He hung on to the wooden plank with all his strength as the boat climbed nearly vertical. They crested the wave and came crashing down the other side. The seas were wild, whipped by the wind that blew across the coast, but soon they were behind the break, in the lull of newborn waves, little more than ripples over dark blue waters. His older brothers rowed the small boat, grunting with the effort, as Chico dropped the net. The big red buoys bobbed in the water and traced a gentle curve as they rowed deeper.

It was hard work, under the unrelenting African sun. The salt-crusted net stung his fingers and drew tiny swells of blood as he hauled its weight of the net over the side. The thunder of waves drowned out all conversation, and they focused on the task with the silence of routine. Before long, they were riding the surf back to shore. Chico bailed frantically with a metal can as they surrendered to the power of the sea.

The boat came crashing into the sand and scored a gouge as it ground its way to safety. Chico jumped over the side, rope in hand, and ran up the steep dune of searing hot sand that crumpled beneath his bare feet. He passed the rope to the others, and together they pulled, a group at each end of the net.

“Haul!”

And they hauled, feet sinking in the sand. Hand over hand. Haul. Forward again. And haul. The sun was already dipping beneath the dunes when the catch was brought to the shore. The clapping of dozens of fish briefly silenced the waves.

“Every day less,” his father said, wiping sweat from his brow.

It was true. It had been that way since before he was born. But it was enough, at least today. Catching his breath, Chico climbed further up the dune, where aloes and vines crawled over the sand. He stared into the distance, the beach curving away into the horizon, lost in the mists of the afternoon heat. Not a single person in sight, a paradise just for them. Yet there, on the crystal blue waters, a fishing vessel the size of a container ship plowed across their sea, taking more in a single day than his father had in his entire life.

The metal cart had been built from scrap, the wheels appropriated from a broken-down car. He followed the sand trail, a narrow stretch between thickets of spindly, thorny scrub, winding between dunes. He hauled the cart, the fish laid atop blocks of melting ice, now swarming with flies. The others went home, but he still had a task.

On the way, he passed by the old school, the only brick building still standing, its windows barred with metal. There were not enough children now, so the teachers stopped coming. The young lady there had been kind, and they fed him lunch every day. Now they were gone. Only the police remained, to make sure no one used the abandoned building.

The sun had already dipped below the horizon, painting the sky red, when he left the dunes behind and reached the road. Sometimes, the tractors would come, rolling steel cylinders to pack the earth tight. Then the rains arrived and turned it all to mud. He hated this part, the cart bumping up and down, threatening to get stuck. He kept to the middle of the road, staying clear of the tall reeds that sprang from the margins and hid the swamp.

He saw the store up ahead, the single light dangling from the porch bright in the dimming day, attracting a swirling swarm of insects. It sat at the intersection. Going straight, the road curved to the left, disappearing into the greenery where the resorts and private residences hid. To the right, the road stretched all the way to the Incomati river, before its waters bled into the ocean. The old rastafari watched him approach, smoking on the porch.

“How much today?” he asked, as Chico drew the cart to the entrance.

“Some twenty kilos,” Chico said, sinking down onto the concrete steps.

“We’ll see about that.”

He disappeared inside the store and came back with a large plastic bag. He inspected each fish before shoving it inside. Once done, he strained to hang the bag from the hook of the small, round scale.

“Nineteen point five,” he said. “I’ll round it up to twenty. It's… three thousand meticais.”

“Wait,” Chico got up, running the numbers in his head. “Two-hundred a kilo, so four-thousand.”

“What do you know about business, boy? It’s winter. The tourists don’t come. Who will buy the fish? Three thousand. Or you can go to the city,” he pointed down the road, towards the river.

“It's too far. Be honest, compatriot. It's always been two-hundred.”

“Now it is one-fifty,” he flicked his cigarette butt into the muddy road.

Chico stared down the road. He could get a better price there, but even if he made it, walking the entire night, he had no money for the ferry. Tomorrow, the fish would have started to rot.

He took the cash.

The moon was bright enough to guide his way home across the many branching trails that split into the scrub, hidden paths only a local knew. It was a small village, only a few families remained. His house was hidden behind a circle of vines that offered a little privacy and respite from the sun. In that refuge, his mother and grandmother waited by the fire, sitting on braided reed mats. He set the cart in a corner, stopping to pet the penned goats before joining his family.

“Good day?” his mother asked.

“Not so much,” he said, finally sitting down and relaxing his burning legs.

“Tomorrow will be better,” she said, as she handed him a plate with a bundle of tinfoil. He unwrapped the package, and steam billowed out. The fish had been cooked just right, the flesh peeling easily from the bones, marinated in onions and bay leaves from the garden. He ate with his hands and licked his fingers in the end. With his belly full, he lay back on the mat, staring into the clear sky, where the Milky Way was a bursting streak of twinkling stars.

