A Rivalry from the Womb: Stumbling on a Monarchy for grabs

Suddenly, two of his former best friends joined him on a very secluded stretch of the very unfamiliar smooth and straight road, leading into a far distance the eyes could not see, which looked eerily dark in spite of the bright shining and hot summer sun. Despite their walk appearing to take a sustained quick pace, something he could not put his finger on, seemed to indicate they were wandering aimlessly.

The clear smiles on their faces, failing to completely conceal the strange, uncomfortable shadows lurking behind their eyes but not the wonderful memories the sudden encounter would evoke in him, did not help his troubled mind. Everybody seemed deep in thought, silently reminiscing about the good old times when their circle of friends had what everyone believed to have been the best time for any youthful adults.

Between the seven or so of them, they all had everything going for young men; fresh from college, either a few years old in middle class dream jobs or running promising white collar businesses, which naturally came with the usual most sought after trappings- reasonably good cars and dwellings, thus personifying debonair which naturally made them any girl's dream date prospects which, needless to say, they duly put to good use except they overdid it because many times during weekends, if they were not already out downing shots of reasonably priced whiskies and other similar classy drinks like there was no tomorrow, then they were literally on a hunting excursion for youthful dates for the night or week-end's outing. When one thought about living in the fast lane, they should be wrong if they did not have this lot in mind.

The one-man-one-woman nonsense did not apply to them. They were the typical Casanovas out to rewrite the philandering script and hard-partying. Fridays were what Sundays are to devout Christians- yes, Friday nights specifically, for during the day, they each played the perfect employee-of-the-year at their respective work or business premises like seasoned actors in their final stage performance for a most coveted diamond prize, yet, come nightfall, one would be at pains to point at the people they thought they knew too well as meek and sworn to the straight-edge, after the chameleon transformation they would have undergone, from appearance to their overly flirtatious interactions, betraying their now, over-heated testosterone, gone berserk. Their daytime doubles were simply that- pretenses. From their fashionable night dressing, to the explicit flirting with anything in a skirt, or without, as was mostly the case with the nocturnal traders of matters flesh, which meant game to be charmed and when need were, eaten raw, one would be forgiven for failing to recognize them as one would with day and night!

So, come every Friday night, the question, whether they would go out or not, was not even applicable, but with whom, and which places would play host to their cherished merry-making and a myriad other not-so-holy shenanigans. Almost all the workers at the most popular joints in the small bustling city knew their crew not only by their smiling and sparkling faces, courtesy of the drinks' intoxicating power, but the sarcastic aliases they called each other with when tipsy, their bad and redeeming features such as the generous tips and, needless to say, everyone's favorite drinks, as well. But definitely not their "other" companions. In fact, hell would have a much bigger snowballing chance than trying to attach one or two particular fairer-sex identities to these party animals, since these, they changed like one does with their underwear. In short any attempt to associate each one's face with one particular outing-mate, or even a few specific ones for that matter, was to say the least, an exercise in futility.

Almost every occasion presented an opportunity for its special type of company to report for "official" duties. Vesting the same or even just half the amount of vigor and organizing abilities that was wasted in the pleasurable activities, in more productive areas, would have easily made one, an Elon Musk forerunner. Business or work related parties and other similarly respectable social functions would see some, pitch with big "mommas" befitting the seriousness of the occasions as if they were all that responsible; the type that covets formal dressing like suits, long skirts, and drink responsibly, but still managing to look respectably gorgeous. The downside with this lot was the unsolicited counseling services on all manner of issues as if they were already decades old in marriage, or on duty, offering some paid for counseling services. These, they called the marriage type; too uptight and Bible-quoting holy for their liking- typical boring mommas! On the other hand, typical weekend hang-outs and parties were for the serious business that hardcore revelers would suspend certain frivolous health ailments until Monday for- heavy carousing and bedding as many cute lasses- the skimpy, almost naked and ready-for-anything type- as possible as if in some global competition whose prize included the monarchy of the whole world.

To justify their life style, the crew had a creed for almost every vice or indulgence, ordinarily frowned upon by the self-righteous and latter-day Pharisees. "Life is what you make," being the obvious one, and "a boring life is a waste of talent," the most popular that they fondly threw around which also perfectly reflected their recklessness. It was a rollercoaster full of thrilling incidents, some bordering on crazy. They truly lived dangerously, no wonder it did not take long for members of the crew to live by the norm then; the faster you drive, the faster you die. Soon, one by one reaped what they sowed as they departed for the other life, due to various incurable ailments they would have acquired during their numerous short-time, night sexual stints, at least for those who believed in its existence anyway because some within the crew, more especially when high on their litany of indulgences, scoffed at any allusion to the same. But Tito and a few others defied this maxim and lived long till now.

