There have been stories about boas since humans first saw them. Laying low, creeping onto our shadows as if they were imperceptibly corrupting the insides of our mind. Already within before attacking from a sudden whim, as if driven by an arcane impulse to eat themselves. We all know the stories about boas; the first sarcophagi, transient tombs, no molars, no carnassials, no canines, no incisors, no teeth. They engulf. They could eat the whole of the universe without bending a single flower nor disturbing the spring. We remembered the stories and then the hiss began.
When the hiss started we were already in shreds. Decimated by warlords in ridiculous wigs and dresses, garish and shiny, trying to impersonate Hollywood heroes. Poor countries like ours can aspire only to the absurd. Left with the leftovers of the rest of the world, even violence seems condemned to be farcical. The thundering of guns and collapsing rubble, the incessant screaming and gnashing and later crying and silence. All our anguish felt like a pantomime. We stared in disbelief at the gun-carrying kids in shabby costumes. Annihilated by killer clowns. We were left with dust and scarlet mud (the ones who were left) and we began rebuilding everything, packing up the props, sweeping the stage. It would have seemed unnatural, to mourn at the door of the movies. That’s what everyone felt but no one would say a word until a soft breeze blew everything.
It was almost inaudible at first. A delicate shush commanding our attention that inadvertently became a pneumatic presence ensconced behind our eardrums. Over the following days the noise became piercing. High pitched as if the whole atmosphere was being forced through the eye of a needle. The boas began to look up. All of them; the ones who were kept as pets in the city and the ones dwelling in the wilderness. Every time someone saw one, they reported the same: that the animal had been spotted staring at the sky spellbound and occasionally hissing (in return?).
Gobbled up by new strange thoughts, our erstwhile quiet mouths began theorizing. People began to think of a glutton, all encompassing snake god. I was skeptical at first. I thought the hiss either had to be some obscure natural phenomenon or a form of collective folly. And yet, the persistence of the boas and the insistence of the noise made everything unbearably real. The world became true again. None of it will ever be fiction.
Today, like the others, I no longer doubt the existence of some snake-like heavenly creature. As a matter of fact, I belief we could be now experiencing the last hours of our existence inside the belly of a colossal boa. Swallowed. Engulfed. Undulating towards the acid wave. Wobbling on these issues whilst advancing steadily and without notice. Snake-Slavery we should be crying! Snake-Slavery makes the world toxic!
Under the omnipresent hiss some crowds are even thinking of building an ark to escape the ophidic doom. “We should build a fleet of arks to sail the acid seas” they say. Others believe we will remain untouched. Unharmed and unmarked, we will be expelled. For them, the glorious days are now. They say that after the Snake the smell will be pestilent. That we will all know what we are and what we had been and how we were degraded and lowered for all eternity. But most of our people simply call themselves the “excreted”, even now. For they say that the humiliation will not be witnessed. For they say it may already have happened, they mourn and never shower.