Chapter 3 Ratty Savior

While normal people dislike pests in their houses, with rats topping the list of them all, Tito reserved a special kind of hate for them which required a different vocabulary that would provide appropriate description of how deeply his lack of affection for the daring rodents, ran. Even without seeing a single member of their kind as evidence of their liberties running high, did not help any matters for the rat race. He always had traps set up to make sure they should not even think about it. Actually seeing one, let alone a few of them running around as if they contributed to the house’s upkeep, more especially seeing some real evidence of their notorious existence in form of damaged packets of food stuffs and his treasured possessions such as pieces of clothes among others, guaranteed an immediate declaration of war, with every killing eliciting a celebratory dance of sorts complete with taunting words, challenging those remaining to better do the needful and vacate the house before what had befallen their friend fell on them too, sooner rather than later! Despite not being overly scared of their sight, an encounter with any number of them was not something he looked forward to- he could not help but jump up and down a few times any such unwanted housemates ran around in their numbers in confusion, at times threatening to come up at him perhaps thinking he was some kind of tree or such other moving object in which they could hide, hence, doing everything possible to decimate their population once he moved into a new house. Of course, running a little scared once in a while once they came too close for comfort could not be completely ruled out. He had been bitten by many things and he could only imagine what the creeps’ sharp incisors could do, not to mention the pain they could inflict. So when he moved into the new house too, he made sure to eliminate a good number of them one by one. Years back, he had discovered what he thought to be a foolproof method of going about his genocide of the annoying uninvited creatures in his home. He had previously relied on rat poison. Putting up with the stinking dead and not knowing the exact spot of the little carcass thus embarking on a full hunting exercise, turning the whole kitchen upside down- they usually liked his fully stocked cabinets and store rooms these idiots- and still not having a clue where the hell the suffocating stink emanated from, however, proved too much for him, thus deciding to change tactics. Luckily, a friend at a watering hole suggested he set up traps. “Those are damn too effective bud,” he had emphasized. “Just buy two or three, that’s nuff!” he had gone on to assure, his beaming face telling the story about the few bottles they had downed that far, and true to his word, Tito, having gone on to do exactly the same, never regretted one bit, well until he met his match. There was this one particularly stubborn “biggie” remaining, whom at first, having almost given up after being frustrated a few times with every trap he set up for him, started calling him Mchimwene, as he had now given up with the fight, instead, he just accepted him as his brother, being housemates. Every evening before going to bed, he had tried to catch him unawares by putting some food on the traps, the usual rats’ favorite which in the past could bear results as soon as he put off the kitchen lights and quietly sat in the sitting room so he could hear the sound of snapping traps when upon rushing to check, could find one or two of them wringing in untold pain, their desperate eyes pooping out as they clearly breathed their last. But now, despite the traps snapping off all the same, he could only find the food gone but no rat, let alone a dead one, in sight. On few occasions, he managed to see the thieving culprit showing him his clean fours into the unreachable spots, leaving him, at first infuriated, then later frustrated and much later dumbfounded, until eventually having run out of any “killer” ideas, he even found himself loudly smiling in admiration of Mchimwene’s ingenuity. He had felt like he was being duped to continue feeding him through the now highly ineffective traps as he had observed how this “brother” had actually grown so fat and bigger which even made him fail to run properly but instead seemed like a fat pig taking a stroll. Not to be outdone by a mere rat, again, he changed tactic. Having realized, Mchimwene must have cracked a way of setting off the traps first before going for the food at his leisure. He decided to combine a few tactics in the trapping process. The very simple ones included putting some crumbs on the cooker as he had seen the other day how spilt porridge which he had left to dry overnight so he would easily scrape off the hardened crumbs later, but come the following morning, they were gone! He set up traps around, the now deliberately crushed crumbs of Mchimwene’s favorite but to no avail. More other methods yielded similar embarrassing results for him. Then he decided to fill up a pot with water and put a thin black plastic sheet on top before sprinkling some food crumbs there, thinking as soon as he stepped on the surface for his “daily” bread, there and then, would he at last sink in the water but, once more, Mchimwene came out tops. The food was gone all the same, with the plastic sheet floating exactly as it had been left like someone had simply picked up the crumbs while standing outside. Tito loudly expressed his admiration for him in near defeat and surrender. “You’re my main man, brother. In fact you’re a true legend!” he had said in surrender and that was how he now started calling him, Mchimwene. He told him, the war was over and he was the winner. Incredibly, as if he had heard him and was testing his integrity in keeping his word, Mchimwene started to roam almost freely in the kitchen. When Tito entered the kitchen quietly, he could occasionally see him running to his hiding spot, just not in too much of a hurry as before, but as if majestically strolling, making Tito loudly shower his admiration at the legend, yet again. “Mr. Legend now,” he would say at times thinking even Mchimwene did not sound befitting enough for his daring feats. “Feel at home, my home mate.” And to show