The Chronicles of Suntwe - Chapter 8: Forty Five Little Monsters and Their Mother

It was one of those scorching Bulawayo days when everything felt slow, even your thoughts. The kind of heat that pressed down on the city until the birds went quiet and the roads shimmered like liquid. I was twenty six, living in Ilanda Gardens, when the call came through from Zimbabwe National Parks.

They told me there was a situation near Turk Mine. The voice on the line sounded tense in that special Zimbabwean way where panic and politeness mix together.

“The workers have downed tools,” he said. “They say the dump is full of snakes. They are refusing to go back.”

I had heard variations of that sentence many times before. Usually it translated to one harmless snake and fifty terrified witnesses. Every call out was a massive black mamba according to the people who made it. I smiled, grabbed my gear, and drove into town to collect the ranger who would accompany me.

At the Parks office they introduced me to a young man called Simon Muchatibaya. He was lean, bright eyed and carried himself with that mixture of pride and eagerness that comes with wearing a uniform for a job you love. Still new, still hopeful, still hungry for stories. We shook hands, loaded his notebook and my equipment into the Mazda Drifter and headed out of Bulawayo toward Turk Mine.

The city faded quickly into open country. Dry grass, scrub bush, scattered thorn trees. The land rolled gently and the sky felt enormous. We drove with the windows down, hot air pouring through the cab, dust rising behind us in a long pale tail.

Simon asked questions about snakes and I answered them between gear changes. He wanted to know what to expect. I told him honestly that most calls turned out to be nothing dramatic. People saw something move, their imagination did the rest. We laughed about it and swapped stories. The road hummed beneath us. Life felt simple.

When we turned off toward the little mine, the mood shifted. You could feel it before you saw it. A crowd stood near the dump, mine workers and the manager bunched together in an anxious cluster. They were all talking at once, pointing at the same patch of earth, that particular crowd mentality where fear grows louder every time it is repeated.

As we climbed out of the bakkie they surged toward us with the urgency of people who wanted the problem solved so they could go back to pretending life was normal.

“Boss, there, there, they are all over,” one of them said, pointing at the mine dump with wide eyes. “Snakes everywhere here, too many.”

I walked ahead of them toward the dump, feeling Simon at my shoulder. The earth had been heaped and reworked over time, a scarred hill of broken rock and old soil. At first I saw nothing unusual.

Then something moved.

A slender patterned body slid across the surface for a moment before disappearing into a shadow. Another lay stretched in the sun, then vanished as I approached. They were not massive monsters. They were newly hatched African rock pythons, already long enough to make any normal man uncomfortable, basking on the warm dump before diving back into safety.

The miners had not lied. The place really was snaked.

Near the base of the dump there was a depression where soil had been scooped away, leaving a rough hollow and a dark opening in the side. It looked like an old warthog or aardvark burrow, widened over time by erosion. A perfect den.

I slid down into the hollow and knelt at the entrance of the tunnel. The air coming out of it was cool and slightly damp, carrying the faint animal scent of reptile and earth. Behind me, Simon stood on the rim, holding the open sack.

Pythons are the only snakes in Zimbabwe that show any real form of maternal care. When the female is ready, she finds an abandoned burrow. She lays her clutch in the darkness, sometimes dozens upon dozens of eggs, and coils herself around them. She stays that way for months, not feeding, not drinking, just guarding. When the babies finally hatch they spend a little time absorbing the last of their yolk, shedding for the first time and gathering their strength. Then, in their own time, they leave. Mother and children all go their separate ways. No territory passed down, no family group, just a brief fierce beginning and then solitude.

Seeing young pythons already basking outside meant the mother, in theory, had done her work and moved on. I expected this to be a simple job. Round up the youngsters, clear the area, let the mine get back to work.

I extended my snake hook into the tunnel and used it as a kind of rake. The darkness swallowed the metal, then there was the soft scrape of wood and stone. I gave a careful pull and felt resistance. When I dragged the hook back, several baby pythons slid into view along with sticky, torn egg shells. They writhed over one another, patterned bodies gleaming, trying to reverse back into the safety of the tunnel.

I laughed with the delight of a child and scooped them up, depositing them into the sack Simon held. The miners leaning over the edge murmured and shifted nervously, impressed yet still frightened.

Again I reached in with the hook, scraped, pulled. Again, more little monsters and more egg shells. We fell into a rhythm. Hook, scrape, pull, scoop. The bag grew heavier. My hands moved quickly. My heart felt light.

