The Rat who killed themselves.

Each day, I settled into bed, hopeful for a long night rest and each day, the same thing happened. I woke up, halfway into what could have been a deep restful sleep, to the sound of their squeaking, scrambling and scratching. 

They descended upon my dwelling. These medium-sized, long-tailed rodents of the super family Muroidea, menacing members of the genus family, Rattus.

Every crevice was an opportunity. And when there was no opening? They created it themselves, tearing and clawing their way inside; searching for respite from the long, cold corridors, not letting minor things like doors, mounted road blocks, or even well set poisoned food get in their way.

My mind was in turmoil. I, who shrunk away from anything that had no voice and walked not on two legs, suddenly plagued by an onslaught of  determined and strategically positioned rats.

What were they looking for? I pondered. Old meals were immediately cast aside and plates washed thoroughly. Groceries were locked in safe cabinets, floors scrubbed extra clean and even shoes tied in protective bags after a particular painful occurrence regarding a much larger member of the Rattus family and a fave pair of Zara mules.

Still, the rats came, determined to find something even Nicholas Cage in all his search for the National Treasure would not have found.

I struggled with getting rid of them. The cheap rat poison sold by street vendors didn’t seem to work as they avoided the  poisoned bits of sardines and shredded beef like a plague. I stopped wasting precious tins of sardines after I witnessed, to my amazement, confusion and dread, one of them sniff the poisoned fish and walk straight ahead, leaving the fish untouched as if to say, “odeshi!”. I could have sworn it had an extra gait in its walk. Like someone who had dodged a bullet.

I resigned to listening to them at night, developing a rhythm to their sounds. On especially cold nights, their sounds and squeak served as an unlikely succour from the loneliness.

Until last Sunday night. The day had started well, bringing with it no premonition of death or murder. Not to me and I daresay, not to the rats.

I left the house mid afternoon, hellbent on attending the Eat Drink Festival, even though my weary bones suggested a lazy day on the bed and yam and eggs had already filled my stomach.

As I left, saying a hasty goodbye to my housemates from the long corridor that separated our rooms, I saw the gingerly placed rat glue trap right in front of the door of one of my housemates.

The first thing I felt was not happiness that someone had thought of a cleverer way of getting rid of them but rather a strange sort of jealousy and anger. All this while, I had thought the epidemic was exclusively mine, that my room was the only place the rats visited, that I was the only one who felt the pain of their unwelcome exploits; the only one who stayed up at night, listening to them and sometimes, on my most melodramatic days, talking to them.

I walked out of the house, wondering if the trap would work. After all, they had not fallen prey to my poisoned fishes or maybe it was because I had baptised the fishes with so much poison and the stench that arose from them was enough to raise suspicions.

It was dark when I got back home and power hadn’t been restored. I opened the main door and made way to my room when I heard the sounds. They were coming from my rats. I was so sure,only this time, the sound was different. There was an underlying tone of pain to it.

I turned on my torch and there they were, five tiny baby rats caught on the strong glue of the trap. Their bodies twisted against each other, wriggling  and struggling to break free.

I stood there transfixed. So these were the ‘monsters’ that had plagued me for so long. These tiny thumb-sized creatures. I watched them as they kept twisting against the glue and as they did, their skin tore and made the pain all the more unbearable for them. It was torturous to watch and I was torn between letting them die this slow painful death or making it swift and easy for them. I thought about my Zara Mules, with its beautiful metallic heels and soft suede torso.

Now butchered and wasted by these creatures of the night. I could still see the irregular imprint their strong bites had left on it.

I thought about the sardines I had wasted in my quest for liberation, the packs of cereals I had to dispose off whenever I noticed evidence of their visits in them and the money I spent in getting well sealed cabinets high up on the wall.

It was murder, my fragile heart told me. It was a well deserved death, my brain retorted. They brought it upon themselves, barging into homes, claiming corners as theirs and disrupting the nights with their senseless hunts. They chose this death. They could have died doing what they loved doing best – eating food they neither owned or cooked. Yet, they avoided my sardines and stupidly fell into glue. They chose this painful death.

They killed themselves.

In the end, as a true child of my father, I left them just as they were, wriggling and crying for mercy.

After which, for the first time in weeks, I had a long uninterrupted and sound sleep.