Regarding Ebisaanyi.

I first encountered ebisaanyi (the plural form of ekisaanyi) a few years ago in Zambia. There, these devious creatures operated under the pseudonym suntaboya. For those few of my readers who have yet to acquaint themselves with either of the above Bantu dialects, you will know these creatures as "caterpillars." Or, in the slang of my childhood, "wooly worms."
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Now, if memory serves me correctly, the ebisaanyi of my American childhood were harmless fun-loving creatures renowned for their skill in predicting weather patterns. A thick dark band anticipated a heavy winter. Or was it the other way around? Regardless, I never learnt any special fear or awe for these small meteorologists.
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Three years ago, during a May-term biology course in Zambia, I had the great (mis)fortune to gain a bit more respect for the ebisaanyi, or suntaboya, as they are called in CiTonga. I don't know if they shared the same meteorological interests as their American cousins--there certainly was very little snow for them to predict. They had, however, obviously put much evolutionary effort into developing a skill noticeably lacking in their American colleagues: the ability to make people itch.
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.itch. [i/ch]. noun. an uncomfortable sensation on the skin that causes a desire to scratch.
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At Macha, the research campus where we stayed in Zambia, we were warned about suntaboya. Warned that their hairs could elicit quite an itching sensation--but only if one touched them! So, most of us practised suntaboya safety techniques: checking for creatures before sitting, removing them with sticks, and generally avoiding them. One more inquisitive friend--the kind who can only learn by experience or experiment--wanted to check the actual intensity of the itching sensation. So, one day, he found a suntaboya simply minding its own business. He disturbed its royal highness (I firmly believe that any creature which inspires in one such awe and fear as these do me should surely be addressed with respect).
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My friend very carefully and scientifically rubbed a one square inch patch of his hand (though not the palm) against the suntaboya. By the next day (or hour?), he confirmed the anecdotal evidence with his own objective findings: suntaboya are quite skilled at causing humans to itch.
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I wish the story ended there.
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It was shortly after my friend's experiment that we were sent in pairs for weekend homestays with families of hospital and research center staff. A friend (though not the one who served as his own test subject) and I were dropped off together on Friday afternoon. Our host father--the only family member who really spoke English--spent the evening showing us around. After walking in the bush a bit, I managed to get some burrs or small thorns stuck in my skirt. I tried to remove them in the latrine, but it was too dark inside to see much. I decided that I would have to wait for night and the privacy of our sleeping quarters, where I could remove any remaining burrs from my skirt.
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So the evening passed and night fell. My friend and I were eventually shown to the room where we would sleep on a single mattress. Our hosts were careful to check for suntaboya and remove them with sticks before leaving us to sleep. As soon as they had departed, I remove my skirt to finish picking out the burrs that had been annoying me all evening. Suddenly, in horrified shock, I found myself staring at a suntaboya, albeit one missing half its hair! It had been crawling around in my skirt and on my thighs for hours, leaving its hairs everywhere it trod. That night became something of a bonding experience for my friend and I as she, bless her, picked caterpillar hairs out of my legs with the tweezers and duct tape she just happened to have along.
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For the next few days, my legs and hands (remember the latrine attempts to remove a "burr"?) were red, swollen, and super itchy. This is an entirely subjective observation, not nearly as controlled as my friend's, but I've known no worse poison for inducing itching.
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If you're not already, please laugh.
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Though I found no humour in the events, as they occurred, it truly is a funny story. Also funny is my continued subconcious fear and involuntary shudder whenever I see an American wooly worm.
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And then, ten months ago, I came to Uganda. From the beginning, I had my eyes peeled for those ghastly creatures. Months passed and I never saw--or felt--any sign of them. Good, right?
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At this point, the soundtrack in my head plays that eerie music that signals something bad about to happen. (Like a repeat occurrence of the above story? No, silly, not that bad!)
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A couple months ago, I started to see caterpillars around. Still hoping for the best, I queried Maama, what is that? Ekisaanyi--a caterpillar. Is it bad to touch? Yes. Does it make you itch (as I demonstrate scratching)? Yes. Uh oh.
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But I was more knowledgeable of their ways and wiles--surely I wouldn't be conquered by ebisaanyi again. I was also happy to note that they seem to be far less populous in this region than further south. Loud sigh of relief.
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And then, one day a few weeks ago, I woke up with extremely itchy fingers and toes. After cursing mosquitoes, I went about my day. Two days later, when I was still tempted to remove the offending limbs with my own (short) nails, I started to get suspicious. I showed Maama my red, swollen, and itchy hands. Ekisaanyi, she informed me.
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Ekisaanyi. It made sense--the itching, swelling, and redness. When I looked closely, I could note tiny hairs on the side of my finger. But, how?!?, I wondered incredulously. (Upon concluding that it probably occurred at night while I was asleep, I chose not to consider any further implications.)
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Maama suggested soaking the tormented parts of my body in paraffin to relieve the itch. (Trust me--experience had already proven the inefficacy of any oral or topical antihistamine.) We didn't have any paraffin, so I waited it out another couple days.
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Now, again, the perspective of a past event allows me to laugh at my marvelous (mis)fortune. To be blessed by a visit from such a skilled creature as the ebisaanyi--and not once but twice! Who among you can claim to know nature's defenses quite so intimately?