him he meant his word, he started leaving him some of his favorite food stuffs in a proper dish this time. Strange things started happening soon afterwards however; when doing some office work on his laptop or merely watching television at the sitting room late at night, Tito would hear some strange sounds, this time not coming from the kitchen or adjacent store room, but from the corridor to his bedroom, in the study room which he had converted into the main store room, like something or someone had clicked the empty glass bottles against each other. A few times, he quickly dashed there to investigate, but no matter how quickly he got there, the sounds stopped, and despite staying there waiting for the sound to start again so he would identify the source, nothing happened until he doubted himself if he was not imagining things, only for the sound to start again the moment he left until it stopped on its own. On this one he was very sure it was not his food-loving buddy because the room never hosted anything pertaining to his beloved tidbits, with the door always remaining tightly shut, and he was doubly sure nobody else went there anytime even in his absence. He lived alone and kept the keys secure because of some valuables kept there. He was puzzled, but in his true character, he was not scared despite another earlier incident of a mysterious fire which had started there and having smelt the smoke in time rushed to put it out. Trying to figure things out and confirm his theories, he had contacted a few friends at a science university and fire department who had agreed with his theory that energy bulbs kept in a tight plastic bag wrapped in old newspapers could indeed, if the conditions were right, ignite and cause a fire. As time went by, the clinking sound of the bottles or glasses eventually stopped thus making him feel relieved. He settled his mind with his own unconvincing theories as to its cause. It turned out to be for a very fleeting hiatus though, and a harbinger for things to come as he soon realized. For the next clinking sound came with much more. Dead in the silent night, a much more loud sound of not only glasses but of whipping, splashing and hissing, as if there were other inhabitants in the house who were wrestling or fighting, reached him from the room’s direction, sending an electric surge cruising through his veins making the fine hair on the nape of his neck to stand on its end, and in the process, jolting him from his slumber, and with every passing moment replaced by a sharp clarity of mind. Like a palace sentinel on high alert at noon, his over-alert senses acutely attuned to the slightest disturbance, he remained motionless, absorbing every detail of the strange happenings. The disturbance persisted, gradually intensifying until it became an eerie symphony of metallic echoes that echoed through the stillness of the night. At the same time, his brain went to work trying to figure out what it could be before venturing out but in his frightened state, came up with nothing. Instinctively, he started to reach out for the gun in the safe-box but a new round of bashing, slapping and whipping noise against all manner of objects thus producing a cacophony of a confused sounds was accompanied by falling things which instantly jerked him to dash out with his fingers first going for the switch in the store room the moment he arrived, only to be greeted by a queer and scary sight which froze him with both fear and confusion reigning supreme. During the numerous encounters Tito had had with Mchimwene, he had somehow become familiar with him- he assumed it was a he for no reason- just like one does with their pets. No matter how much dogs or cats may look alike, a master could recognize his from a group of his or her friends. Tito had that ability once he forged a strong bond with Mchimwene, and that’s exactly what happened now. Only that this time, Mchimwene was not wearing his diminutive rat frame. He was looking ferocious in every way imaginable having grown so big in size including the head and mouth that the whole snake’s neck which instantly reminded him of the one from the car incident, was firmly sunk in his sharp teeth and jaw, threatening to separate the head from the rest of the writhing body. Tito couldn’t think of his next move immediately. Instinct refused to play ball. Dumb-founded, while at the same time feeling too bad for what he had tried to do to Mchimwene during those numerous failed attempts on his life, he could only watch as he dragged the big reddish snake, now limp in his mouth, towards the kitchen. Tito followed at a safe distance not wanting to take his eyes off the sight for a split second fearing it might disappear like the first time for he was more than sure, it was the very same snake, but as to how that happened, he could only shake his head. This was no time for any brain-racking about past events. He had enough in the present to worry his brain about. For the next three hours, Tito could not leave playing guard until morning when he decided to do the most sensible thing in the circumstances- ensure the snake was truly dead and avoid a repeat of its now-you-see-me, now-you-don’t stunts. After Mchimwene had left it and majestically walked to his usual spot where he always disappeared to, Tito burnt the snake to ashes on the red-hot cooker coil before sprinkling them into the sink then washing them thoroughly down the drain with a whole river of water. Since that day, the strange sounds disappeared for good. But so did his beloved Mchimwene, sadly. Tito had tried to entice him from his hiding spot with all kinds of food stuffs including his own tasty treats which he knew no human being, let alone a rat, could dare resist, in the hope of showing him his appreciation, but nothing happened. After several failed attempts, he gave up, with a myriad of conspiracy theories competing for his conviction in his head. “Goodbye valiant soldier,” he whispered to himself. One theory triumphed at last. The snake must have been poisonous and might have during the fight, sunk its cursed fangs into him at some point thus injecting him with its deadly venom which caused his death in his spot later, hopefully in peace, not in pain. “Rest in power, super guardian Angel!”