The young pythons huddled together while I individually measured and catalogued them for the Parks report

By the time no more snakes emerged I had caught forty five of them, each one already longer than my forearm, strong and full of life. As a boy I had dreamed of catching just one snake like this. Now I was standing ankle deep in egg shells with a sack full of them. It felt impossibly good.

Still, something nagged at me. All that life and all that broken shell, but no sign of the mother. I kept pulling bodies from a grave she had prepared, but the gravekeeper herself had not appeared.

Curiosity nudged me. It rarely whispers. It usually shoves.

I lay on my stomach and pushed my shoulders into the tunnel. The earth was cool and damp. It pressed in on either side, close enough that my shoulders brushed the walls. Sand and fine soil worked their way under my shirt and up my shorts. I could feel my chest expanding against the weight of the ground as I breathed.

The deeper I went, the quieter it became. The voices of the miners faded. The sun disappeared. There was no hiss, no rattle, no movement. Just the heavy silence of a place that belonged to something else.

At the far end of the tunnel, half hidden in shadow, I saw what looked like a smooth rounded boulder lying in the curve of the burrow. It filled the space almost entirely.

I reached out and touched it with my hand.

The boulder shifted under my fingers. There was a deep, slow movement, the sensation of living muscle tightening. A section of coil rolled, and then a head lifted into the narrow tunnel, turning toward me with dark, ancient eyes.

She did not surge forward or strike. She simply regarded me, tongue tasting the air, as if asking a very reasonable question.

What are you doing here in my den?

She was huge. Not in measured numbers, but in presence. Thick as my leg, her body filled the tunnel, every movement pressing against the earth. In that confined space there was no room for mistakes. A bite to the face at that distance would not end well. Engaging with her directly inside her own den would be silly.

In those moments there is no time for long thought. Action arrives on its own.

My body made the decision before my mind caught up. I reversed. Fast. Writhing backward through damp earth, elbows digging in, heels kicking, sand grinding against my skin. I could feel the tunnel brushing my back and chest, the weight of it all reminding me that this was her world, not mine.

She did not follow. I only saw her head lift and taste the air, more curious than angry. That somehow made me like her even more.

I emerged back into the light filthy, breathing hard and grinning. The miners peered down with wide eyes. Simon looked a mix of impressed and worried.

“Mother is still in there,” I said, wiping soil from my face. “She is a big girl. We are going to need a better plan.”

The idea of facing her in the tunnel made no sense. She had all the advantage. I suggested we dig down from above and create a second access point. From there I could prod and coax her out, and as she emerged into the open hole, we could take proper control of the situation.

The miners, now fully invested in the show, grabbed shovels and picks. Dust rose as they hacked away at the dump. Sweat shone on their faces. Now that the danger was out of immediate sight, bravery had returned. There is something ancient in men that responds to a shared task with a hint of danger. They were laughing and shouting, making jokes at each other’s expense as they worked.

After about twenty minutes of digging we broke through into the tunnel. The new opening was not large, more of a viewing port than a doorway, but it was enough. I could see into the burrow at a different angle now. I could sense her presence even if I could not see her entire body.

The plan was simple. From above, I would nudge her gently toward the main entrance. Once enough of her had emerged, I would grab her behind the head with both hands and pull her out into the open.

In theory, beautiful.

In practice, chaotic.

I positioned myself on my stomach above the main entrance, arms ready, heart steady. Simon crouched above the newly excavated access hole, holding a long stick, face serious but excited. The miners spread out at what they believed was a safe distance, all of them trying to look calm and failing miserably.

With the stick Simon reached through the new opening and began to tickle and prod gently at her coils. She responded with slow, reluctant movement, the way someone might get out of bed when they are not done sleeping. The air in the tunnel shifted. You could feel her making up her mind.

Then I saw it. First, the flick of a tongue in the darkness. Then the blunt snout, then the full head, sliding out of the entrance with the slow assurance of something that has nothing to fear.

My muscles tightened. I waited. She eased further out, every centimetre a negotiation between her caution and my patience.

When I judged there was enough of her exposed, I moved.

I dropped down, reached forward and grabbed her firmly behind the head with both hands. For a heartbeat we were locked in a perfect moment of balance.

Then she reminded me of her sheer power.

Her body surged back and I went with it. The world flipped. One moment I was lying on top of the dump, the next I was airborne, then I landed flat on my back in the pit with the wind knocked from my chest, still clinging to her head like a determined limpet.

