Hurray! I think I’ve developed natural active immunity to malaria. Yesternight, I slept in the hall and woke up in the bedroom. This is not the first time. I’ve lost count of this incredulous event. Each time I woke up and realised I’d been towed away, I knew those who did it, the wicked anopheles mosquitoes. The signs would always be glaringly clear. Around my ankles and wrists, would be noticeable incisions of all shapes and lengths of their long mouths, probosces.
Alas, it’s refreshing to know that I’ve gained clearance and freedom from the funny feelings and deleterious charms from the iniquitous protozoan, Plasmodium falciparum and her unconscionable siblings including ovale, vivax and malariae.
To have known the wreckage: the genocidal and gametocidal notoriety of P. falciparum across sordid underprivileged African communities, there’s a reason to go gay unreservedly.
As pharmacophobia, certainly, I would be spared from the drama of medication routine especially the three times a day ones; its toxic propensity to suppress my bone marrow and RBCs regeneration, would be waived.
Well, there’s no serological or thick blood film geisma to validate my newly acquired immunity. But consciously aware of the incubation period of malaria, I can, by deductive reasoning, say that I’m immune from the febrile, malaise and anorexic wahala of malaria.
But wait a minute, could it be that these anopheles mosquitoes have become convenient Muslims because of the Ramadan? Well, it’s not farfetched because some of our Muslim girls only know Hijab when it’s Ramadan – you will see them and think of an angel but it’s all for the Ramadan cameras. These despicable vile tiny (mis)creatures could be emulating this transient pseudo born-again tactics, only to re-emerge with hungry probosces to maim without an iota of remorse.
Yesternight, I overheard a mosquito behind my window, saying something like, “the Ramadan is almost over”. I almost retorted, and so what? Certainly, this is not an innocuous statement coming from our tiny enemy.
Well, to be forewarned, is to be forearmed. I’m considering an importation of nuclear artillery from Iran. Let no one tag me as an enemy to the useless insects. I’m out, daring all environmental prohibitions, to decimate, annihilate, extirpate and massacre both young and adult mosquitoes, especially the Q-Beat produced Shatta Wale rappers at night.
I know the private clinics and the pharmacy may accuse me of trying to own weapons of mass entomological destruction, but I won’t budge. I’ve already shelved, before arrival, complains of trying to kill a fly with a sledge hammer. I swear, if I had an atomic bomb, it will be a first line approach.
All mosquitoes shall see red hot hell fire on judgement day. I won’t bore you with a prose of explanation. Ask for reasons in the children’s ward in the nearest clinic.
For me, don’t even try it. My hate for mosquitoes is unnegotiable. I even have a soft spot for the Satan more than the mosquito. This is my reason. A mere single bite or even a sight of mosquito, gives me TACTILE HALLUCINATIONS throughout the night or even beyond.
Even as I write this mosquito burlesque, it’s as if I’m a lilliput on a visitation to the anthill. That sensation of insects all over my body is wild.
I hate gaysm so passionately, but I strongly wish ALL mosquitoes were gays. And I can’t wait to wake up to the news that all mosquitoes have become gays. I will be exceedingly gay!
© Hanan-Confidence Abdul