Bad Idea: Death To All Cockroaches

Prologue: Dear human Ugandans reading this. Do not be perturbed by what you are about to see. Even though the following words appear in the space usually reserved for my correspondence with you, they, this time, are not addressed to you. Don’t freak out. Now, with that out of the way, let’s get down to it.


Message in Brief: I revel in your deaths. I shall end your breed, I shall terminate your line, I shall wreck catastrophes upon you and all your kind, and I shall laugh as I do it, laugh as is someone found a way of making the satchet liquour version of coffee and served me intravenously. Die!


Message in Full: To The Local Cockroaches. Especially those who inhabit the buildings around my residence. You might have lately been wondering to yourselves, “Where is Mandy? Where is Mandy Mende, you guys? I haven’t seen her for a couple of days.”


Mende: Means cockroach in Swahili, a language widely spoken in Rwanda, Tanzania, Kenya and, once we get our act together, Uganda as well.


Back To The Missive: Mandy the Mende is dead, guys. Dead. She is an ex-cockroach. She has ceased to be. Bereft of life she rests in peace. (Sharrout all my Monty Python fans out there. I put that reference in especially for you.)


Mandy’s Autopsy report: Forensics will determine that she died of multiple exoskeletal fractures arising from repeated contact with a heavy instrument intent on causing fatal trauma. The back, the neck, the legs, all broken. I stomped all over that cockroach like it was Kitaguro. I flattened the entire thing. And the whole time I was doing it I was laughing and cursing.


Reasons for said action: Hatred. What, you need more than that? I hate cockroaches. There is nothing I hate more. On the scale of things I hate, cockroaches take up the entire top seventy percent. Compared to cockroaches, I am disinclined towards that song by Kenny G featuring Celine Dion. Compared to cockroaches, I would just rather prefer if you don’t mind terribly not to have a cat. Compared to cockroaches, endemic corruption and incompetence in our government are like a slight itch in an easily accessible area like the earlobe.


Hatred, you say: I hate cockroaches with a deep, primal, loathing that runs so black and so low that I cannot even tell where it came from or when it will end. I suspect it is congenital, and has been in my blood since Kintu Kimera first came down south and colonised my ancestors. Yeah. He probably came with a cockroach and thus was created a hatred that will abide for generations.


What Did She Do: You expect me to say she had the audacity to enter my house, Chez Baz, and for that paid rent with her life. Nope. There is never any food in my house, so there are no roaches in my house. When Special Lady Friend wants a weekend over with no starving involved, we have three independently-contracted bodas on whatsapp. No. Mandy the Mende merely crossed my line of sight. She had the temerity to allow me to see her. There I was, on my verandah, pondering the darkness and emptiness of my life, my soul, and my entire species, when she scurried across the wall across the courtyard.


She Had It Coming: I’ve told you insects this before. I will kill you. I will. I have nothing better to do. I will run across a parking lot in my underwear and soil my chuck taylors to ensure the death of a cockroach just because I saw one. I was not lying. Me and cockroaches are like Stella Nyanzi and social injustice. I don’t just do it, I overdo it.
In conclusion: Mandy is gone. There are no remains to bury. And if anyone comes by looking, they will quickly find her. Tell your friends.