Convent Horror

Clare Rodgers

Convent Horror

It was precisely that.

A stagnant few hours previous there had been little to do and even less to talk about. Another evening in a long line of non-descript evenings; us, in the African nowhereness and two hundred nuns - it goes without saying a rockin' Saturday night was not the thing. The electricity had buzzed on half an hour previous and we had both seized the opportunity to read by the joy of light rather than wait until the gasoline lamps were lit and huddle round the flame to do battle with suicidal insects.

We shared a small room on the edge of the convent. Not being Sisters ourselves we were not permitted within certain confines of the building so we perched, not quite holy and not quite unholy. Perjury brought us a 'freedom' however and we mentally blanked out disapproving looks from Mother Superior as our antidote to mass and prayer was far too much sugar-cane wine, too many cigarettes, and music blared loud as we danced and 'sung'. Two eighteen year old girls, in the African nowhereness with two hundred nuns. . .I need say no more.

Our room was sparse. Two rickety single beds surrounded by hole-ridden mosie nets sat either side of a bare, barred window that looked out over the papaya orchard. One wardrobe; a desk and piles of unmarked homework and text books, uninspired lesson plans strewn amongst letters from home. Many an evening had passed within these walls and it had become both our sanctuary and prison. It was soon to become something else!

I have no memory of what I was reading that evening but I do remember the endless tap tapping of Kate's leg against the frame of her bed as she read, absorbed in her tale. That bothered me. I remember my restlessness and the sticky air. This too bothered me. And I remember the small eternity that passed between what Kate said and the realisation of what was to come.

'Clare. . .' Kate's voice quivered into the silence 'I know what's in your back'.

In my back?!

My back, as Kate's leg had been bitten by what we assumed were blood hungry mosquito's the previous week as we sat out in an expatriate's garden under mango trees; drinking safari beer and dreaming of home. After our night away from the convent we had returned having had our fill of video watching, sofa slouching and western food, to find ourselves rather sore. Kate had one rather stubborn bite at the top of her leg, I had seven bites across my back but we thought little of it having become accustomed to the fact our foreign skin was delectable to African bugs!

I was needless to say rather curious as to what Kate had to say and pulled myself lazily off my bed and walked across the room and peered at her rather bemused yet slightly fearful. I was presented me with her finger. Zooming in I took a long hard look at something white balanced on the tip.

My eyes focused, then refocused as my brain tried to take in what it was being told. . .and true enough, there sat a fat, white, maggot - alive and wriggling.

I stared.

She stared.

No doubt the fat wriggling maggot stared.

After a time, she explained that her bite had burst while she'd been scratching away at it- anxious to stop the niggling pain and this little wriggling creature had revealed itself to have been living in her leg; chewing and nibbling away at her flesh. This meant of course I had seven white, fat wriggling maggots currently chewing and nibbling away at me!

The laughter that followed was filled with terror yet laugh was all we could do to keep from bubbling into hysteria. As if an old fashioned homebirth was about to take place, various implements and tools were sought from our belongings; a needle, a miniature of whiskey, a wet towel, painkillers and disinfectant. Rather ironically empty prayers rolled round the walls begging for the electricity to hold out until the surgery was over. The whiskey served as an anaesthetic to both wounds and soul as Kate told stories to distract us both - her voice oddly bold and hollow as she worked on. Each time she clawed at my back to grapple and squeeze, she would show me the fruits of her labour. One little bugger was over half a cm long! I had the duty of execution. They were placed on the floor, crushed then disposed of. It was a duty I undertook with a certain amount of pleasure.

An hour or so later, we were back to silence and now near darkness. My back was red raw and bleeding. As we sat amid the gasoline lamp light, too stunned to read or chat - we had to wonder, what would have happened if we had never known? Would they have eaten their fill of our flesh as maggot, gnawed their way out to burst forth as fly?