Me Vs The Bees

Every time I see these pictures of a honey seller with his swollen face, I laugh hilariously and remember the two occasions I've come in contact with bees and how, quite frankly, I thought they were doing too much. 

The first time was in primary school. I think it was in Primary 1 or 2. I don’t recollect much because I was very young, but I remember one very important detail: chaos - everyone running away from school that day.

In my school then, we had an Iroko tree. A really large tree with a massive trunk. It cast a wide shade where most of the food sellers would set up their food stations just before break time, minding their business.

According to our parents, the tree had been there for over twenty years and was mostly ignored by everyone, until that day.

Once we see the food sellers setting up, students who wanted to buy would have their plates ready, with money and a piece of paper saying what food they wanted and placed inside the plastic plates.

Like clockwork, the plates would be returned just as we start saying the prayer for lunch.

I always envied the other students as the sweet smell of porridge and stew, with the tiny pieces of meat or beans and rice would drift to my nose and I would imagine what it would taste like.

My mother never let me partake in this as she packed food for me in my flask.

But I drift.

On this particular day, it was about 11a.m when the sky suddenly turned black. It was filled with tiny flying objects. Not rain-black. Not “it’s about to drizzle” black. No -this was a moving, buzzing, “something is very wrong” kind of black. And before my little brain could process what was happening, everyone was already screaming and running away in panic from their classes.

Apparently, some brave (or foolish) soul had thrown a stone at the large beehive at the top of the tree and destroyed a good part of it. And just like that, school closed - unofficially, of course.

I will never figure out how I got home, but I know I ran away with all the other kids. I ran with purpose. I ran with fear. I ran like my village people were pursuing me with koboko - and they were, because what was all this bee business?  

Luckily for us, we usually walked to school by ourselves every morning, so knowing the direction home was not a big problem. I remember screaming as I was running and not stopping until I got home.

By sheer fate, my mum was home that day and not at work. She was home sleeping when I tore through the gates, screaming.

I had been stung in different places. My face and ear were swollen and stung like hell. I remember her calmly using a key to remove the stings and then rubbing calamine lotion on my skin to calm it down a little bit., while I wondered whether everyone else had gotten stung like me.

I didn't go to school for two weeks.

Of course, one bee attack was not enough to fuel the drama in my life.

The next time I was in university.

My roommate had come into our room that day with a jar full of honey. She handed me the jar of golden liquid to admire, pointing out the little particles inside and proudly explaining that that was how you knew it was real honey.

She added that she personally collected the honey comb from the seller and put it in the jar herself.

That should have been my first warning.

I was doubtful, of course, and I said so, recounting to her my earlier childhood experience with bees. And so, to prove her point, she opened the jar so I could taste the honey.

Big mistake. Error!

Before I could dip my finger into jar, a black object flew out of the jar like it had been waiting for freedom its entire life - and immediately chose madness. It started chasing both of us around the room. At that point, there was no friendship, or room mateship, every girl running for her life.

In my attempt to escape, I fell over a reading table (trust me to be very dramatic, very unnecessary), and the bee stung me in the exact same ear. The same ear.

At this point, it was personal and a planned attack.

My face swelled up like a puffer fish. I didn't care that I was in university, I cried like someone had stolen my feeding money. My roommates had to take me to the medical center while I sat there wondering how one gets bitten by bees twice in thier lifetime.

Wierdly, my room mate who brought the honey did not get stung, just me.

The most painful thing for me was that on both occasions I never got to taste the honey from the combs.

Since then, I have developed a very serious and highly justified fear of anything that has to do with a beehive. Bees and I? Can never be friends. Never, ever!

From a distance, we respect each other.

A very, very far distance.