Saturday and Sunday mornings as a result, turned into regret occasions for what went down during the previous night's adventures for the closely-nit circle, hence, providing copious laughter for everyone. There were particular such occasions that remained vivid in Tito's mind which naturally also produced many interesting talking points at such "review" morning gatherings. The gist of them all remained the same- carousing and quenching of their excessive lecherous desires, and of course, any of the numerous scandals accompanying.

"And you nuthead, forget about that damsel you've been chasing with everything you've got after your last night's stupid stunt," Ze Louis was saying to a still not-so-sober Emu Nada who instantly expressed ignorance about what Ze, whom he teasingly called Reuters because of his elf-shaped ears which ensured no whisper of gossip escaped him, was talking about. Hangover was apparently killing him, which was not surprising owing to the copious amounts of the hard stuff he had again stubbornly imbibed the night before, in spite of everybody who knew what he became once he downed a few bottles, advising on toning down. Now he was trying everything to kill it, beer, water and lots of sizzling pieces of braai, all of which he kept complaining of tasting like boiled stale cabbage, while swearing over his dead body would he repeat the mistake, which, nobody, having heard it a million times, took seriously anyway.

"You blew it real good this time, bra. Big up, nice job."

"What for heaven's sake are you yappin' about Ze?" he had genuinely inquired before firing back in his usual irrational outbursts when cornered. "All I remember is you fawning all over that cheap tart I already chopped the other weekend," making everyone turn their jibes on Ze Louis but only very briefly because, Azidon, calmly ignoring him, joined by offering an apt explanation hence ensuring the spotlight was still shining brightly on him.

"'Ave you forgotten about your little spat with that fellow skunk of yours over your fav'rit' 'hore?" Still Emu looked none-the-wiser. However, the more he expressed ignorance, the more everybody seemed to enjoy it hence prolonging the chit-chat and it took a lot of narration when suddenly, a flurry of memories, seemed to hit him.

"Oh damn, you mean zat! Now I remember."

"Yes zat, idiot," Zoe quickly chipped in with a cheeky grin.

Apparently, they had been blissfully unaware of Elly's presence at the same party until Emu tried to chat up another famous loose girl whom everybody seemed to have long decided was public goods, leading to collision with yet another guy who had also been eyeing the same cute but easy-going, frequent party-goer, which expectedly slipped into an open physical confrontation, and as others joined in to separate them, the jostling alerted Elly to come out to watch and hear the cause of the scuffle just like everyone else at the party not knowing who the libidinous belligerents were, that Emu's friends seeing her, tried to restrain him to protect his reputation, and hence, his chances for Elly's heart, which however unwittingly further fueled an already raging blaze.

"Idiot," everybody exclaimed at once, laughing and cheering loudly like they had started drinking hours ago when they had barely touched their drinks.

"So, you mean she heard everything, as in..."? He started wistfully but only finished the sentence with a head-shake when the realization of the damage done seemed to hit home.

Everybody shook with laughter. "What d'you mean, heard? Saw!" Zoe corrected him. "With those two cute eyes you always on about how sexy they look and her whole horde of braggin' wailers too!" He mocked him while everyone joined in the long cheerful laughter as Emu who always did not forget to remind everybody about his strong desire to marry the girl should she cave in to his amorous advances, shook his head in undoubted despair.

"As a matter of fact, we tried to subtly tip you off but being the big fool you become when sozzled, you dared everybody including her to go to hell!" Zoe turned the screw, which seemed to work perfectly.

"Holy shiiit! Now you should help me to explain to her, dudes. You know I can't afford to lose zat one."

"Please man, what do you mean lose? You didn't even get the poor girl in the first place, Mr. Bull Fighter who can't throw a proper punch," Hankeys said smugly with his trademark big grin playing on his lips, rekindling another round of laughter with imitations of Emu's confrontational stunts during the said face-off the night before as Emu sheepishly smiled before taking solace in his half-full bottle.

Trying to deflate the talk, he turned to Mthini, his usual scandal-mate in drunkenness whose forte, apart from going after every prostitute in his stupor, was not to hesitate joining any mass brawl that broke out once in a while for any of the most ridiculous reasons as long as he knew one of the belligerents, which for him however seemed to mean donating his already funny round face as a landing pad of mostly misplaced salvo of blows from his equally sozzled, and hence, off-balance opponents, which would nevertheless result in him spending a big chunk of time, cold-compressing his painful, swelling face, covering both eyes come the following morning. Incredibly this one seemed to have slipped him by.

