The creature we were afraid to kill

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An image taken by me

I came across these tiny creatures again recently, and they instantly took me back to my childhood days

Growing up in Akwa Ibom, we were told never to kill them, especially when they gathered in large numbers like this.

The belief was that if you kill them, your rubber plates, spoons, slippers, or any rubber item in the house would begin to disappear.

As a curious child, I didn't listen

So, curiousity took a while of me, one day, I killed quite a number of them.

Not long after, some of our rubber plates went missing. Immediately, I believed the story was true. I was scared, and honestly, I didn't want to be blamed.

Back then, many African parents believed this so strongly that getting caught killing these creatures could earn you a serious beating.

Years later, I began to think about it.

Did these tiny creatures really come into our house and take our rubber plates?

Of course not.

The plates probably got misplaced, broke, got burnt around the fire, or simply wore out with time. The innocent creatures had nothing to do with it.

That childhood experience taught me something about superstition.

Sometimes, what we strongly believe isn't necessarily reality, some superstitions may have been created to teach caution or protect nature, but others leave us living in fear without ever asking questions.

Today, I smile whenever I remember how convinced I was.

What superstitious belief did you grow up with?
Do you still believe it today, or have you discovered the truth for yourself?

I'd love to hear your story in the comments section

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7 comments
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@bbscribe94, sobre "I was scared, and honestly, I didn't want to be blamed", ¿qué consejo le darías a alguien que recién empieza con esto?

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I don't understand the picture would be nice see more of them, i don't know what criature is that.
But what a history!
Thats the way parents got us here, with crazy stuffs to scare us 🤣

You reminded me of something, and I’d like to share it because when I was little, in the neighborhood where I lived, there was an old chicha vendor—a very thin, elderly man with a deep voice that was really scary. On his bicycle, he had a barrel that was like a kind of water filter, filled with that homemade chicha made from pastes, milk, and other ingredients. The thing is, when I was little, my grandmother used to tell me that this man kidnapped children who misbehaved or didn’t listen, and then turned them into chicha—and that’s why chicha was so nutritious.
For years, after lunch—which was when everyone would take a nap—I really liked going out to play in the yard, but whenever I heard that man’s whistle and the shout “el chichero,” I’d run, trembling with fear, back to bed. Today, I remember that story, and I can’t stop laughing when I think about how innocent I was.

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