St. Patty’s Day, part 2: eleven arguments against open-toed shoes

Sunday night. Finally. I force my key into the lock, step into my courtyard, my space. After hiking over boulder-strewn canyons, fitfully dozing on unforgiving dirt surfaces, teaching in classrooms dusty with sand and chalk, all I want is a shower and some sleep. I walk into my bedroom and flick on the dim light attached to my fan (my overhead light has been broken for months). While slinging my bags on the floor, I see movement out of the corner of my eye. I shine my cell phone toward the noise. Yes, movement, I’m sure of it now. I creep across the room, armed with a phone and the scarf I just peeled from my head. Scuttling across the concrete floor, my visitor darts into the light. He is armed with two pincers, eight legs, and one thick, muddy yellow-colored stinger. He is three inches long, which is significant in a scorpion-sized world. He does not know how to find the door.

My stomach sinks. I’m exhausted, I’m dirty, and how on earth am I going to get this arachnid out of my house without one, killing him, and two, getting his venomous tail lodged in my flesh?

First things first, I need a light. Better quality than my nokia torche¹. I immediately call KM, meet her in town, and borrow her 21-led burn-your-retinas flashlight². I enter my house, much more cautiously than before, hear scampering clicks of tiny legs, and lunge for my mattress. A mere six inches off the floor, I realize this will afford me significantly less protection than I’d like. If my little friend can climb, I’m as good as stung. At least I’ll see his stinger administering the soup: I’m now armed with a spotlight, a large cup and a broom. We chase each other around the room a bit, I yelp, he pinces, I dodge, we dance, we both get rather agitated. Finally, he gets caught in a cloth in front of my bookcase, and I come to a conclusion. I heave a sigh and begin conversing with my house guest.

“Look little guy. I’d try to scoop you in this cup if I could. I’d throw you outside and let you sting someone else to your intravascular system’s content. But frankly, you are pissed, and I am an all-too-easy target for your vengeful little tail.”

I pause, waiting for an improbable response to ease my guilt and insulate my karma. Instead, he scratches and scurries under the cloth.

“So look,” I continue, “I’m sorry. I’m going to have to kill you. With this broom. Several feet from my vulnerable toes. But I’m sorry. Really. I’m sorry.” And then I beat the little bugger to death.

The scorpion is still in my house, bludgeoned, messy and hidden under a laundry basket. I can’t bring myself to throw him away, and I irrationally expect to meet his friends by moonlight in my courtyard. Strange that Saturday night’s worst fear was Sunday’s night’s after-dinner debacle is now every night’s paranoia. In a few weeks, I’m sure my arachnophobia will fade and my conscience will recover. For now, at the end of the day, walking through my doorway, I’ll step lightly, slightly guiltily.


1: The nokia torcheis the Target brand of West African cell phones: dependable, no-frills, cheap. The “torche” refers to the dim little bulb embedded in the phone. Diurnally, my nokia is communication; nocturnally, it is protection against stepping in a pile of Mauritania (e.g. goat droppings, fish heads, diapers, open cesspools).

2: This astonishing flashlight has the rumored ability to “blind God” and is the first step in the “blind first, then stab” defense policy of female Atar volunteers.