AFRICAN TALES FROM MY MOTHERLAND BY_ BISHOP SAHR ISAAC PETERSON

James Borne

Since I relocated to my new environment, I really liked it. The air felt fresh, the walls felt like home. Not until James Borne showed up. 

Yes, James Borne. That’s what I now call the rat. 

It started small. He started eating my books, chewing the edges like paper was bread. Then my bags. Then even some amount of money I kept tucked away. Gone, like it vanished into thin air. 

One day, my students came paying visit(as they often come around with difficult questions pertaining life and the English language). It was their first time to the new home. The room was quiet, expectant. Then James Borne rushed and entered the other side of the chair, a shadow darting under wood. 

One of the students, who happened to be a weak female gender, screamed. It cut through the room like glass. Leaving every all the other students, they bolted, scrambling for the door, only to run outside giving an escape from danger. 

"Something stepped on my foot," she shouted, her voice shaking.  

"Like what?" The others all wailed together.  

"I don't know," she responded in a belittled voice.  

I pretended never to have heard the close conversation. One thing that was certain, these students never knew what they really saw. But I knew it. I understood it was James Borne. 

There's this particular rat that seems to be completely stubborn in my room. It's tiny but fearless, moving like smoke through corners. I've tried everything in my power to kill it, but to no avail. This rat knows every corner of my room. Funnily enough, he knows when I sleep, when I come in, when I go out, and when I'm back with rodenticide. 

Last month, I finally decide to destroy it by placing some alluring fish trap for him. I made it so spicy that I personally had imagined its funeral service, the smell hanging heavy in the air. To my surprise, the same day, I came back after I had gone out taking some fresh air, so the trap could catch. Upon my return, I met everything was gone. The fish on the iron trap was finish but the trap was still intact. 

While I stealthily opened the door, meandering through the open hing, I discovered that my trap didn't work. I entered.

I saw the trap. Pam! Nothing was found. I sat down watching around, thinking it was magical. This time, the rat was sitting somewhere closer. I heard sound of plastic. By rushing to lay my hand on it, the cat ran passing in between my two legs. Sadly, my finger clutched to the trap, and that's how I got harsh defeat with pain on my index finger. 

As I type, I'm still worried about killing this cat. I've fasted and prayed, expecting it could be a demonic cat. Friends, what do you think I can do next? Cuz I'm way too tired. This reason, I now call the cat James Borne. 

© Bishop Sahr Issac Peterson 

A Creative Writing Coach 

Sierra Leone