It might have sounded like random bursts of lonely applause coming out of a suite at the Ngong Hills Hotel last night. Punctuated by occasional wall-punching thumps, people might wonder what sort of party they were missing.
There was a reckoning of sorts, 8000 miles in the making. The room was temperate, but the air was thick with the buzz of mosquitos. Maybe not thick. Maybe it was pretty much silent, except for about 5 minutes after you'd start to nod off, then you'd hear it, right next to your ear. Minutes dripped by like hours while waiting for the next attack.
It was maddening, so I whined to Sally over text messages ("Your fault for having such tasty blood" she texts, because weirdo), and poked around on the internet. Eventually Matt woke up too, after tiring of the bloodletting.
We turned on all the lights, and so began the Death Clap of Ngong Hills. The 'skeeters were fat and ponderous with their blood-filled bellies, and left dark smears on the plaster walls. If I couldn't sleep, at least they would... forever.
The sun eventually rose, and with it the shadow of the night's violence receded. We're at the hotel today waiting to meet with some folks later on. The Talented Mr. Ripley is on TV and eventually we'll go get something to eat. No longer will we suffer being the meal.