VONANI BILA

Hello Readers.
For the past few days, I have been working on the attached poem, "Today I killed a Black Mamba." It is long and possibly repetitive. It's a work-in-progress. I am lucky to be alive because if this snake had acted in its typical violent behaviour, I would be lying in the mortuary with stiff limbs and frigid brain.  
Best regards,
Vonani

I

Under the mango tree,
behind my father’s abandoned brown house,
Hangzhou, my white puppy, is sprawled 
breathing like a dying bulb.
Her white pupils are dilated and exhausted,
her mouth full of green smelly foam,
the jaw and tongue are stiff and paralysed,
and next to her a heap of fresh vomit and diarrhoea.

I squat beside her,
under the thick mat of dry mango leaves, 
my puppy is weak and drooling.
It has to be a snake bite:
she’s bleeding from the nose, mouth, and ears,
there is no vet or snake catcher in my village,
and even if there was, I don’t have money. 

I kneel like a gogo in mourning,						
paying homage to the dog that I’d trained
to ward off intruders and monkeys,
I summon her grandmother Whitey and her uncle Rendy 
to receive her with warmth,
they too, fell to the wrath of snake bites.

As I kneel and shed a tear,
God, help me not to step on the demon that killed my dogs, 
I yearn to grow old, grow grey hair under my armpits,
I don’t want to lie next to my puppy Hangzhou,
paralysed and dying.

II

17 December 2025,
it’s morning at verdant Shirley village, 
the sun is up, warm, and soggy,
an olive-coloured snake 
with black markings between the scales,
a beast with a dark thin tail and pale belly  
slithers behind our abandoned house,
squeezing its elongated coffin-shaped head 
through the narrow doorway.

The unloved guest wants to enter the old house,
perhaps hunt down rodents and mice,
for breakfast and supper,
coil and hide in old tyres,
not today, Satan!

III

Freeze, dammit!  I shout silently
in my throbbing heart.
Wait here until I boil a kettle,
to scrub your long body,
until your scales disintegrate,
until scalds form a map to hell!
I want to see your grey-brown eyes go blind     
like the dogs you killed,
leaving them with dilated pupils,
leaving them struggling to swallow,
leaving them labouring to breathe.
Fearsome serpent, ndzingo ndzi wena 		(you demon)
you’ve come to the wrong address,
before the sun sets, you’ll go down
and your potent venom will misfire.

IV

I return with a bowl of boiling water,
splash its body with unstoppable rage,
I hit it with a thick acacia stick,
it writhes in pain, 
but the kisser of death rears up, 
lifting its head and body off the ground, 
swaying like a pencak silat master,
opening inky black mouth agape,
neck inflated, hissing loudly like a punctured tyre,
front fixed fangs ready to strike,
but I’m not deterred,
kwa! kwa! kwa!  
vhuma ndzi ku teka, nyakhandli si nga fi! 	(comply as I slam you undying evil)
kwa! kwa! kwa!
vhuma ndzi ku teka, nyakhandli si nga fi!	(comply as I slam you undying evil)

I’m a mad man at war with an enemy,
yelling and swearing
grrr, aaah shit! grrr, aaah shit!
gah, aaah shit! gah, aaah shit!
its skin is so calloused,
it refuses to crack,
my stick breaks into splinters,
now I’m deep in kak, 					(shit)
but hell broer, I’ve moered ndzingo lowu,		(brother)	(slammed this demon)
it slithers away, 
vanishing into a clump of lemongrass.

Makongoza, our skinny gardener, 
stops planting sweet potato shoots in the field,
rushes to the scene, wielding a log,
the black mamba rears its head,
swinging in his direction,
Makongoza shuts his beady eyes,
slams the ground so hard
the log breaks into pieces,
but he’s missed the head,
the wounded demon retreats quickly 
to the woodpile,
or under the damp rocks,
or into a hole, or termite mound,
or who knows where?