“Have you met that Nomi girl? Alberto’s daughter? She is very pretty, isn’t she?” his mother asked, not so subtly.

“Mother, please.”

“Just saying…”

His father arrived, weaving through the fire’s light. He disappeared into the hut trailing a cloud of alcohol. His mother laid a gentle hand on Chico’s shoulder, before following him in. Inside their hut there was only one bed, an old ragged mattress where his parents slept. He avoided looking back at it, the sad construction of clay and dried hay, dug into the sand. Besides him, his grandmother stirred the fire and the logs crackled loudly.

“Have I told you about Nzunzu?” she asked, in the quiet, reverent tone that presaged a story handed down over generations.

“The water serpent, born of our ancestor--”

“Yes,” she interrupted. “Nzunzu once lived…” she embarked on her tale as if he did not already know it.

His father was angry about the money, but at least now he did not have to haul the cart anymore. He hoped his older brother would fare better, but doubted it. Chico stayed on the beach, despite the sharp wind that blew sand across his ankles. The constant rumbling of waves soothed him, a lullaby that followed all the way down to the village.

He watched the sky turn gold, then red, before fading into a deep purple. When night came, it was all at once, the stars suddenly sparkling behind the wispy clouds that glowed in moonlight. Just as suddenly, the wind turned biting and cold, and he shivered. Yet, he stayed, dreaming of a better tomorrow, of nets filled to bursting and his father satisfied. He watched, astounded, as comets streamed across the sky. Dozens, then hundreds, burning trails across the clouds before lighting the horizon in a new sun.

It was then that it emerged from the waves, a white, semi-transparent form snaking ashore, long flimsy fins digging furrows into the sand. Chico crawled back on his haunch as the scale of the thing finally dawned on him. Not a rare creature from the deep, but a towering serpent. It reared up and spread its lateral fins like a threatened cobra, as long, spindly tentacles jutted from the head and tasted the air.

“Nzunzu…” he whispered.

He turned and ran, not looking back, slipping and stumbling in his panic to crawl up the dune.

He did not sleep that night. Every time he closed his eyes he saw Nzunzu, the great serpent, rearing up before him. He saw it creep across the dunes, across the jungle, until it found him sleeping on his mat.

He did not tell anyone. Who would believe him? He could not even believe himself. A dream. A hallucination. A flight of imagination. He needed proof.

Saturday morning, he gathered what little money he had hidden away, stashed inside a hollowed-out pole in the goat pen, else his father drink it all. He carried only a bottle of water the he filled from the pump well and strapped his ripped shirt over his head like a headscarf as he set off.

He passed by the store, where the old man tracked him with alert eyes, and walked along the banks of the road where reeds sprouted wild, where the sound of crickets was loud enough to hurt his ears and where cows grazed in the distance. It had not rained in a week, and so the dirt was solid underfoot. Creaking, rusting vans passed him by, filled to bursting, passengers hanging from the sides, raising a choking plume of dust.

The sun was high in the sky now, and to the sides he could see the herders, treading those secret paths along the marshes as they guided the gaunt cows. Soon, he came upon the river, the mighty stream still swollen from the rainy season. Lilies and reeds crowded the surface and hid the deep and murky waters. He had swum across once, with his brothers, and his mother had hit him with her sandal for it. The sea demanded respect, or so his father had said. Give it, and it will let you live. Turn your back on a wave, and you risk drowning. The river was much more deadly than the ocean and crocodiles were the least of it.

Where the road met the river, a concrete platform sank into the water, crumbling and cracking all over. Next to the bar carved out of a metal container stood the guard post, where an officer dressed in white sold him a ticket.

After an hour, the barge came chugging in, trailing thick, black smoke from its chimneys. It crashed uncaring into the platform, as men threw ropes from above and puled the craft into the landing with skill. The metal bridge came tumbling down. South African tourists streamed into the road in their pickups, crowded by children asking for “sweeties”, the only English word they knew.

He climbed aboard the vessel, weaving between the vans and cars that did not wait for the people. He found a corner, beneath the shadow of the conductor's tower. The metal railing burned his hands as he tried to lean over the side, so he leaned against the pickup parked next to him, ignoring the looks from inside, too exhausted to care about their outrage.

The barge weaved from side to side as it pushed against the thick, green carpet that suffocated the waters. Sooner or later, it would sink, Chico knew. At least once a month, it was grounded for repairs, stranding the people on his side. But beneath his feet, everything was rusting, the metal floors falling into sharp, oil-stained pits. Maybe one day the Party would build the bridge they had promised for so long. He could not help but shiver at the thought, seeing the throngs of tourists suddenly invading his home, leaving nothing behind but empty beer bottles and tire tracks across the dunes.

