An Open Letter to Fruit Flies (Drosophilus I Hatus Yewous) Everywhere

I hate you, in case you can’t read Latin. Who said you could invade my house in droves? Is there a sign on my door that says “Karibu Fruit Flies”? NO. Just because my door is open does not mean you can come in. And what’s with the buzzing around right outside the door all day long until I have to come out and use the choo? Y’all need lives. My doorstep is not the only place you can find sumptuous rotting things to feed on.

Oh, wait, you already know that, because you’ve all COME INTO MY HOUSE UNINVITED AND SAMPLED MY FOOD. You’ve sampled my fruit tray. You’ve sampled my onion and garlic bowl. You’ve sampled my garbage can. You’ve sampled my dirty dishes.

You know what’s really rude about all this? When you’re done eating MY food, you don’t just say thanks and leave. You go over to my mosquito net and hang out. IT’S TREATED WITH POISON YOU IDIOTS. WHY AREN’T YOU DYING? Your nightly dance party on my net is inexcusable.

As 245 of your former colleagues know, I’ve declared war. At first I just took out my trash and washed my dishes everyday. But that’s too much work just to keep a bunch of dim-witted fruit flies at bay. Then I sprayed my house with Doom. Do you understand Doom? It’s supposed to make you die. What’s wrong with all of you? Why are you still living in my poisoned house?

Well, guess what. I have a new lethal weapon. It’s a cardboard mailer converted into a flyswatter. And it works like a charm. Maybe some of you are better fliers than others, and some of you choose your resting points more strategically (narrow edges of bed frames, bookshelves, plastic buckets and basins, and soft surfaces like curtains can’t protect you forever, suckers), but eventually, the flyswatter gets you all. The 245 flattened carcasses in my garbage don’t lie. The new pattern on my walls, made from the splattered blood and pus of Drosophilus I Hatus Yewous, don’t lie. It’s like artwork. I call it “Staccato in Black and Red.”

I know what you’re thinking: My karma ain’t doing so hot right now. Oh, please. You are so full of yourselves. You’re FRUIT FLIES. Not birds or cats or even spiders. There is no guilt here. Every time I get to watch your red and yellow guts squirt out of your bloated little bodies due to a fatal blow, I feel a sense of satisfaction. The only annoying thing with you people is that your damp little corpses stick to my garbage bag, and it’s my last one. Can’t you do something about that? I hate having to see all of you looking ridiculously contorted every time I walk past my garbage can.

I know what you’re thinking now: Why can’t I just live in peace with you all? You’re not doing me any harm. And my response is: If you didn’t come into my house, I wouldn’t have to kill you. Doesn’t that sound fair?

OH MY GOD YOU’RE HAVING SEX IN MY HOUSE!! I just saw some tiny ones of you. That’s the ultimate insult. It’s one thing to invite yourselves in, eat, and leave poo on my food. But I’m not running a brothel here. Can’t you take your private business outside?

I told some other PCVs about you. Y’all are in trouble now. One of them says he has a lovely recipe for fruit fly stir fry, and that you function much like raisins. Obviously I don’t have much use for you, but it looks like other people do. As soon as I collect enough of you, I’m selling you by the kilo, cheap.

Heeere, fruity fruity fruity. Heeere fruity fruity.