There was no time to think about pain. Instinct spun me around and I planted my feet on either side of the tunnel entrance, bracing hard to stop her from dragging me in. For a few wild seconds we were locked in a tug of war. Me above ground, her anchored below, both of us testing how badly the other wanted this.

I called out for help.

Silence.

I called out again, louder.

Nothing.

I glanced up and saw only empty sky and the tops of bushes. My brave crew had scattered in every direction the moment I disappeared over the edge. As far as they were concerned, I had been swallowed.

I could not help laughing. There I was, in a hole, covered in dust, holding the head of an exceptionally large python while an entire workforce hid in the scrub.

Once the humour passed, the work began. Slowly, using the leverage of my legs and every bit of strength I had, I started to win back ground. Her body scraped along the tunnel floor as I dragged her inch by inch toward the light. The first loops of her coil appeared, thick and gleaming. More followed. I could feel her power through my arms, the tension of her muscles, the sheer weight of her existence. It was like trying to pull a tree root out of the earth.

Finally her entire body left the tunnel and spilled into the hollow. She began to wrap herself around me in protest, loops sliding over my shoulders and pinning my legs. It was not malicious, just the natural reflex of a large snake searching for stability. I shifted my feet, found my balance, and stood up slowly.

I must have looked ridiculous and magnificent all at once. Mud on my face, shirt torn, chest heaving, with this enormous python draped and coiled around my body.

That is when the miners surfaced, heads popping out between bushes like nervous meerkats. When they saw I was still alive and standing, a cheer went up. Simon emerged behind them, eyes wide, laughing shakily. The fear broke, replaced by that joyful noise humans make when danger has passed and the story has turned out well.

I teased them mercilessly for abandoning me. They denied it in loud voices. We all knew the truth. We all laughed anyway.

Together, with calm, deliberate movements, Simon and I unwound the coils from my body. You never rush that part. Respect matters. Once she was free of my legs and torso, we guided her carefully into the large sack, her body sliding in a long, living ribbon of muscle and pattern.

She disappeared into the darkness of the bag and it was done.One massive mother and forty five strong babies relocated from a mine dump to somewhere safer.

My good friend Mark lying untrustingly next to the mother to give perspective.

The miners clapped our backs, shaking their heads, their fear now retold as courage. The manager shook my hand and insisted I come back any time snakes tried to take over his business again. Simon scribbled in his notebook, trying to capture the details for his report, grinning like a man who had just collected his first real story.

As we drove away, the dust rose behind us and the mine shrank in the rear view mirror. My hands were raw. My arms ached. There was soil in places I would still be discovering days later. But inside, I felt nothing but joy.

This was the life I had dreamed of as a boy glued to wildlife documentaries, watching men handle dangerous animals with equal parts respect and confidence. I had promised myself that one day I would not just watch. I would be there. I would feel the weight, smell the breath, stand in the dust of something real.

On that hot afternoon near Turk Mine, with a tired ranger beside me and a truck full of snake sacks, I knew I was exactly where I was meant to be.

Reflection

Not every important moment in a man’s life comes dressed as a grand victory or a dramatic loss. Sometimes it arrives quietly in a place like a mine dump, wrapped in dust and sweat and the slow coil of a wild animal.

That day with the pythons taught me things no classroom ever could.

It reminded me that fear often shouts loudest from the edges. The miners saw chaos and danger spread across their workplace. From a distance it looked like an invasion. Up close it was a den, a mother finishing her duty, and a group of young snakes doing what they were meant to do. Understanding changed everything. The threat did not vanish, but it became something we could work with rather than run from.

It reminded me that courage is rarely clean. People bolt. People hide. People come back when it is safe and cheer like they were there the whole time. You can judge them for it or you can laugh with them and let the moment become shared legend. That choice matters more than you think. It decides whether you walk away bitter or bonded.

Most of all, it reminded me of who I am at my core.

When the world narrows to a tunnel, a coil, a head turning toward you in the dark, there is no chance to pretend. You meet yourself in those moments. All the noise falls away. There is no room for story, ego or performance. There is only instinct, training, and the quiet question beneath it.

Are you where you are meant to be?

Crawling into that burrow, wrestling that snake, climbing out filthy and laughing while men cheered from a safe distance, I knew the answer. I knew that whatever else life did to me, I would always be drawn back to that edge where wildness lives and where I feel most honestly myself.

Some people search for their calling in books or boardrooms. Mine has often been waiting in the dust. In the river. In the gorge. In the quiet space between fear and fascination.

On that day, holding a bag full of forty five little monsters and the mother that made them, I was not just catching snakes.

I was catching glimpses of the man I was becoming.