"By the way, how is our promise-to-marry doin' bud?" Emu pulled a joker which this time, appeared to work like a bomb because immediately, the joke was on him with a unanimous demand from everybody for him to share more sordid details, but Mthini knowing the script too well, could only join in the hearty laugh at himself while dramatically clapping his hands, and finally holding his shaking big flat head. The lady Emu had referred to as "promise to marry" was a one night stand for Mthini, who in his drunken stupor, had gone overboard with his sweet talk, trying to impress her, including telling her that he truly loved her and would marry her despite having only met an hour earlier at best, thus tickling everyone once they heard the whole story.

In the morning when Emu and Zoe had paid him an early visit, Emu went on, and oh la la- the lady seemed to have literally taken Mthini at his word, looking at home, having seemingly taken over and freely running the house looking in every way the madam of the house for the past ten years thereby making his friends to just refer to her as such where upon her tongue loosened and explained how Mthini had in fact mentioned about marrying her in future thus sending everybody into a tearful mirth. Mthini had known there and then, that the story would make one of the hot banter topics at their usual reliving-the-night "after" party and long after. The over drunkenness however proved to be his saving grace too as according to the loquacious lady of the night, when teased as to how their brother had performed in bed considering his drunken status, she set Mthini free from any worries of having sex without any protection since he couldn't remember clearly what went down under the sheets, as, considering how 'tired' he was, he just switched from talking trash, straight to the loudest snore "I have ever heard in my trade" thus adding more fire to the jokes to be on Mthini later.

But Mthini was not completely down and out. "Yet you were busy coaxing the same girl you fat pig,' he retorted once he found an opening when Emu was slightly distracted from the story.

Then, there was Gibo, with his unending canny jokes anytime, day or night, only when sober though, and who turned into a wise man on almost every subject once he had drowned enough beers but beyond which, he would easily outclass Mthini in the contention for the title of the group's clown due to his crude dancing antics. In his alcohol-acquired wisdom, Gibo would dish out what a few beneficiaries of his beer-lived expertise would testify to its effectiveness. The irony being that, come morning, and now completely alcohol-deprived, his head became the very personification of empty headedness as regards any beneficial wisdom he dished out, and more often looked clueless when some apparent beneficiaries of the same, expressed gratitude to him for the windfall they made courtesy of that very same expertise dished out at a previous drinking session, yet, he would have no idea what the hell they were talking about, which meant he could not use any of that alcohol induced wisdom to do anything worthwhile for himself, and his family's benefit with regards to extra sources of income besides his gainful employment, hence being the butt of the joke, "Mr. Do as I say when am drunk" among his peers. As a result, he too, made sure to feature highly on the menu of "last night's escapades."

"Yes I hooked that one and took her to a room. That far I remember," he would testify. "But as to whether we did the deed, is the bothering part, gents."

"Why???" everybody asked in unison at one such "confessions-of-the-night-before" gathering, eagerly, knowing very well whatever that would come out next from his mouth was guaranteed to be more stupid than his other gibberish before, put together.

"Because, I still had the wrapper unopened in the morning despite both of us being literally naked and in a tight embrace!" he said with a distorted face as if in pain thus sending everyone rolling with more laughter, not because they knew what that meant, but because in his statement, he had imitated the country's former leader who loved to repeat the phrase "literary naked" with exaggerated funny hand gestures when describing how he found the people in the country when he delivered independence from its colonialists. So everybody went on and on, repeating the phrase, 'literally naked' while failing to control themselves from swearing at Gibo's stupidity.

Of those usually never to absent themselves from such gatherings and during the wild all-night escapades, three guys were no more, having passed on in quick succession a few years later. The rest, including Zadillo, Kampan, Mthini and Tito himself, were scattered all over the country, and abroad. This encounter now, was torturing him. Despite their usual cheerfulness in real life, the visiting pair seemed eerily quiet now, obviously bothered by something. He could see they were trying to communicate something to him with their worried looks on their faces as they approached the now, visible and sandy beach. Suddenly he couldn't see clearly anymore and was even struggling to walk to keep up with them when they took a boat, and in trying to clutch on to it as it slowly drifted into deeper waters, he found himself struggling to breathe. He had always feared water and couldn't swim. But now, he had no choice if drowning was not his favorite alternative. He twisted and turned until suddenly he woke up to a start and sat up, slightly startled by the nightmarish experience, threw away the blankets which were making him feel hot and swimming in his own sweat. The electric fan had stopped on its own so the sweating made sense. He always slept with a fan switched to the highest level in summer because he always felt hot, but somehow, it had stopped. Whenever this happened, he sweated profusely like now. A quick glance at the extension through which the fan was connected to the mains showed no led lights on, indicating there was no power. Another scheduled blackout or fault which meant hours of no electricity to endure- the curse of living in a corrupt, poor African country, he thought painfully.

