He was called the Snake Man. He came from a long tradition of snake sympathizers. He had grown more familiar with snakes than people. He couldn’t forget the first time, he saw one. He was seven years old and he was sleeping next to his mother that night. It was raining hard. He felt something cold rush by his leg, he didn’t open his eyes, thinking that it might just be a rat, but then he felt it again. This time he woke up to meet face to face with a ten foot mamba who was staring straight in his eyes. Fear had caught his voice in his throat and no sound was going to come out. They stared at each other for a moment that felt like an eternity and then all of a sudden as if the snake had made its point, it left the hut. Now was a good time to scream and alert his parents, but he didn’t. He had felt a sense of familiarity as he stared into the eyes of the serpent. He remembered the stories his father had told him about the totem of his tribe and wondered what it meant. The next morning when he told his father about what had happened, he saw his father swell up with pride and tell him: “I’m so proud of you, my son. You are finally ready. Our ancestors have spoken: You are ready to start your training as the future Snake Man.”
Today he was showing to the whole village why he was the Snake Man, giving the kiss of death to one of the most venomous snake on Earth without any harm. Just another kiss, just another day.