Rats for Breakfast

My Basotho mother, Me’ Masentle Rabale is a spunky 60 something year old woman that always keeps me on my toes. The other day she appeared at my open window at 4:30am, as the dawn light started appearing over the mountains. I’m usually starting to wake up around this time, but was still sleeping that particular morning. I woke up to Me’s voice, “Amohelang na u robala joale? (are you sleeping?) Amo! (my nickname). “Amohelang, ke na le bohobe hape tokolotsi” (I have bread and an elf) “Nka” (Take it). I debated pretending I was still sleeping, but groggingly crawled out of my bed and mosquito net and went to the window. Me’ was standing there with a bowl of hot steamed bread in one hand, a dead rat the size of my kitten in the other hand and a huge grin on her wrinkled brown face. She had set some rusty spring loaded traps the day before and was successful at catching the corn stealing culprit. I took the bowl of bread and laughed at my Me’ and wished her well as she was heading to her field. She placed the rat on my window sill hoping my cat would eat it, grabbed her hoe and water jug and walked down the dusty road to her corn fields. I crawled back in bed (after checking and making sure I didn’t have a rat under my bed or sheets ).

One thing about living in a remote village in the middle of Lesotho, is you never know what surprises each new day will bring.