Pressing the light button on his mobile phone, he saw the time registered 1:57 am. He did not understand how he fell asleep so fast to enable him to have such an intensely depressing dream. Having gone to bed around 10 pm, he was sure to have taken another whole thirty minutes or so to finally find real sleep which meant it should have been around 11 pm and therefore the dream, regardless of what time it started, lasted for less than three hours yet it had felt like a whole day. At any other time, a dream was exactly that- merely a dream. But this one had seemed too real, almost feeling the touch of his friends, who were both late now when they "shook" hands, and the parting words sounded too surreal to be ignored.

"It's sad that it will have to end like this after all the good times we shared as a family!" The words still reverberated in his head like they were being spoken just now.

Did the dead really speak or communicate with the living in any way? Tito wondered, remembering how his late mother fussed about the foreboding power of her dreams especially when she had nightmares, and later on connecting them to what had actually happened at her home village, when news reached them- there were no mobile phones then, even telephone lines were few and far apart- through mail of some sad incident concerning probably a close relative or some personality well known to her! "I told you that I was having trouble sleeping. This is what it was about, I'm sure," she would say, leaving him and his siblings just wondering about what hard stuff mum was on because they were too young to even comprehend such deep concepts then.

Slightly raising the pillow against the headboard, then resting his head and part of the broad shoulders on it, while fanning the sweat away with the bed sheet as he reflected on the nightmare he had just had, Tito could not fully find the perfect answers. It was not the first time that he had had nightmares. Neither was this the most disturbing of them all, but there was something he could not put his finger on which just lay beneath his understanding of the whole episode. Perhaps it was because during their time on earth, these two, Godfrey and Duli, arguably the most personable members of the crew, had on many occasions played peace makers when some members of the group had differences which threatened its unity.

Not once, not twice, but time without number had they also done the same with himself, being full of imposing attributes, hence prone to collide with fellow members who shared the same traits, having been involved in such fights over mostly flimsy issues. Two of those involved his now avowed arch-enemy, whom Tito made sure not to cross paths with again anytime soon, having heard of what he had become since then, and was pleased that had come to pass, at least this far. Hence his apprehension and his second-guessing of his own avowed disbelief in the nonscientific world due to this unusual nocturnal visit if he could call it thus.

Why now after all this time then?

2.30PM; Zadillo checks the message that has beeped on the phone. At last, it is about time something came up from Kospa, one of his trusted goons on whom he has a lot of compromising dirt, hence, could never dare rat on him, no matter the case, or so he thinks. Besides, he has been nothing but good to him since he plucked him from the dungeon of poverty and destitution, taking him in as one of his own. He is his meal ticket and everything, and Zadillo makes sure Kospa never forgets this fact, not even for a split second. So far, he has been anything but a traitor.

His zeal to please him is unparalleled, his loyalty a classic case study of servitude, just falling short of literally worshipping him while on his all fours. He carries out some of the most dangerous errands diligently without any whining like his very life depends on them, sometimes surprising even himself which in another life would have scared Zadillo. But definitely not in his present thug life. He has seen it all. Been to hell, faced the devil and all that prevailing jazz. In short, Kospa knows his place and what is expected of him. Failing which, or if, God forbids, any stupid thoughts ever cross his mind...!

"TD ripe, let's Jenny spin." The short-coded message says, and Zadillo understands it perfectly. He came up with the code himself as he does for almost all operations since he turned into a vicious underworld kingpin just under ten years ago. It had been long in coming. Having ventured into various legitimate ventures, but which with the cutthroat competition, the rampant corruption and numerous other underhand tactics involved, conniving to frustrate him at every turn, as if in response to the cliché, if you can't beat them join them, he started drifting slowly, thinking he would get out of the rogue life after only a few big operations, but as his influence grew, so did the feeling of sweetness from the power to lord over so many. Like one hooked on hardcore drugs, he found the pleasure he derived from exercising the ill-gotten power so good and irresistible, wanting just this one more time that before he knew it, he was up to his neck in it as one of the most feared brutish leaders in the underworld.

Deep down in his heart, Zadillo conceded he was innately predisposed to evil because he never remembered a period when he fully enjoyed being completely good to anyone or anything apart from his close family, hence, crime naturally made him feel whole. In his warped mind, he was only reciprocating what he received. He barely remembered being at the receiving end of much love from the world either. The world to him was existentially bad, and he had to merely play his rightful part. Seeing people in general suffer, gave him a strange sense of satisfaction. Making his enemies quiver and squirm in his presence was not enough. Since then, making anyone who had the misfortune of picking a fight with him, pay, or even for merely thinking they wished him bad, almost quenched his queer sexual lust. One does not need to be a genius to see him for what he is- a sadist par excellence!

