What do you think mosquitoes think of humans, a friend asked last night after a few too many sips of wine?
They obviously see us as strange, hairless delicious giants.
They’ve been observing us for millennia, even though we think we can outsmart them with our citronella candles, our mosquito nets, and our chemical sprays, they smell and see them all. They are patient.
They are persistence incarnate. They wake up each morning, buzzing with purpose. “Today,” they think, “today I shall find the perfect target.”
Not just any human will do. They have high standards. They like the ones who fidget and scratch themselves, because clearly, those people know nothing of the superior skill of a mozzie.
Their blood will taste sweeter when panic accompanies fear. Some humans attempt conversation while swatting at them. “Shoo. Get away,” they’d yell.
The mozzie obviously finds this hilarious. We think we can trap them with our flailing limbs.
Their wings are faster than our comprehension. They zip, they dive, they taunt. We’re merely entertaining them while doing this.
Then there’s the matter of strategy. They won’t just bite any limb. Oh, no. They are real artists. They circle, they hover, they test.
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Wrist, neck, ankle … decisions, decisions. Ah, yes, they love the soft inner elbow and land ever so lightly, like a feather, before drinking in the sweet nectar.
I wonder if they sometimes think about their life choices. Why be a mosquito? Why not a butterfly, admired for beauty rather than skill?
Because they watch humans sleep, utterly defenceless, and laugh at their futility.
Humans pay doctors for vaccines and antihistamines; mozzies get all the nourishment they need for free.
And let’s not forget the thrill they must feel; a sudden slap, a frantic scream, the whirling fan. It’s all part of their routine.
Do they ponder mortality? One wrong move, one rolled-up newspaper and it’s game over. Yet they keep flying, hunting, buzzing their existential thoughts into the night.
Without humans, who would they torment? Without humans, what is the meaning of their existence?
Next time you feel that sting, the tiny prick that makes you curse, remember somewhere, hovering above your shoulder, is a mosquito living its best life.
An insect with patience, persistence. Perfection in a tiny, winged bloodsucker. Now, where did I put that bug spray?
