Of Mice and Men

I'm preparing for my 7th trip to Africa. It's unbelievable to think I will have been to Africa this many times in only a year and a half. Now that's love! I will spend 5 weeks there with David enjoying their winter season. It will be nice because it won't be as hot. Generally highs only in the 80s and the nights are a mild, sub-Saharan "chilly" 50 degrees.

A few days ago, I spoke with David on the phone as I do every day. He's currently enjoying his "off" days; he works 22 days on and has 8 days off. He was with his friend Richard in "the village". It's Saturday night and they are hanging out catching mice. He's excited because they've caught 5 so far. I don't want to know why they're catching mice or what they're going to do with them. Every time I talk to David and he's with Richard he's doing something that makes me squeamish. The last time he was out with Richard they were at a farm. They had just caught a rabbit, killed it and skinned it and were sitting around roasting it on a fire. The animal-lover in me has a hard time with some of his leisurely pursuits.

Anyway, the connection with David was bad so I told him I'd call him back later. A couple of hours later I called again. I asked him how he was doing with the mice and he said they ended up catching 25. The rest of our conversation went like this:

"Oh," I said. "Is this like a sport? Why do you catch them? What are they for?"

He chuckles and says, "We eat them!"

There is a long silence on my end of the phone.

"Honey? Are you there? Can you hear me?" I hear David's voice coming from the iPhone in my hand but I have been stunned into muteness. After a couple of moments, I say, "Um, yes, David, I hear you. Did you say you eat them? You EAT them? Are you teasing me?"

He laughs again. "No, I'm serious! We roast them over the fire."

"But they're mice," I say, my voice barely audible.

"They are wild mice. We have large wild mice and smaller ones we call "rats". They are very nutritious and full of protein." I can hear the earnestness in his voice now. This is not the first time he's had to explain a common African pastime to my incredulous ears. "They even feed them to sick people. When you go to the hospital, it says on the menu: eggs, toast, mice."

Another long silence from my side of the world. My side of the world where people don't eat mice and rats and termites and worms. My side of the world that I'll be leaving soon for that side of the world. That side of the world that I love, that contains the person I love. The person who just ate his share of 25 mice. Rats. Rodents.

"Honey? Are you there? Can you hear me?" I hear David asking again.

"Uh, yes, David. I can hear you," I say.

His voice smiles into the phone, "I can't wait to see you, sweetheart. I have so many exciting things planned for us. We can go to the village and you can see how we catch the mice and then..." I don't remember what else he said after that. I do remember not eating lunch that day.

This morning as I left for work there were the remains of a large dead rat on the gravel in my driveway. Iggy, my darling male kitty that I love so much, ate everything but his victim's tail, one long foot and the entrails. As I moved quickly past the carnage, I made a mental note not to kiss Iggy's face when I got home that night. And then I thought about David. Oh, my dear David. What about the mice he ate? Well, I reasoned, I can kiss him. His mice were cooked!