Chiamaka Ihekwoaba

Party Around the Lightbulb

Every evening, at precisely eight o'clock, my bedroom fills with visitors.

Nobody knocks. Nobody sends a message to ask whether I'm home. Nobody waits to be invited. They simply arrive, much to my displeasure.

At first, it was only one or two. A curious moth circling the light bulb with the confidence of someone inspecting property they intended to buy. Then came another. Soon there were flies, winged termites, mosquitoes, beetles and tiny creatures whose names I have never learned but whose determination is beyond my comprehension.

By half past eight, the gathering is in full swing. The light bulb hanging above my bed transforms into a chandelier suspended over what can only be described as a night party. 

I have often wondered how they know when to come. I’m smart enough to recognise that they are drawn to the light, but I can’t help but think that there must be a signal.

Perhaps somewhere beyond my hearing, a bell rings.

Or maybe insects have their own version of a WhatsApp group where someone types, "Meeting starts in ten minutes," and hundreds respond with tiny wing emojis before setting off for my bedroom.

Whatever the explanation, they arrive with astonishing punctuality every single night without fail. 

The only creature never invited to the party is me.

I also wonder whether they each have their own distinct languages, as humans do. For example, the mosquito clan has theirs, and the wasps have theirs as well. 

Or is it a general language all insects can understand, but humans can't? What about other animals like the dogs and cats? Can they also understand the language of these uninvited guests?

I do not know why they keep coming. Perhaps they simply enjoy my company. Perhaps they have mistaken my bedroom for a community hall. Unless this is how invasions begin.

They are planning a coup, I am sure of it. Either my presence annoys them, or my 100-watt halogen bulb attracts them. 

Whichever the case, they want me out of the way, out of the room, and eventually out of the house. But I am having none of it. 

After months of hosting these nightly gatherings, I have realised every species arrives with its own personality.

The mosquitoes are always first.

Punctuality, I have discovered, is one of their many irritating virtues. 

They appear just as daylight begins to surrender, behaving like overenthusiastic event planners who insist on arriving before everyone else to make sure the chairs are properly arranged. 

They never seem to have enough to do, so they spend the first few minutes hovering around every new arrival, exchanging what I imagine are exaggerated stories about impossible missions and near-death experiences.

I suspect they also enjoy the sound of their own voices. No creature that small has any business announcing its arrival with such confidence. If arrogance made noise, it would sound exactly like a mosquito circling someone's ear at midnight.

The mosquitoes are incapable of respecting personal space, and the pain they cause right after is something only people who live or have been to tropical areas have experienced.

I sometimes wonder whether humans only dislike mosquitoes because they possess the confidence most of us spend years pretending to have.

The moths belong to an entirely different social class. 

No matter how lively the party becomes, their attention never strays far from the light bulb. 

They circle it endlessly, each convinced that one more lap will finally earn its affection. Every now and then, one flies directly into the glass, and I wonder what the justification is for causing oneself such pain.

The collision changes nothing because moments later, it returns to the same impossible pursuit. How I wish I could truly understand their motive and rationale.

I have also noticed that the flies are not the life of the party. In fact, they are more attracted to the daylight and seem to lose their strength and vigour at night. 

They never stay in one place long enough to finish a conversation. They drift from curtain to wall, from wall to bedside table, and from bedside table to the window. If I were to guess, I’d say they are collecting information with the dedication of journalists chasing a breaking story. 

If rumours exist in the insect kingdom, I have no doubt the flies hear them first and exaggerate them during breakfast. They also love to wash their tiny hands in food and arrive very early at the breakfast table.

The beetles arrive fashionably late. 

Thankfully so, as they are also a noisy bunch.

Every gathering has someone who walks in with the confidence of a person who knows nobody would dare begin without them. And in this nightly party hosted around the lightbulb in my room, the confidence of the beetles is one I’m still studying

They move slowly, almost ceremonially, as though punctuality were a character flaw reserved for amateurs. Nothing appears capable of rushing a beetle. Not excitement, not danger, and certainly not my growing irritation.

