With the dreadful pains the mosquitoes gave me, I make no attempt to kill the bug, so that the smell won't invite others to attack me en masse. I respectfully pick up the bug and drop it on the floor below for it to crawl away injury-free.

That philanthropic move proves a mistake. Unbeknown to me, relocating a bedbug is an offence. They don't communicate by buzzing around like mosquitoes. These use Bluetooth. The one I dropped sends signals to its peers that dinner is served. That first excruciating bite in my jaw is only a warning.

An army of bugs march out of their hiding places on the mattress, making the whole of my body an occupied territory. It turns out it isn't just the pillow that's infested. The entire bed is bug-ridden. The crawling creatures suck me so hard like I'm laced with food seasonings. I never read anywhere that insects engage in division of labour, but these function in batches, sucking me at regular intervals as if they have an appointed timekeeper.

They sometimes allow me respite and I'll assume they've had their fill, only for a new batch to attack a different part of my body. These callous entities attack my face, neck, arms, shoulders, belly, thighs and back. One can slap and kill mosquitoes, but smacking bugs on the mattress don't stop them from extending their pipes to suck my blood after which the offender will bury itself under a crevice. The more I search around to locate them, the less of them I see.

I wriggle and twist in pain, extending my hands around my body, trying to rub the problem spots. Where my hand can't reach, like my spine, I stifle my back to relieve the pain but all in vain. I then realise that mosquitoes are religious. These bugs have no human sympathy or regard for rule of law. Have they been targeting me for months? Did they get the message I'll be coming? They must have sucked four litres of blood off my body.

When I can't bear it anymore, I take a peek at the wall clock which displays 9:52 pm. I wish three seconds make a minute and five minutes, an hour. The clock moves too slowly, making 5am seem an eternity.

No one in the room feels my pain. The white guy below has since dozed off. Those still awake look at me like a troubled alien. And the manager who collected fifty rand is nowhere in sight. So, I actually paid these people to suffer me.

Expectedly, itches and irritations spread through my body, reminding me that my face, arms and legs are all bumpy by now. Blisters and freckles have developed and a wave of nausea takes over me. Silent words of prayer creep into my mouth – sleep should take me away. Fatigue has taken a flight; not with the slaps and wallops I hit myself with.

At exactly 10 pm, the fluorescent lights go off, bringing me hope the insects will finally go to sleep. Or they'll be blind to find my skin. What a wrong notion!

Today I learn that insects run shifts as a new set that operates in the dark takes centre stage, relieving duties from the bugs who are by now satisfied. Species of insects emerge from the infested mattress, but darkness hides their identities. I only feel them as they land on me. Some buzz and dance around; others crawl on six or eight legs; and there are those slithering on their stomachs like millipedes, but they all find my body palatable.

They suck, pummel, harass, abuse and maltreat me 'til daybreak, filling their bellies with blood and other body fluids. I'm sure they even take some away to their families because I have no way to resist the punishment they mete out.

I swear and curse, grumble and murmur, groan and spit fire, but those around only snore in response. I then recollect those insects' documentaries on National Geographic aren't computer graphics. Insect bites do hurt terribly – I'm a living witness. My only consolation is that none is poisonous enough to snuff the life out of me.

Just like we order foods from a restaurant menu, insects also choose the parts of our body they want to feed on. Some like the back of the legs; a few prefer the softness of the earlobes; others target the back of my neck through the spine. When some meander to the very secluded area around my scrotum, I lift off from the bed, hoping they'll repent and make a U-turn. Luckily, they heed my wish. For once I realise the advantage of not shaving regularly. The bushy hair around my groins chased them back, else how am I to scratch the blisters around there.

At a certain time, it crosses my mind to explain that my salary is only six-thousand rand. And I'm not one of those cornering government tenders for personal benefits. I'm only a kwerekwere from Nigeria trying to make a living. Love for Lerato brought me to Durban. They should, therefore, reconsider their stance and reduce the intensity of the biting.

When self-pity yields no fruits, anger engulfs me, but I'm not sure where to direct it – the manager of the building or the city mayor; the premier of the province or even the president of the country? How can they keep such insects in a place like Durban where tourists throng often? It's callous and heartless, insensitive and inhumane to do such. I feel like charging someone to court for dereliction of duty, incompetence and lack of compassion for the lives of law-abiding citizens and tourists.

At long last, feebleness and troubled-mind overwhelms me, weakening my body system. Sleep takes me away and I hear myself snoring so loud, but only for a short span of time. The pests still bite at irregular intervals, but I'm grateful they consider me worthy of rest. Half sleep is better than none at all. Our hide and seek game continues 'til daybreak.

The alarm goes off at 5 am as the lights come on, bringing me to life. I grab my bag and jump off the bed before anyone gets up. While walking through the aisle, I kept turning back in case the insects chose to follow me.

But the exit door is still under lock, so I stand by the doorway, back on the wall, ruing the horrible night I had. My arms criss-cross on my shoulders as I await the manager (or whatever he calls himself) to open up. I can't wait to leave this place. If this is the warm welcome advertised about Durban, they can keep their hospitality to themselves.

My jaw drops when occupants begin to move around, bucket in hand, queuing up in front of the bathroom. So people go to work from here? Some actually live here! And to think that none of them wears a torture-face, like I do, surprises.

My head shakes in disbelief.

The manager soon shows up "Did you enjoy your stay?" he asks with an impish smile worthy of a demon.

I raise my head back as if ready to nod, but I just can't slam it down – that will be dishonest. How can I tell him the night was good with all that happened? Giving him a good impression of my stay can only worsen things for future customers. My eyes flicker at him repeatedly, but he doesn't seem to care.

"Will you take your bath?"

"No, thanks." Take a bath in this place? Arrgh!

Immediately he pushes the door open, my legs take me out. The cool sea breeze that greets me brings deserving relief. And the morning cold has no effect on me whatsoever.

"What a night of disaster and pain!" I hear myself mutter as I hurry to the pharmacy at the SeaPoint. Top on my mind is to prevent all kinds of ailments that are sure to attack me.

To my chagrin, the wordings on the pharmacy's door reads: "Open from 8:00 AM - 5:00PM daily"

"Whoooah! I have to wait three hours before someone attends to me?" Well, what options do I have? I'll hang around in what will be the longest wait in my life. Standing by the roadside so early in a public road is far better than the place I spent the night. My hands fold up on my chest as I look far into the distance.

Now that I'm free from the pangs of insects, my thoughts are somewhat clearer. Half of my heart gladdens that I'm experiencing this without having my woman around. The other half pities me about the ailments soon to arrive. I can't even look at my skin. Blisters and rashes in varieties of sizes, some holding colourful pus I just can't touch. Everything around irritates.

The noise from moving taxis sound like mosquito buzzes and the broad roads look like a highway to bugs-land. Even the sky-scrappers appear like termitariums and anthills – all ugly, repulsive and nauseating. I can't even think straight.

While Lerato lingers on her bed in Pretoria, here I am hundreds of kilometres away suffering in her name. If anything at all, my mind is made-up to return here. And I won't cancel our December visit merely because of insect attacks. I've seen the sweet and sour sides of Durban and that is what I came here to achieve. Now I know where not to bring my woman.

How much pain do men endure for their women? The sacrifices we make to keep our relationships are indeed humongous. Do ladies even appreciate them? I will remember when the time comes; for now, blisters and bumps becloud my thoughts.