https://www.pexels.com/photo/grayscale-photo-of-woman-peeking-on-planks-25757
When Grace rented her new apartment in Surulere, she thought her only problems would be NEPA, the neighbor who fried fish at 2 a.m., and the suspicious crack in the ceiling shaped like a broken heart.
She did not anticipate coming face to face with a mouse that had more confidence than most motivational speakers, sauntering across her kitchen like it paid rent, oozing a dramatic swagger like a famous model, sniffing her plantain chips as if they offended its standards, trespassing into her fridge as if it bought the items itself, and walking magestically into the walls and wooden cracks with a flick of its tail, leaving her questioning who really owned the apartment.
It all began on the first night.
Grace was unpacking, sweating, and regretting life choices when she spotted movement near the fridge.
At first, she thought it was a shadow.
Then, the mouse strutted out, walking magestically towards Grace as if it were a runway, not running or hiding but stepping with an exaggerated, proud movement to show off like it was the coolest person in the room. It wore a tiny crown made from a Coke bottle cap and dragged a pencil like a sword.
"Good evening, Madam," It said in crisp, formal English. "Welcome to my apartment."
Grace froze, Looking around in searching of where the voice came from. Immediately, she spotted the mouse just in front of her. She suddenly adjusted her posture and stood still, wide-eyed.
"Your what?!" Grace exclaimed in shock.
"My apartment," the mouse repeated, bowing slightly. "Flat 15, co-occupied since 2018. Registered under the Society of Urban and General Hustlers." the mouse explained.
"You're a talking mouse?" She asked, horrified.
"And you're the human who didn't sweep under the gas cooker before moving in. We all have our surprises."
"Aaaaarrrrrggghhhh!" Grace screamed in fear.
https://www.pexels.com/photo/woman-having-a-panic-attack-8410833
The mouse just stood there, rolled its eyes at Grace, and said, "There it is. The scream. The panic attack. Every time," it mumbled.
It folded its arms. "Listen, I'm not here to hurt you. I come in peace. My name is General Smallie. I have survived four landlords, three fumigations, and one unfortunate encounter with super glue. I run things in this house. So I want you to be on your best behavior, and no funny pranks; I view them as serious and delibrate. Do we have an agreement?" It stretched out its tiny paws towards Grace for a handshake.
Grace just stared at it and said, " No, no, no, no, I can't possibly be negotiating with a mouse right now. Am I mad?" She asked herself, still dripping with fear.
Smallie looked around and said, "Honestly? Anyone who pays 1.2 million a year for this flat should be asking themselves that actual question. It chuckled.
Grace immediately sat down on a carton of pot. "This is a spiritual attack," She muttered, still terrified.
"Madam, relax. I am not here to fight or argue. I just want peace and understanding regarding certain rules. Firstly, I want full access to your garri cabinet; secondly, silence during Tinsel at 8 p.m.; and lastly, always keep my share of every meal that you cook, if there is no food to eat, kindly keep the fridge open for easy access," Smallie ordered bluntly.
"Wait... you watch Tinsel?" Grace asked in astonishment.
"With passion, I don't like kwame; however, that's a story for yet another day," Smallie smirked.
So began their strange agreement.
Grace would leave crumbs deliberately once a week, while smallie promised not to crawl across her face at night or invite its rat cousins from Mushin and Ajagunle.
https://www.pexels.com/photo/a-white-mice-in-close-up-shot-15106525
It should have ended there.
However, of course, it didn't.
One week later, Grace returned home to find her garri scattered on the floor—and not just scattered, but rearranged into a portrait of the musician Davido.
She stared in fury.
Smallie popped out of the toaster. "What do you think? Too bold?" He asked, grinning.
"What is actually wrong with you?!" Grace exclaimed in anger, rushed into the kitchen, and grabbed a broom to actually hit Smallie.
Immediately, Smallie sighted Grace, fully armed for attack; it dodged every hit like a ninja, flipped into a somersault, and landed in the dish rack.
"You have broken the treaty!" She yelled while still chasing it up and down the house.
"And you left the garri unsecured!" Smallie shouted back, still dodging her every hit. "Do I look like a spirit? Am I not flesh and blood? I get hungry too!" It exclaimed.
"Are you normal?" Grace asked with an increased rage
"I am a Lagos mouse. Of course not," Smallie bellowed.
Grace got exhausted, dropped her broom and went into her room.
Smallie was like, "Hmmm! What a relief."
Then came the final straw.
Grace hosted a date.
She cleaned, lit candles, and even hid the Indomie so her guess wouldn't know how often she cooked it.
They were sipping wine in plastic cups; things were going fine, the vibes and energy were connecting smoothly... until a tiny projector switched on in the background and started playing a slideshow of Grace's most embarrassing WhatsApp voice notes.
"Who is doing that?!" the guess asked in shock.
The date turned, confused.
From under the couch, a voice boomed: "This one is not good for you! He said 'literally' three times in one sentence. No content!" Smallie warned.
Later, Smallie emerged in sunglasses and a microphone made from cotton bud sticks and announced, "This date is officially over. You deserved someone better. Someone with sense. Someone who doesn't pronounce 'croissant' as 'Kwasont'." It spoke confidently while Grace just stared at it with great fury, wishing she could strangle it that very minute.
The date got embarrassed and left in silence.
Grace stood frozen, shaking with fury.
"You sabotage me!" she said in anger.
"You're welcome." Smallie simply said.
"You're a tiny demon." Grace said, frowning.
"Again, Lagos mouse. Same thing." Smallie corrected playfully.
The next morning, she found an apology note written in pencil on her electricity bill:
"I am absolutely sorry about your date. I actually meant well. I was just protecting you from heartbreak and bad grammar. P.S. You are out of sugar.—Smallie."
She sighed.
And laughed.
Because somehow—just somehow—this ridiculous tiny mouse had grown on her.
From then on, Grace stopped pretending she lived alone.
They became besties.
https://www.pexels.com/photo/photo-of-a-woman-smiling-while-playing-with-a-white-mouse-8434697
She bought extra garri, "for General," she would tag it.
Every night at 8:00 p.m., she sat down with a glass of juice to watch Tinsel with Smallie the mouse, who was also sipping some juice from a bottle cap, gisting and laughing.
For the first time in a long time, Grace actually enjoyed living alone... with company.
THANKS ALOT FOR READING