V 

Now we are tempting fate,
this monster’s venom can floor an elephant in minutes.
Now that it’s wounded it’ll be aggressive,
spit death from where it is hiding,
bite us countless times,
pins and needles will set in,
feet will be numb,
lungs will contract and give up,
limbs will shrink and stiffen,
and the heart will toyitoyi in vain
and stop pumping blood,
the muscles will shake around-the-clock,
lips will twitch and tingle nonstop,
pupils will be dilated like a druggie’s,
pants will be soiled, 
we’ll be a sewage spillage,
sisekakeni!						(we are deep in shit)

Gossiping villagers will laugh at me like hadedas:
what kind of a dunderhead tries 
to kill a black mamba without a solid plan?
Ina, I am not a fool, 						(yes)
I am a diligent red-billed hornbill
that looks up at the sky,
summons the rain to pour,
so that our fields can be green again,
so that drought can be driven backwards
like a boxer on the ropes 
hit by Tyson’s hammer fists,
nkorho! 						(red-billed hornbill)

VI

I sprinkle petrol where I think it’s hiding,
splash, splash! wavaa, wavaa!
if it’s in a hole or a rock crevice,
it will come out smoked and gassed,
splash, splash! tlhambuu, tlhambuu!
it will come out drowsy and drowned from the fumes,
I want to conquer Satan,
I am the head of the family,
Satan can’t boss my yard around,
I call to my ancestors for back up:
Daniel wa Dayimani,
Dayimani wa Jonasi,
Jonasi wa Makhayingi,
Makhayingi wa Mpfumari,
Mpfumari wa Xanjhinghu,
Xanjhinghu wa Ntshovi,
Ntshovi wa Ricece,
Ricece wa Xisilafole xi nga ri na nhonga xi sila hi mandla, 
Bilakhulu mhlahlandhlela, 			(Bila the great, the pathfinder)
Bilakhulu mcaciwa,
Bilakhulu msengana,
Xihlakala milenge mbilu a yi hlakali.  (He whose feet wear away while the heart is intact)

Makongoza clears the site with the brush cutter.
There it is,
curled under the mango tree,
coiled, hiding in lemongrass bushes,
it is wounded, traumatised,
skin is burning,
it is eating itself up,
the cold-blooded creature is overheating,
it is stone-deaf,
but it feels the boiling water.

This time around I waste no time,
I hit it so hard with an iron rod,
it twists in pain like a wailing concertina,
but it’s already gassed and dead,
again, I pour boiling water all over its body,
just to make sure the demon can’t wake up.

VII

Snake lovers, go to hell!
I’m not the friend of herpetologists and ophiophilists
who say vipers and mambas must be left alone
to climb trees and lunge across branches,
to roam on open savannahs and grasslands.
Ecologists say we must leave the spiders alone,
leave the thick-tailed scorpions alone,
how can we ignore creatures that hold us hostage,
that sting and suck our blood?
They say these beasts are crucial for the ecosystem,
and that their venom can save the sick world,
eish … 
ja, neh …  

Call me a brute!
call me a thorn-hearted man,
I don’t care…
You can rush to the nearest police station,
report a case of reptile cruelty,
let the police handcuff and chain me,
let them drag me naked into a van,
let the court jail me with a heavy sentence,
but I can’t return a black mamba to the woods,
whose one, two, three bites
won’t let me reach the hospital alive,
with just two drops of venom,
it will finish off my remaining puppies 
without a yelp or growl, 
it will finish off my chickens in the coop, 
without a cackle or squawk,
it will finish off my family
with lethal bites,
derelict hospital is too far,
patients growl on benches,
toss and turn on the cold floor,
Panado and Ibuprofen are not enough,
and my country’s snake anti-venom has been pilfered
by the pseudo-communists in navy tuxedo suits,
who live in gated suburbs,
smoke cigars, 
and drink whisky and rum.

VIII

We hang the dead mamba 
on a branch of the avocado tree,
the monkeys don’t come near it,
it is long, it is dead,
but what if it’s making fools of us…? 
I pour its whole body with petrol
(like com-tsotsis did with necklace victims in the ’80s),     (thugs)
I set it alight with jubilation,
the flame ablaze,
it burns, skin peeling off,
scabs opening.