Having reached the pinnacle of the city's crime world, he has now decided to make all his previous enemies and opponents taste his cup of the bitter revenge. And he does not have to toil to find the perfect candidates. In his trade, he is spoilt for choice; those who grabbed business opportunities he thought deservedly belonged to him during his rough patch in the cutthroat legit business world, would have it easy- a few armed robbers to their places to ransack them of every penny and valuables they could lay their hands on, and later visited with even more demands for compensation in form of insurance so that nothing of the same should befall them again, of course he knows exactly the source of those very misfortunes. Even the police whose most top structure has been on his payroll, would not bother wasting its time and energy to look into certain specific cases that had Zadillo's signature written on them. They know his trademark when they see one and what that means exactly. They simply do what is expected of their lot- collect their cut of the loot and move on to more worthy cases, or else, they too would find themselves in equally, if not worse situations- on his dreaded hit-list.

One other thing; he loathes rejection. Women who had the misfortune of provoking his amorous desires in them without reciprocity on their part or worse still, looking at him with contempt in his dire straits, pay double-fold. If one showed disdain when he tried to civilly court them for a good time, they have to be discreetly tailed and visited at night. As the boys scared the hell out of the other household's occupants in the usually dare-devilish housebreaks, he would do to them to his full desire without mercy. In short, he has turned into a god of the city unto himself.

Having made enough enemies to last one a few life times, Zadillo saw danger in every dark corner, hence, like many back in his rural home, decided to traditionally fortify his ill-gotten power and get assurance of his invincibility thereby finding himself a regular at voodoo priests' premises because every time something strange happened he still felt vulnerable and went to another dark realm boffin. It was a must. Everyone who mattered in the trade applied something on their body including making painful incisions on which black soot was rubbed in until it was thoroughly mixed with their blood thus being assured of permanent "residence" in their system.

Of all his enemies, there was one he had come to particularly hate with a passion and a half. It was a long hatred he could not fully explain but a longtime of jealousy and envy since primary school was part of the equation. Despite a reasonable stint of superficial friendship after school, it would resurface, making him do some stupid things aimed at inflicting some kind of pain on his nemesis. Initially, it was little things that bothered him about this particularly, too-proud "loser" who always seemed to be popular among friends, and usually stole the limelight even with the coveted female folk and prospective dates without much effort. He simply did not understand why everybody seemed to be fussing over him so much. Yet, even he, in some kind of twisted logic, admired the guy's guts too. He had on more than a few occasions discretely tried to embarrass or harm him in some way or another without any real cause with little success. In fact, only on one occasion did he come out close to success if one were to be too magnanimous, with the rest slightly, if he was lucky, or pathetically, backfiring, resulting in his self-inflicted embarrassment which only further fueled his dislike for him.

Zadillo's capacity to keep a grudge was unparalleled. Even where the other party was blissfully unaware of any such conflict even existing, that is, anything worth hating each other for to have ever happened between them, it mattered less. He made sure to not forget- not only on his part- but on their behalf too, until he felt an appropriate price had been fully paid for a score to be regarded as properly settled. Ages ago, they had quarreled over a small matter in the last primary school grade, coming close to blows, but the other boys intervened, or sheer sanity prevailed at last. Typical of all such kindergarten and primary school fights, everyone forgot about it in no time. Well, except Zadillo- it festered in his heart.

Then later on a hunting spree for prospective dates during one weekend of the crazy days, with the other members of their circle, after spotting what they considered would be the greatest conquest of all, Zadillo's target did not feel the same about him. She had instead taken a liking to the seemingly "smart" Tito, which, needless to say, did not please Zadillo one bit. He had tried to throw everything at her for some days to coax her, including in the process even dissing him but to no avail. The beauty goddess could not bulge. Everyone had thought nothing much about it when they heard and genuinely laughed over it as usual but not Zadillo. He was seething beneath the veneer of the smiles at all the guy jokes. Despite being the one at fault, he kept it in his jealous mind. It was a lingering grudge that grew into an unexplainable passionate hatred that would consume his psyche for some time. Pretense was a game he could play too, especially to the gullible and naïve mind- he put up appearances while biding his opportune time. However, that was needless- something came up that fanned the embers of a raging fury within him!

...........................

