Roommates

                                                      Roommates
              After dusk, the refugee camp in Kenya embraces silence.  Darkness engulfs it.  Many of the refugees live without immediate family members. They’re displaced and scattered all over the world since the Somali Civil War in 1991.  In one of the refugee palm houses, the kerosene lamps are put out—as is the case for the rest.  A whiff of the burned lamp tread penetrates the occupants’ nostrils.  The smell resembles the baked beans that the refugees had eaten earlier in the evening.  Before the smoke fainted, there was another, perhaps more pleasant, aroma emanating from within the proximity.  What’s it?  That was the roommates’ curiosity.  The boys spoke through the perforated mosquito nets that incubated them like a bird nesting its young. 
             
              They babbled.

              “This smell is sooo inviting.”
              “Oh yeah, and perhaps sooo delicious, too!”
              “I feel like eating!”
              “It smells like fried fish with onions and lettuce, slathered with a hot sauce.” 
              “Better than the baked beans.”
              “Who could that be—eating?  You know, it’s dark.”
              “Muslims shouldn’t eat in the dark—the demons would steal your food.”
              “Besides who amongst us can afford to buy such expensive feast?”
              “Hey guys, remember how sometimes the smell of overflowed toilets in the camp teases our brain?” 
              “Uf!”
              “Yuck!”
              “Nasty!”
              “Why do you always come up with disgusting images?”
              “But hey, sometimes it happens that these feces overflow and coalesce with the wind.  Maybe it’s the wind giving your brain the wrong message.”
              “Nonsense!  I think somebody’s eating.”
              “Then how come we don’t hear biting, chewing, swallowing?!”
              “It beats me!”
              “Guys, believe me, it’s not fish and onion. It’s the wind’s seasonal game on the brain.”
              “Shut up, smartass!” 
              “Believe me, when the toilets overflow, the feces float above the floor in waves, feeling freedom for the first time!  It’s just like when we leave the camp and visit the surrounding cities—you know how our presence is felt outside the refugee camp.”
            “We’re not shit.”
            “But being refugee is, right?”
            “Shut up all you losers.  I can’t sleep.”
            “Tonight is the night for the loner toilet feces to float and flirt with the wind.” 
            “Here we go again—everything has sexual innuendo for you!”
            “Shhh!”
            “Guys we better sleep if we want to beat others in the morning queue for water.” 
            “Especially that old lady who is always first in line, I wonder if she ever sleeps.”
           
            As silence and snoring overtook the palm-walled and plastic-roofed room, the nocturnal creatures came out in search for food.  Rats would scurry and scamper up and down the bamboo poles that the supported the room. Cockroaches, scorpions, centipedes, and other bugs hunted best in the dark.  Especially the buzzing mosquitoes and the stealthy red ants.  During the day, the refugee’s eyes kept them on the look out. During the night, the least they could do is crawl under the mosquito nets for safety.

A colony of red ants emerge.  They are in line, a long straight line.  Where they are heading remains as perplexing as where they are coming from.  The darkness helps them—they are invisible.  They are armies whose foes are usually caught in surprise.  No mercy!  The room has three mattresses and three double-sized mosquito-nets.  That’s all a refugee would desire in life. Water, a mosquito net, and a mattress.  In the camp, the young adults usually share mattresses that lay the clay soil.  Two people for one mattress.  An unexpected visitor stops in, and the roommates know how to adjust. 
           
            Red ants!  They are on a mission.  Their target is known.  Their strategy is laid out.  No hesitation.  Nor vacillation.  Their false eyes are fixated on a real target.  They make no sound.  The human radar misses them.  Among the three mattresses, they choose one—and only one.  For an odd reason, this mattress has only one refugee young male adult occupying it.  The whereabouts of his partner is unknown. Perhaps he’s chewing khat somewhere in the camp.  The red ants circle around the head of this sleeping boy. They creep under his mattress—working silently around their way to get their target.  It is in spot!  The target.  It is here!  The red ants must have communicated. 
           
            Snoring.  Mumbling.  Hallucinating.  The roommates enjoyed an ephemeral stillness.  As is usually the case in a refugee night sleep. 
           
            An scream.  Somebody is screaming.  The roommates are startled.  Some open their eyes and stare at the porous ceiling to see if what they hear is real.  Others jump up fretfully and bang! They hit one of the bamboo poles.  Nobody knows what has happened.  It is an apocalyptic moment.  The darkness fuels the fear.  The screaming young man is running in circles. He’s trapped in the mosquito net.  He became guilt by association with the target.  The red ants worked brilliantly on him and turned a deaf ear to his screaming. 
           
            Flashlight!  The mother of one of the boys rushes into the room.  The kerosene lamp is lit.  The confusion tapers off for the roommates.  Except for this young man.  The red ants are still at work.  Diligently.  He finds a chance to escape with his blanket draped around his waist.   
           
            “Red ants! Red ants!” he shouts after seeing the creatures that have nipped him.
           
            No one has a second thought.  The roommates jump on their feet.  Fighting for the narrow exit.  The mother fidgets, but controls her composure.  She rushes back to the room’s assigned kitchen area and returns to the scene with kerosene.  She turns the mattress over.
           
            “A fried fish sandwich?!”  She exclaims, “who'd stash their food under a mattress?”
           
            No response. 
           
            She doused the red ants with kerosene, an effective deterrent that would render them ineffective. 
           
            The boys are waiting outside.  Half-asleep. 
           
            The nipped is still wiping red ants off his burning skin.
           
            “What?  A sandwich?”  One of the boys yawns.