IX

I think of serpentivores,
my Mozambican ‘mongoose’ friends at Magulule,
who boil the soft snake meat, 
cut it in small pieces,
marinate it,
and grill,
rip it apart with teeth,
all for stamina,
all to grow the clan.

I think of my Indonesian friends 
who hunt down snakes,
to make soups and stir-fries,
bragging that snake meat is 
‘yummy-yummy like chicken’.

I think of sangomas who hunt down snakes,
collect venom and bones,
harvest hearts and lungs
and swallow them raw 
to live forever,
to foretell the future,
to heal the sick,
heal the lame on the stretcher,
to attract good luck,
and rest their heads on soft pillows, 
stashed with bank notes.

If I were of a Mamba clan – like the Nkanyanis or Ntulis,
I would let the guest move freely in the house,
let it curl itself up like a spring behind the door,
nuzzle and stroke it gently,
kiss its narrow and elongated head
I will watch TV sunk in my recliner 
while the mamba dangles, stretches 
and caresses my naked feet. 

If I were of a Mamba clan –                                                       
I would let the beast flicker its forked tongue happily, 
hang it around my neck like a treasured necklace,
smile when its cold body tantalises my blood 
with a tingling bliss,
I would feed it with rabbits and fowls,
leave it alone in the garage,
to catch lizards and frogs.

The Mamba clans can do all these things,
their chemistry with the reptile is mutual,
it is a bond made in divine dense forests and burning mountains,
in dark caves, grottoes, and tunnels,
in gurgling rivers and deep oceans.

But I am not of the Mamba clan,
my ancestors are path-finding rats,
mammals that nurture their young
unlike reptiles that hatch eggs 
and leave their snakelets to fend for themselves,
in the wildest bush of raptors and mongooses.

X

I ditch the carcass into the pit toilet –
that’s where it belongs,
down there in the stink of poo and pee,
an infestation of beetles, fleas, and bugs,
a cloud of dung flies,
but I shudder to venture near the toilet
without a torch and stick,
let alone enter the small room and sit,
what if the mamba has faked death,
what if it has crawled upwards 
sliding from side to side,
gliding under the toilet seat,
waiting to take its revenge,
waiting to nail my tail, 
bite my hanging potatoes,
and leave me sweat-soaked, 
dizzy, with slurred speech,
leave me blind and mad,
pants hanging on my knees?
I keep far away from the pit latrine,
because even when Satan is dead –
what if his bones metamorphose 
into little children and grandchildren?

XI

It’s dark outside,
I walk behind the old house barefooted,
I want to pick pumpkin leaves for supper,
suddenly, I step on something black and thin
under the bloodcurdling dense foliage,
cha, chaa, chaaa!
chakala-chakalaa, chakala-chakalaa! 		

Startled and jolted, I squeal, taking a gasp of air,
leaves rustle and crunch, 
cha, chaa, chaaa!
chakala-chakalaa, chakala-chakalaa! 		
my hair rises, 
my heart races to the throat.

In the deep forests near the holy Bila cemetery–
a ximememe cackles like a fowl, 					(mountain snake)
crows like a rooster
then it moos and bellows like a cow
I jump like a klipspringer in panic,
puffing and panting,
fearing an instant bite from a mamba.

XII

Today I am a hero,
today I am a raptor,
the long-legged secretary bird with quick reflexes
that stomps on a mamba with massive force,
strikes with its razor-sharp bills and talons.

The black mamba finished off my short-coated fawn Africanis –
my springy loyal Tsonga umgodoyi,						(Africanis dog)
I grieve for Whitey and Rendy,
I grieve for Hangzhou.

Today I boiled a kettle,
poured hot water over Satan’s bulky body,
hit it hard-heartedly with a stick,
doused the demon with petrol, and set it alight.

Today I am the thick-skinned honey badger,
think twice before you attack me,
I wring and swallow a black mamba alive,
I bashed the flying khangala single-handedly,				(black mamba)
smashed it with boiling water, stick and fire.