Driving back home from work, with the streets teeming with traffic and pedestrians, as he absent-mindedly whistled out of tune while guiding the pick-up truck to avoid the ever law-breaking motor and bicycle bikers thronging every part of the road, sometimes zigzagging around the slow moving traffic dangerously close, in the day's last minute mad rush for passengers, Tito felt a strange consuming presence which made him very uncomfortable. It was a feeling he could not put his finger on. His hands soon became sweaty and visibly shaky. It was as if he was in imminent danger but not aware where it would come from. Not minding the inconvenience to the other road users, he almost, unwittingly, pulled over to the side of the road the moment he saw some space admittedly disturbing a few pedestrians and cyclists who naturally became interested thinking the abrupt pull-over meant something should have been seriously wrong. Soon their suspicions and Tito's were to be confirmed for within a second of the car coming to a complete halt, the door violently swung open and Tito leapt out in clear fright of an imminent major danger indeed.

Thanks to local tradition, the car was now public property for a few minutes with everyone in the vicinity carefully scouring it- the beauty of the local Ubunthu culture on full display. His words now becoming steadier, he kept repeating his assertions; a big snake! And upon hearing the word snake, everybody had at first scampered off to a safer distance for dear life, but soon, having recovered from the initial shock, and taking comfort in the larger numbers that soon thronged around, became more confident and brave, started cautiously searching the vehicle which for close to two hours, could not yield anything until skepticism slowly crept in. Then confusion began to take over with all manner of theories being thrown around by everyone present.

Are you sure you were not day-dreaming sir? Did you drink? Maybe it was just an imagination!

Tito could not believe what was happening. In his entire life, he could not have been clearer about anything than about the scary creature he had seen and how scared he had felt coming face to face with death. Only knowing what he had seen seemed to be immaterial if nobody believed him. He needed to convince someone, something which appeared to be a very tall order in the circumstances. If anything, he had now become the whimpering clown the would-be saviors thought had wasted their time! Overwhelmed by the crowd's unceasing questions, most of which were mere repetitions of what others had already asked before, others having arrived on the scene much later, he could hardly speak audibly anymore, let alone give coherent answers to some "technical" specifics the jostling and over-enthusiastic helpers demanded. He could not properly describe the color or any prominent features of the so-called scary snake apart from "big and scary."

"How big was it?" asked someone Tito could no longer waste more time to look at who the question came from in the crowd. He just shook his head before repeatedly saying; "quite big."

"At least tell us its color, don't you remember Sir?" yet another space-science question, thought Tito. Another head-shake from him, another chorus of frustrations by his would-be saviors.

As for snake names, it had never been his forte since childhood despite growing on an estate in the rural areas for some time where these were more like neighbors. He simply couldn't start to guess its name if he could not describe its physical features now, could he? He fumed on the inside while looking stupid on the out! In fact, in the heat of the confusion, all the few, mostly, very common snake names he knew, incredibly deserted his mind. Perhaps, a blessing in disguise when he thought about it in hindsight. Imagine blurting out "Anaconda" amidst the already, now incredulous and impatient crowd!

Not wanting to take any chances despite a hint of self-doubt creeping in, thinking maybe, just a little maybe, he had indeed been hallucinating, he called for emergency services and another vehicle from the office. He knew what he had seen- a strong nagging voice lingered persistently within him. During the rest of the day, and into the night, the scary image could not leave him alone for a minute. Several days later, he received word from the emergency services that there was no evidence any such creature had ever been anywhere near the interior of the car, not anytime in the recent past at least. That notwithstanding, to quell his fears, they had taken the precaution of fumigating the vehicle, guaranteeing that no living creature could have survived such a thorough treatment. Slowly, albeit reluctantly, he began to entertain the possibility that perhaps, just maybe, he might actually have been seeing things after all, despite the persistent voice deep within him vehemently telling him otherwise.

From then onwards, as a matter of precaution, whenever he wanted to drive his cherished pick-up truck, unwilling to ignore faint traces of apprehension that lingered on, he consequently decided to give it some distance for a while, or always ensured another person joined him whenever he took it to the roads. Just in case.

.......................

Peeping into his magic gourd, Zadillo smiled widely with a big sneer on his mouth. The signal indicated that the evil, scare-dishing stealth boy he had sent on the errand, had come back safely, and jubilant- mission accomplished successfully!

While normal people dislike pests in their houses, with rats topping the list of them all, Tito reserved a special kind of hate for them which required a different vocabulary that would provide appropriate description of how deeply his lack of affection for the daring rodents, ran. Even without seeing a single member of their kind as evidence of their liberties running high, did not help any matters for the rat race. He always had traps set up to make sure they should not even think about it.

