It's the Small Triumphs

I discovered my hatred of flies on a (short) long-distance bus today.

We were traisping from Dongola to Kareima across North Sudan, out to see some sights and have a bit of fun while we were at it, and the lots of bits of accumulative fun already had thus far had tuckered me out. I desperately wanted to spend the four hours in our quiet, dark and comfortable bus taking a nice little nap, and few things short of celestial wrath could have prevented me.

I was shocked to discover that an insolent creature no larger or more significant than A Common Fly could stand in my way.

You didn't notice it at first. You'd be drifting off, you were almost gone, and you could barely feel the little tickle on the back of your hand. But then SUDDENLY you felt it - you'd make an involuntary flap with your hand to get it off - and then you would start to drift back to that warm place. Drift, drift.. and there it'd be again. The tickle. You'd slap your hand again, more violently, more uselessly, and tuck it somewhere else as you curled back up to go back to that nap. The fly would find the other hand. Again, the tickle.. the almost ignorable.. you try to ignore it.. you could feel it moving around, exploring, until you JUST CAN'T TAKE IT ANYMORE. You flap that hand too. You open your eyes to find the offending creature. It's zooming around stupidly in the square foot of air right in front of you, waiting for you to settle down so it can too. You swat at it and miss. You sigh. You are too tired for this game. You tuck both hands under your arms, Sharia law means the rest of you is pretty much covered anyway, you smirk to yourself, and you close your eyes to go back to sleep. Let it land where it wants.
At which point it lands ON YOUR FACE.
You want to scream with rage. You flap both of your hands madly at your face. The fly resumes its orbiting of your head. You have rarely hated something so intensely in your life. You NEED this nap. You have a stroke of genius. Despite the relative warmth of the bus, you flop your entire sweatshirt over your head.

Darkness.
And Triumph.
And, you notice a moment later, Stinkiness.
(This sweatshirt has not yet been washed, and has lately shared a lot in common with your body.)
(This also might explain the fly.)
You decide you can bear the stinkiness and set about trying to fall asleep anyway.

Ten minutes later, gasping desperately for air, you emerge from the dark, hot, stinky, airless environment created by your sweatshirt-tent. Perhaps the fly is gone. You close your eyes and take in huge quantities of the delicious stale bus air. But within two minutes of tent dismantling.. there it is again ON YOUR CHEEK.

You swat at your face. You open your tired, red eyes, which perceive the Cursed Fly perched on the window curtain. As a spectator you watch your same fly-tortured hand sail through the air with a cat-like precision born of rage, and land with lightning swiftness upon the Bastard Fly before it has time to perceive that for one sorry sucker's life it is (quite appropriately): Curtains.

You watch the dead fly drop to the floor.

And you know the meaning of Bliss.