African Killer Bees: A Story In 2 Acts

Act 1:
My first experience with the African killer bees did nothing to dispel the prejudice against them.
I had been in training village a few weeks and was feeling confident about going places by myself, like the pump. It was only a few hundred meters away, I couldn’t get lost, and I could even carry the bucket on my head by myself! Besides, I needed water to drink and take a wonderful bucket bath.
“N kata pumpoto.” This was a phrase I had mastered, and I grabbed my bright red bucket and waved to the compound as I left.
The pump was deserted at 4:00 in the afternoon. Perhaps it was too hot to fetch water. At the pump there were several bees buzzing in the spilled water. I didn’t think much of it. The bees and I had existed in harmony. I was careful, and they did their bee thing. After my bucket was filled I had to lift it onto my head. Oops! I knocked off my headwrap padding and had to start over. Readjusting my headwrap, the bees started buzzing around my head and the red bucket brimming with water.

I think one got stuck in my hair and it was all over from there.
Sting 1: In my hair. I left my bucket and started walking quickly away, annoyed that I was stung.
Sting 2: On my arm, maybe from attempting to brush away the bees as I left, moving a little quicker now, with some anxiety.
Stings 3-6: Thumb, calf, head and neck. Too fast to know the order, I was in a killer bee swarm! I started yelling and raced back into my compound. People greeted me from afar but I just ran.
As I entered the compound the tears started. I was stung by a million bees in The Gambia. This sucks. The adrenaline from running and the stings made me somewhat hysterical, and I ran to my host mother. She began flicking the stingers from my skin, but a lone warrior bee forced us inside. It really kind of hurts to get stung! I’m sure I hadn’t been stung since I was about 7.
She sent me inside my house to calm down and get me away from the 20 children that were attracted by the white girl crying. Two boys brought me new water, and my LCF Muhammadou came to check on me.
I guess the whole experience brought me closer to my host mother. I learned an important lesson: don’t go to the pump when there are a ton of bees or you are alone.
The village really got to know me better too. For the rest of training, every single day, somebody or somebodies talked to me about being stung. They yelled “Cumo” (bees!) at me and thought it was the best joke ever. The recounted my hasty retreat back to the compound.
I don’t think there was a single person who didn’t know I was the one stung by bees. I know if I return after 20 years there will be somebody who will yell “Cumo” as I walk down the street, as if I only was stung yesterday.