Actually seeing one, let alone a few of them running around as if they contributed to the house's upkeep, more especially seeing some real evidence of their notorious existence in form of damaged packets of food stuffs and his treasured possessions such as pieces of clothes among others, guaranteed an immediate declaration of war, with every killing eliciting a celebratory dance of sorts complete with taunting words, challenging those remaining to better do the needful and vacate the house before what had befallen their friend fell on them too, sooner rather than later!

Despite not being overly scared of their sight, an encounter with any number of them was not something he looked forward to- he could not help but jump up and down a few times any such unwanted housemates ran around in their numbers in confusion, at times threatening to come up at him perhaps thinking he was some kind of tree or such other moving object in which they could hide, hence, doing everything possible to decimate their population once he moved into a new house. Of course, running a little scared once in a while once they came too close for comfort could not be completely ruled out. He had been bitten by many things and he could only imagine what the creeps' sharp incisors could do, not to mention the pain they could inflict. So when he moved into the new house too, he made sure to eliminate a good number of them one by one.

Years back, he had discovered what he thought to be a foolproof method of going about his genocide of the annoying uninvited creatures in his home. He had previously relied on rat poison. Putting up with the stinking dead and not knowing the exact spot of the little carcass thus embarking on a full hunting exercise, turning the whole kitchen upside down- they usually liked his fully stocked cabinets and store rooms these idiots- and still not having a clue where the hell the suffocating stink emanated from, however, proved too much for him, thus deciding to change tactics.

Luckily, a friend at a watering hole suggested he set up traps. "Those are damn too effective bud," he had emphasized. "Just buy two or three, that's nuff!" he had gone on to assure, his beaming face telling the story about the few bottles they had downed that far, and true to his word, Tito, having gone on to do exactly the same, never regretted one bit, well until he met his match. There was this one particularly stubborn "biggie" remaining, whom at first, having almost given up after being frustrated a few times with every trap he set up for him, started calling him Mchimwene, as he had now given up with the fight, instead, he just accepted him as his brother, being housemates.

Every evening before going to bed, he had tried to catch him unawares by putting some food on the traps, the usual rats' favorite which in the past could bear results as soon as he put off the kitchen lights and quietly sat in the sitting room so he could hear the sound of snapping traps when upon rushing to check, could find one or two of them wringing in untold pain, their desperate eyes pooping out as they clearly breathed their last. But now, despite the traps snapping off all the same, he could only find the food gone but no rat, let alone a dead one, in sight. On few occasions, he managed to see the thieving culprit showing him his clean fours into the unreachable spots, leaving him, at first infuriated, then later frustrated and much later dumbfounded, until eventually having run out of any "killer" ideas, he even found himself loudly smiling in admiration of Mchimwene's ingenuity. He had felt like he was being duped to continue feeding him through the now highly ineffective traps as he had observed how this "brother" had actually grown so fat and bigger which even made him fail to run properly but instead seemed like a fat pig taking a stroll.

Not to be outdone by a mere rat, again, he changed tactic. Having realized, Mchimwene must have cracked a way of setting off the traps first before going for the food at his leisure. He decided to combine a few tactics in the trapping process. The very simple ones included putting some crumbs on the cooker as he had seen the other day how spilt porridge which he had left to dry overnight so he would easily scrape off the hardened crumbs later, but come the following morning, they were gone! He set up traps around, the now deliberately crushed crumbs of Mchimwene's favorite but to no avail. More other methods yielded similar embarrassing results for him. Then he decided to fill up a pot with water and put a thin black plastic sheet on top before sprinkling some food crumbs there, thinking as soon as he stepped on the surface for his "daily" bread, there and then, would he at last sink in the water but, once more, Mchimwene came out tops. The food was gone all the same, with the plastic sheet floating exactly as it had been left like someone had simply picked up the crumbs while standing outside. Tito loudly expressed his admiration for him in near defeat and surrender.

"You're my main man, brother. In fact you're a true legend!" he had said in surrender and that was how he now started calling him, Mchimwene. He told him, the war was over and he was the winner. Incredibly, as if he had heard him and was testing his integrity in keeping his word, Mchimwene started to roam almost freely in the kitchen. When Tito entered the kitchen quietly, he could occasionally see him running to his hiding spot, just not in too much of a hurry as before, but as if majestically strolling, making Tito loudly shower his admiration at the legend, yet again.

"Mr. Legend now," he would say at times thinking even Mchimwene did not sound befitting enough for his daring feats. "Feel at home, my home mate." And to show him he meant his word, he started leaving him some of his favorite food stuffs in a proper dish this time.

