Julia specializes in killing mosquitoes. She does not have a degree in it but she is very good at it. She can look at a room and track down a mosquito in less than 2 minutes, no matter how many dark surfaces there are. She owes this skill to her father, whose blood was a delicacy that mosquitoes came from near and far to savor. Few nights passed when there were no howls in the middle of the night, lights being switched on, painful bumps being balmed by soothing words, and culprit(s) being found.
Julia had to admit that these mosquitoes, full and heavy, were the easiest catches. Real pleasure was derived from pinching blood out of these little suckers. Of course, Julia was not bloodthirsty, neither was she a sadist. She never harmed any other species of insects, often driving them out of the window or picking them up with a paper and setting the paper in the garden. She had friends who liked to burn flowers or smash pots housing plants; she had no such murderous tendencies. Should she, however, spot a certain buzzing, her antenna would rise, her nerves calming only once the demon had been quashed.
Why, you might wonder, was mosquito killing important to Julia? The simple answer, which perhaps eluded her then, was that it was her “special talent”, the one that got her recognition in her family, the one that made her feel needed. Her sister could play chess, her brother could sing, she could kill mosquitoes. It earned her head pats and a “she strikes again!” from a beaming father, or proud reminiscence from her mother, who could be heard telling her neighbours how Julia’s reflexes were rapid, and how she would be the perfect neurosurgeon, should she choose to (as if this was all that was needed to become one). Her mother would then return, and lovingly tell her to study hard so she can make the family proud. Julia would not react upon hearing these words, simply locking them up inside a treasure chest in her heart, saving it for rainy days when she felt ignored and obscure. She wondered if she could go to a talent show with a box full of mosquitoes, open it up and massacre them in front of a stunned audience. In a world where people would go to any length to gain attention, surely this wasn’t an insane proposition.
One day, her father was beaming as he entered after his evening walk. He had an object in his hand that looked like a racquet. He called to her excitedly, saying that he had a gift for all of them. He said he had found a mosquito bat. When a button is pressed, an electric current would pass through the wired net of the bat, stinging anything that touched it. As he was demonstrating, a mosquito encountered the net in its path. A momentary sizzling occurred, its singed body dropping to the floor. Julia’s father’s happiness was unbounded, but Julia did not partake in it. She did not see why this equipment was needed in her expert presence. Nevertheless, she was confident that she would win this war against the machines.
The number of chances she had to prove her worth, however, were now far and few, only when the racquet was not within arms reach, or was discharged. As opportunities decreased, Julia found her value in the family exponentially reducing as well. She yearned to hear “Good child, you’re needed!” again. When the inquisitive lady next door would ask about her now, her mother would skillfully deflect the conversation to her sister, and then irritably tell Julia to study harder if she wanted to get anywhere in life. Julia would look away, saying nothing. Her treasure chest was almost empty. She was not the kind to retort or express negative emotions, often internally piling it up. The day this volcano erupted, she resolved to create opportunities to showcase her genius, hoping for things to go back to normal.
Soon, the mosquito bat would vanish when it was outside her father’s visual spectrum. The circumstances were always shrouded in mystery, but given that it was found soon enough, others would not speculate much. When there was suspicion of the presence of a mosquito, her father would raise the alarm and search in a panicked state for the bat. By the time he returned, Julia would be sitting there with the suspect having received the death sentence. She no longer obtained the praise she desired, just an irritated “Okay”. When they did manage to find the bat in time, she would hear, “Don’t waste your time darling, let me use the bat, its a better solution!”. Her unassuming family would never catch the grimace in her voice, as she would respectfully step away from the playing field, her father now a keen participant.
Then came the unfortunate day when both Julia and the bat went head on: both her father and her spotted the killer at the same time. A loud buzz was heard, followed by a small scream. Julia had lightly burnt her finger. “I told you to keep away!”, her father yelled at her, immediately regretting it. The damage, however, both external and internal, had been inflicted. Julia ran inside, for fear of exposing the flood immersing her eyes.
She quickly dried her tears on the inside of her shirt, knowing that she had very less time before somebody followed her. Momentarily, her father walked in with some ice and gently massaged her finger with it. Thankfully it was a minor injury, all she felt was a sting. He also got her a sweet treat by way of an apology, which she quietly accepted. After ten minutes, she was back in the living room amongst her folks, who were gayly chatting away as if nothing had happened. She did not correct them, preferring to ruminate.
It was one of those rare occurrences in life where grief makes one miserable but also perceptive. What did she want to do about the situation, Julia asked herself. There were a few options: she could work hard, study the ruddy mosquitoes and help with abolishing the painful aspect of the sting (or even perhaps malaria), then her father would not need the blasted machines. Alternatively, she could give up on this, find and hone a different talent, something which could not be challenged by others, human or machine. Perhaps it was a little late for that, she had already lost a lot of time, the 12 year old mused. She could even work with machines, learning to use and even improve them. The model used by her father was clearly rudimentary, requiring the user to search for the mosquito and then aim it properly, with a good estimation of the mosquito’s trajectory. One could perhaps design a tool that would remove the skill and manual labor done by the user. Surely this would gain her the adoration of her people. Maybe it was time to run away, since she was clearly not wanted anymore, the rebel in her shouted. Or, a voice whispered to her, she could realize that her worth was not tied to what others thought of her. This last idea, while comforting, seemed unrealistic. Who was she if not the mosquito killer? The meek thought was quickly overtaken by other thoughts, a shadow of it lingering in the back of her mind.
Instinctively, her mother put her arm on her shoulder, asking if Julia was in pain, and checking her finger. No, nodded Julia with a long sigh. “I need a hot shower”, she said, marching into oblivion.
Makeba 