Village Giant Snake Python Was Bullied By Youth Corper Girl . You Won’t Believe What the Snake Did
In the heart of Umuaga village, where the red earth roads wound like veins through the lush greenery, Tami trudged home from teaching primary 5 at the village school. Her NYC shirt clung to her sweat-soaked skin, her arms heavy with books. The air was thick, the kind of heat that made even the chickens seek shade. She whistled softly, her steps light despite the day’s exhaustion—until she froze. There, on the narrow path, lay the sacred python, Aua. Its brown, glossy body, thick as her thigh, moved like liquid over the dust, its tongue flicking in quiet rhythm. Tami’s books slipped from her hands. “Oh my God,” she gasped, heart pounding like a drum. She turned and ran, slippers flying off, her breath ragged as if a shadow chased her. Bursting into the coppers’ mud-and-zinc house, she collapsed, panting, shaking, her fear a living thing.
In Umuaga, the python was no mere snake. It was a spirit, a messenger of Ide, the river goddess. The villagers revered it, believing it brought blessings, protection, and fertility. To harm it was to wound the village itself. A dead python was mourned like a chief—drums, dances, tears, and prayers marked its burial. When a child was born, the python would visit at night, coiling beside the crib, whispering blessings to welcome the newborn into the world. No one feared it; it was family.
Tami wasn’t alone in Umuaga. She was one of five National Youth Corps members sent to serve in the village: Tami, Obara, Chidima, Emma, and Hale Lima. They’d arrived curious but out of place, stepping off a dusty bus into a world of kola nuts and warm welcomes. The villagers spoke of Aua with reverence, but Tami scoffed. “A python? A spirit? Please, give me a break,” she muttered, rolling her eyes. Obara, ever the peacemaker, nudged her. “Respect their culture, Tami.” They settled into their small house, where goats bleated and bats rustled in the rafters, making the place hum with life.
One dusk, Nneka, the village priestess, invited them to the river. She spoke of the python’s role, how it guarded newborns, weaving them into the fabric of the village with its sacred presence. Obara listened, rapt. Tami shrugged. “Foxtail stories,” she whispered. Over dinner, her frustration spilled out. “I’ve seen snakes in city markets. One nearly scared me to death. Now they say it protects babies? That’s a lie.” Nneka, passing by, overheard and slipped away, whispering a prayer to Ide: “Protect them. Teach them before fear breaks them.”
Life in Umuaga settled into a rhythm, but Tami chafed. “No electricity, no network, and now spirit pythons?” she grumbled. Obara urged patience. “It’s their culture, Tami. We can’t change it. We respect it.” But Tami’s city-bred skepticism held firm. Meanwhile, Nneka dreamt of a python with tear-filled eyes, blood dripping from its mouth. The land cracked, the river dried, and a voice warned, “Someone with a hard heart will spill my blood.” She woke trembling and rushed to the Igwe’s palace. “One of the strangers may harm Aua,” she told the chief. The Igwe summoned the coppers, his voice grave. “Our python is not to be feared but respected. Do not harm it.” Obara nodded earnestly; Tami folded her arms, muttering, “All this for a snake.”
Tension simmered. One evening, a girl ran past, shouting that Aua was near the mango tree. Tami sneered, “Let that snake come near me, I’ll kill it.” The compound fell silent, Obara’s eyes wide with worry. The air grew heavier still when Tami, walking home one scorching afternoon, met Aua again. Its slow, deliberate glide stopped her cold. Fear and defiance surged. She dropped her books, turned, and ran, screaming, “Snake! It’s coming for me!” Bursting into the house, she gasped out her story. Emma laughed, calling it a meeting with Aua Deilly, but Tami snapped, “That thing could’ve bitten me!” Obara’s voice was soft but firm. “It’s not ordinary, Tami. It won’t harm you.” She stood, defiant. “A snake is a snake. Next time, I’ll kill it.”
Nneka, passing by, overheard and whispered, “The heart that refuses to listen may break the land.” A boy peeking through the door saw the python later that night, coiled under the mango tree. He told his mother its eyes weren’t angry—they were sad.
Nneka’s dreams grew darker. She saw Aua bleeding, the river gone, the sky red. “If my blood is spilled, the land will suffer,” it warned. She told the Igwe, who sent messengers to the coppers again. “You must not harm the python,” they pleaded. Tami stayed silent, but later told Emma, “I’m not afraid. It’s just a snake.” The village buzzed with unease. That night, Aua passed by the mango tree, a silent shadow, watching.
One evening, as Tami fetched water at the borehole, the sky glowing orange, she saw Aua again by the mango tree. Children ran, elders prayed, but Tami’s fear turned to rage. “This nonsense ends today,” she hissed, grabbing a heavy stick. Obara shouted, “Tami, no!” But she swung—thwack, thwack! The python hissed, coiled, then fell still, blood staining the earth. A boy’s scream pierced the air: “Aua! They’ve killed the sacred python!” Drums thundered. Women wailed. The village gathered, elders cradling Aua’s body on a mat. The Igwe’s eyes held pain. “Why?” he asked. Tami, voice shaking, said, “It was dangerous.” Nneka collapsed, sobbing, “You’ve killed our peace, our child.”
The elders met under flickering lamps. Nneka spoke of her dreams, Aua’s warnings. Obara pleaded for Tami, but the Igwe was firm. “In our fathers’ time, this meant death or exile. But we are merciful. You, Tami, will perform the burial rites. You will marry the python in spirit.” Tami screamed, “Marry a snake? Are you mad?” Emma held her back, whispering, “Don’t insult them more.”
For seven days, Tami stayed in Nneka’s compound, dressed in white, eating plain food, tears her constant companion. The village prepared Aua’s burial—palm fronds woven into a coffin, drums of mourning, children’s songs. On the seventh day, by the sacred river, drummers played slow, sad rhythms. Aua’s body, adorned with beads and feathers, lay in its coffin. The Igwe spoke: “This is Idele, our brother, our sister, our child.” Tami, eyes swollen, stepped forward. “I’m sorry,” she said, voice breaking. “I was foolish. I didn’t know. I mocked your ways. Please forgive me.” She placed kola nuts on the coffin, poured palm wine, and touched Aua’s head. “I’ll honor you forever, dear python.”
As the coffin was lowered into the river, a gentle rain fell, though the sun shone. A rainbow arched over the water. Nneka smiled. “Ide has forgiven us.” The drums turned joyful.
Tami stayed to finish her service, but she was changed. She taught the children respect and kindness, helped rebuild the school with Obara, and sat with Nneka to learn the old stories. When the coppers left Umuaga, Tami carried a lesson etched deep: respect others’ traditions, for what seems foolish may be sacred. Pride can break a land, but humility can heal it.