Strange things started happening soon afterwards however; when doing some office work on his laptop or merely watching television at the sitting room late at night, Tito would hear some strange sounds, this time not coming from the kitchen or adjacent store room, but from the corridor to his bedroom, in the study room which he had converted into the main store room, like something or someone had clicked the empty glass bottles against each other. A few times, he quickly dashed there to investigate, but no matter how quickly he got there, the sounds stopped, and despite staying there waiting for the sound to start again so he would identify the source, nothing happened until he doubted himself if he was not imagining things, only for the sound to start again the moment he left until it stopped on its own. On this one he was very sure it was not his food-loving buddy because the room never hosted anything pertaining to his beloved tidbits, with the door always remaining tightly shut, and he was doubly sure nobody else went there anytime even in his absence. He lived alone and kept the keys secure because of some valuables kept there. He was puzzled, but in his true character, he was not scared despite another earlier incident of a mysterious fire which had started there and having smelt the smoke in time rushed to put it out. Trying to figure things out and confirm his theories, he had contacted a few friends at a science university and fire department who had agreed with his theory that energy bulbs kept in a tight plastic bag wrapped in old newspapers could indeed, if the conditions were right, ignite and cause a fire.

As time went by, the clinking sound of the bottles or glasses eventually stopped thus making him feel relieved. He settled his mind with his own unconvincing theories as to its cause. It turned out to be for a very fleeting hiatus though, and a harbinger for things to come as he soon realized. For the next clinking sound came with much more. Dead in the silent night, a much more loud sound of not only glasses but of whipping, splashing and hissing, as if there were other inhabitants in the house who were wrestling or fighting, reached him from the room's direction, sending an electric surge cruising through his veins making the fine hair on the nape of his neck to stand on its end, and in the process, jolting him from his slumber, and with every passing moment replaced by a sharp clarity of mind. Like a palace sentinel on high alert at noon, his over-alert senses acutely attuned to the slightest disturbance, he remained motionless, absorbing every detail of the strange happenings.

The disturbance persisted, gradually intensifying until it became an eerie symphony of metallic echoes that echoed through the stillness of the night.

At the same time, his brain went to work trying to figure out what it could be before venturing out but in his frightened state, came up with nothing. Instinctively, he started to reach out for the gun in the safe-box but a new round of bashing, slapping and whipping noise against all manner of objects thus producing a cacophony of a confused sounds was accompanied by falling things which instantly jerked him to dash out with his fingers first going for the switch in the store room the moment he arrived, only to be greeted by a queer and scary sight which froze him with both fear and confusion reigning supreme.

During the numerous encounters Tito had had with Mchimwene, he had somehow become familiar with him- he assumed it was a he for no reason- just like one does with their pets. No matter how much dogs or cats may look alike, a master could recognize his from a group of his or her friends. Tito had that ability once he forged a strong bond with Mchimwene, and that's exactly what happened now. Only that this time, Mchimwene was not wearing his diminutive rat frame. He was looking ferocious in every way imaginable having grown so big in size including the head and mouth that the whole snake's neck which instantly reminded him of the one from the car incident, was firmly sunk in his sharp teeth and jaw, threatening to separate the head from the rest of the writhing body. Tito couldn't think of his next move immediately. Instinct refused to play ball. Dumb-founded, while at the same time feeling too bad for what he had tried to do to Mchimwene during those numerous failed attempts on his life, he could only watch as he dragged the big reddish snake, now limp in his mouth, towards the kitchen. Tito followed at a safe distance not wanting to take his eyes off the sight for a split second fearing it might disappear like the first time for he was more than sure, it was the very same snake, but as to how that happened, he could only shake his head. This was no time for any brain-racking about past events. He had enough in the present to worry his brain about.

For the next three hours, Tito could not leave playing guard until morning when he decided to do the most sensible thing in the circumstances- ensure the snake was truly dead and avoid a repeat of its now-you-see-me, now-you-don't stunts. After Mchimwene had left it and majestically walked to his usual spot where he always disappeared to, Tito burnt the snake to ashes on the red-hot cooker coil before sprinkling them into the sink then washing them thoroughly down the drain with a whole river of water. Since that day, the strange sounds disappeared for good. But so did his beloved Mchimwene, sadly. Tito had tried to entice him from his hiding spot with all kinds of food stuffs including his own tasty treats which he knew no human being, let alone a rat, could dare resist, in the hope of showing him his appreciation, but nothing happened. After several failed attempts, he gave up, with a myriad of conspiracy theories competing for his conviction in his head.

"Goodbye valiant soldier," he whispered to himself. One theory triumphed at last. The snake must have been poisonous and might have during the fight, sunk its cursed fangs into him at some point thus injecting him with its deadly venom which caused his death in his spot later, hopefully in peace, not in pain. "Rest in power, super guardian Angel!"