“The Snake That Runs Our Shoprite Usave in Mokopane”

When my parents bought the Shoprite Usave in our small village near Mokopane, everyone thought it would be just another successful business. Rich, ambitious, and always chasing the next opportunity, they never imagined that their new venture would come with… a partner. A very unusual one.

A huge snake.

Not a garden variety, not something small and harmless. This was a massive serpent, coiled and silent, with eyes that seemed to see more than they should. My parents later explained that it was part of the franchise “success package.” Supposedly, it was there to ensure the store thrives. I didn’t believe them at first. Now, I wish I hadn’t.

Its home is the meat freezer. That explains why the meat often smells foul and rarely looks fresh. Customers complain, yet they keep buying. Some linger longer than usual, some leave extra money on the counter. It’s as if the snake isn’t just protecting the store—it’s influencing the people who enter it.

The snake doesn’t drink blood. It doesn’t attack. It doesn’t demand sacrifices. And yet… it controls more than just the store.

At night, it leaves the freezer. It slithers silently through the house, coiling around beds, chairs, even the kitchen floor. It sleeps with the entire family. You wake up to a cold, heavy presence beside you, and for a moment, you’re paralyzed—not with fear, but with the sense that it’s watching, judging, understanding.

And then there are the customers. I’ve seen it happen more than once. A grumpy man enters the store to complain about spoiled meat. By the time he leaves, he’s smiling, handing over extra coins, buying more than he planned. A woman comes in angry about the prices, and suddenly she insists on paying for a stranger’s groceries. It’s subtle, almost imperceptible, but undeniable. The snake manipulates. It doesn’t need to speak—it only needs to be present.

But the most terrifying part is what it does within the family. Lately, it has started choosing who sleeps closest to it. My siblings and I wake to find it coiled around one of us while leaving the others untouched. There’s no pattern, no warning—only a sense that it knows who it wants. Sometimes, the person it chooses wakes up feeling strangely calm, almost euphoric, while the rest of us feel restless and anxious.

It’s as if it’s asserting its own will, reminding us that while it may have come for the store, it now has a claim on our lives. The house feels heavier, darker. Dreams are filled with the sensation of cold scales sliding over skin, of eyes watching from the shadows. And yet, the business thrives. Sales are higher than anywhere else in the region. Employees work harder than ever, without knowing why. Customers keep returning. Everyone benefits… except, perhaps, the family that sleeps in the same house as the snake.

I’ve come to realize that this isn’t just a business partner. It’s a master, a silent manipulator, a guardian that controls more than we ever bargained for. It doesn’t just influence the store. It influences us, our minds, our bodies, our very will. In Mokopane, success isn’t earned—it’s given. And in my house, that gift comes with a coiled, cold price: a snake that sees everything, influences everyone, and now, chooses whom it touches, as if deciding who in the family will remain under its control… and who might not.