He jumped from the barge before the bridge was lowered to avoid the jostling crowd. The platform was slick with oil, but he clambered up the ramp as the barge crashed in behind him. To his right sprawled a restaurant, the concrete walls painted in bright red, with a veranda that extended out into the water. There, the mulungos sat to drink their beers while waiting for the barge, hounded by children. The kids made little crafts of reeds and straw, ingenious contraptions: pull the straw and the top spun into the air like a helicopter.

He set a brisk pace and kept to the side of the crumbling concrete road. He passed by the stalls, his stomach rumbling at the smell of apple bananas and roasted cashews. But that was short-lived, as he crossed the fish-market and its many rotting smells. Outside, a man held two large, bright red crabs, their pincers tied with strings. He jumped onto the middle of the road, forcing cars to stop so he could hawk his wares. Chico ignored it all, the frenetic chaos that lived just across the river, and kept walking until he crossed the forgotten train tracks, overgrown with plants and trees.

The slope ahead was steep, a mountain of silt and clay, down which cars raced, skidding along the curves. It was past midday, and the heat was at its fiercest. Out here, he missed the constant breeze from the sea that made it all bearable. When he finally crested the hill, he was panting and dripping in sweat. But it was worth it. Behind him, the Incomati river swelled, spilling over into the marshes, painting the world green before it bled into the ocean. From here, it looked untouched, a wild jungle no one could penetrate.

The truth was far more depressing.

The store was a concrete cubicle, crowded with dangling cables and boxes, the counter hidden behind metal bars.

“What do you want?” the owner asked, looking him up and down.

“A phone,” Chico said.

The man grabbed something from behind the counter, a grey brick, a phone older than Chico. “Three hundred.”

“Not that,” Chico said. “I need something with a camera. And internet.”

The man narrowed his eyes at him, then reached below the counter. “This one, used but works.”

The screen was cracked and some of the keys had fallen off, but it lit up when the man pressed the button, singing a soft song.

“It works? Everything?”

“It works. Two thousand.”

“I… I only have eighteen-hundred.”

“I’m not negotiating, boy. Got the money or not?”

“Look, really,” Chico emptied his pockets, holding out the crumpled notes. “Please. It's all I have.”

Maybe it was pity. Maybe the price was too high to begin with. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that it worked, he made sure before he left. This was it. If he could film it, if he could capture Nzunzu show the world, then everything would change.

Chico waited, watching the sun set, watching the stars rise, waiting for Nzunzu. His feet sank into the soft sand, waves rolling across his knees, tiny crabs sprouting to the surface in their wake.

“Nzunzu, I summon you!” He shouted into the ocean.

Again and again, he shouted, until his voice cracked and his throat was raw.

Exhausted, he crawled up the dune, slumping over the crest, staring helplessly out at the sea. The first rays of light broke over the dunes, while the ocean still slept in shadow. That's when he saw it, the pale form undulating beneath the waves. In a flash, it burst forward, shooting out into the sand. Chico stumbled backwards, and in that brief instant the serpent already towered above him, translucent fins waving rhythmically along the length of the worm’s body.

This time, Chico did not run. He faced the spirit, raising his trembling hands, the phone held out like a weapon.

“Nzunzu…” he whispered.

Pain shot through his temple, and he crumpled to his knees, vision pulsing with light. A feral shout tore from his throat.

“Nzunzu please,” he begged.

The pain faded, slowly, like a wave draining away. He peered with one eye, as Nzunzu stood before him, regal and imposing, dancing in the wind.

Letters appeared, twisting tendrils of light coiling around themselves, coalescing into words.

“I am not your god,” they read in Portuguese.

“Then… who are you?” Chico forced himself to his feet, legs trembling as he stared up at the white, slimy snake.

“Guests.”

“Guests? Of whom? Why do you come to me, Nzunzu?”

“I am not your god,” it repeated. “The biosphere cascade has begun. Now we must preserve.”

“I don’t understand,” Chico mumbled.

The sudden pain overwhelmed him and he fell to the ground, before oblivion mercifully arrived.

He awoke in a coffin.

Darkness was absolute. Inside the tight space, he felt around the curving metal walls and smooth glassy surfaces. He found the holes, where air whistled in, and nothing more. They had buried him. He pushed against the metal, straining with all his strength to no avail. He cursed Nzunzu, cursed his ancestors, cursed every watching spirit.

When he had lost all hope, he noticed it. Faint lights, dancing in the distance. It took a moment to realize he was moving. He was not buried beneath sand--he was buried beneath the waves. And there he saw the ships, those slim metal towers rising from the sea-bed, glowing red-hot as the water boiled and dead fish rained.