This archive report was first published on 1 July 2019.
As I settled into my new life in the city, I was shocked by the ferocity of the mosquitoes. In my village, we had a breed of mosquitoes with long legs and elaborate wings, which our Biology teacher assured us were harmless.
But in the city, the mosquitoes were a different story altogether. They seemed to be everywhere, buzzing incessantly and feasting on my blood with reckless abandon.
My first year in the city was a nightmare, with mosquitoes swarming around my head and biting me repeatedly. I would wake up in the middle of the night to swat them against the wall, but they just kept coming back.
It wasn't until I had been in the city for a week that I began to develop a tolerance for the mosquitoes. But even then, I couldn't help but wonder why they seemed to be drawn to my forehead, which had little meat compared to my thighs and cheeks.
But the mosquitoes were just the beginning. The city was also home to a more sinister insect: the safari ant. These ants were notorious for their ferocity and their ability to invade even the most secure of homes.
My own home was no exception. The safari ants would invade my bed at night, falling from the walls and rafters like a dark, crawling tide. I would wake up to find them aligned strategically on my skin, waiting for the signal to strike.
But I was not one to be intimidated. I would summersault out of bed and land on top of the table, grabbing a pair of trousers and shaking it vigorously as I catapulted out of the room.
It was a desperate bid to escape the ants, but it was a tactic that worked. I would unleash a combination of salt, paraffin, and other remedies to chase the ants away, and eventually, they would be on their way.
But the war was far from over. I would spend hours waiting for the ants to leave, and then I would set out on a revenge mission to find their home and dig it up. It was a twisted game of cat and mouse, but it was one that I was determined to win.