Then come the other unnamed insects I’m yet to identify. One suddenly appears, then another, and before long they arrive in numbers so overwhelming that the room begins to resemble a convention rather than a party.

They are seasonal extroverts, making dramatic entrances only to disappear before anyone remembers their names. By morning, they leave behind a carpet of discarded wings, like guests who removed their jackets before dancing and forgot to collect them on the way home.

There is always one guest who completely loses composure before the evening is over. I have yet to determine whether the culprit is intoxicated by the light or simply incapable of knowing when enough excitement is enough. 

Watching them night after night, I have reached one unavoidable conclusion.

If insects have a society, it is alarmingly similar to ours. They have the early arrivals and the perpetual latecomers.

The attention seekers and the silent observers.

The guests who refuse to leave.

And, somewhere among them, there is almost certainly one who keeps insisting that the meeting could have been an email.

Another thing I have observed is that not every guest attends the party to be seen.

There is one guest I notice almost every night. I do not know its name, but it is smaller than the moths, quieter than the mosquitoes, and far too sensible to throw itself at the light.

While everyone else competes for the brightest spot beneath the bulb, it settles on the wall a respectful distance away, watching the evening unfold with the quiet patience of someone who has long accepted that every gathering has enough people trying to be noticed.

It never interrupts.

Never competes.

Never seems particularly interested in joining the chaos.

Sometimes it remains in the same spot for so long that I begin to wonder whether it is asleep or simply observing the rest of its companions with the same curiosity that I observe them.

I understand this insect more than I probably should. In fact, I think we have various things in common.

I have never been the loudest person in a room.

I hardly attend parties, but when I do, I always prefer the edges to the centre. I often have conversations with one or two people. 

Above all, I enjoy watching people almost as much as I enjoy talking to them. Human beings reveal remarkable things when they forget someone is paying attention.

Perhaps that is why I keep noticing the quiet insect. It reminds me that not everyone attends a gathering for the same reason.

Some arrive to perform.

Some arrive to belong.

And some, like myself and this unidentified insect, arrive simply to watch.

Sometimes I catch the quiet insect facing me. 

Not the light. Not the other insects. But me.

It never lasts long enough for me to be certain. Just a few seconds.

But these seconds last long enough to make me wonder whether I have become part of the evening's entertainment.

I couldn't help but wonder if two stories were being written every night. One from my observation and one from theirs.

I can only imagine how it begins.

Perhaps an elderly beetle clears his throat before announcing,

"Every night, at precisely eight o'clock, a giant creature appears beneath our light."

The younger insects listen with fascination.

One mosquito insists I am dangerous. A moth argues that I merely look lonely.

The flies, naturally, claim they saw everything first. Only the quiet insect seems to say nothing. If it did, I obviously couldn’t tell. But one thing I noticed is that it simply watches me the way I watch it.

For the first time, I begin to suspect that observation is not a privilege reserved for humans.

At first, they scattered whenever I turned off the light or stood beneath the lightbulb.

Now they barely acknowledge my presence.

So, I am calling a meeting. 

One involving myself, a nose mask, and an insecticide.

I reach beneath the bed. The can is exactly where I left it. We have all come prepared for tonight's meeting.

Much like the uninvited guests having a party each night, I begin an uninvited session. And without warning, the party is over in seconds. 

No conversation, no dialogue, just polluted air harsher than tear gas to human skin. 

There may have been words. But, of course, I can't hear them. After all, I am no insect. 

I see them on their backside, flicking their legs in obvious discomfort and probably gasping for some clean air. At this point, they have all left the party venue and are on my bed.

Or should I say their deathbed? 

Although I know this victory will be short-lived, I smile as I await another 8 pm party around the light bulb. They say there is no peace for the wicked. I do not know who the wicked are, myself or my unwanted party guests. 

But this I know. Tomorrow evening, at precisely eight o'clock, they will return. They always do.

Perhaps they still believe the light belongs to them. Perhaps I still believe the room belongs to me. 

Neither side appears willing to surrender.

So every night we continue the same argument, fought not with words but with wings, light, and insecticide.

After all, every war begins with two sides looking at the same place and quietly agreeing that it is theirs.