a flight; not with the slaps and wallops I hit myself with.

At exactly 10 pm, the fluorescent lights go off, bringing me hope the insects will finally go to sleep. Or they'll be blind to find my skin. What a wrong notion!

Today I learn that insects run shifts as a new set that operates in the dark takes centre stage, relieving duties from the bugs who are by now satisfied. Species of insects emerge from the infested mattress, but darkness hides their identities. I only feel them as they land on me. Some buzz and dance around; others crawl on six or eight legs; and there are those slithering on their stomachs like millipedes, but they all find my body palatable.

They suck, pummel, harass, abuse and maltreat me 'til daybreak, filling their bellies with blood and other body fluids. I'm sure they even take some away to their families because I have no way to resist the punishment they mete out.

I swear and curse, grumble and murmur, groan and spit fire, but those around only snore in response. I then recollect those insects' documentaries on National Geographic aren't computer graphics. Insect bites do hurt terribly – I'm a living witness. My only consolation is that none is poisonous enough to snuff the life out of me.