CANDID TALK : Broke? Just start counting mosquitoes and rats

Did I say ‘my’ mosquitoes and rats? Yes because I feel that I own these fortunate creatures despite the discomfort they cause me. First, they are permanent residents in my two-room shack in the Uswaz backyard. Secondly, they are also beneficiaries of the few coins I earn from clawing at the keyboard to raise this third-rate column.

How? Rats live on the crumbs my ten-year old daughter considers not fit for human consumption and other things they take fancy of - like my certificates and prized suit I bought off mtumba stalls. Mosquitoes binge of my alcohol-laced blood every night.

I ‘own’ them not out of my own volition but because no matter where I hide, rodents, flies and other unwanted vermin find their way into my shack to ‘greet’ me. I accommodate theme even though I hate them with a passion. Mosquitoes love to prick my skin with their hypodermic proboscis. It is not exciting feeling.

Also, keeping rats that feast on my school and college certificates, books, clothes and computer keyboard is disgusting. They gleefully chew away at everything in their sight knowing that you cannot whisk them to the Uswaz Police Post for their misdeeds. How these ominous creatures sniff me I do not know – it is as if they have memorised the scent of my sweat that reeks with stale alcohol and smoke of the ‘cancer sticks’ that I take. I have a hunch that they even know when I am broke.

I have been insomniac for, while the rest of the world is dead asleep, I find myself counting the rafters and imagining all things including how it would feel if I wrangled my boss’ neck like a wet under pant. When not counting rafters, I count rats and other rodents. I can even pinpoint with a certain degree of accuracy when a particular rat is expectant. I can almost tell whether the rat is happy or not. Irksome is this particular rat that shows up from somewhere between my junk of a computer and fridge, smiles, mischievously winks at me and vanishes into the crannies.

Okay, I am always insomniac unless I have had a serious dose of “anaesthesia” in the name of throat-watering frothy liquids from Ilala.

Sobriety denies me the comfort of ethereal sleep that comes with a woozy mind. Unfortunately for me, these days, a real drink is not forthcoming for since the beginning of the year, I haven’t earned a coin from my mean employer. That is why my eyes are bloodshot reminding you of Bram Stoker’s Count Dracula after a hefty drink of human blood.