In Uganda’s land on a moonless night,
In March, beneath the pale starlight,
An old man crouched with breath held tight—
John Manene, eyes sharp with fright.
He wasn’t alone in that village deep,
Where shadows crawled and none could sleep.
For fourteen years, they’d lived in dread,
Eighty-three souls were found long dead.
Children vanished without a trace,
The butchered lost in death’s embrace.
A creeping fear had seized their home—
A force unknown, a curse long grown.
Some blamed the gods, some spoke of hell,
Of demons dark with deadly spell.
And most just sighed, “We can’t fight fate.
This evil’s ours to tolerate.”
But John had lived through war and pain,
Raised children through the drought and rain.
And when a boy was taken last,
He swore that night would be the past.
He roused the men with burning plea,
“We stake out near the butcher’s tree.
We’ll hide in reeds beside the lake,
And watch until this curse we break.”
So off they went, with hearts unsure,
To face what none would dare endure.
The butchery—where death had fed—
Became the ground they feared to tread.
They crouched each night with bated breath,
To catch the source of all this death.
Yet six days passed with nothing seen,
No shadows stirred, the skies stayed clean.
But John, still firm, refused retreat—
“Tonight,” he vowed, “we’ll use fresh meat.
We’ll hang it high, and bait the air,
Let evil know we’re waiting there.”
And so they strung raw organs red,
Among the trees where souls had bled.
Then once again they took their place,
Each eye fixed on the water’s face.
The hours crept, the silence thick,
The night was black, the time moved quick.
Till near the dawn, a growl arose,
A sound from where the black lake flows.
The water shook, the rumbling grew,
Like thunder rolling cold and true.
Then from the lake, a shape emerged—
A beast from nightmares slowly surged.
A giant form of scale and bite,
It moved like death, it crushed the night.
But when it lunged for hanging flesh,
A hook sank deep into its mesh.
It roared and thrashed, the trap held tight,
Its power locked in moon’s pale light.
And John, though trembling, raced away—
“To arms!” he cried, “At dawn of day!”
The village woke and came as one,
Their torches flared like morning sun.
And there it was—no ghost, no sin—
But nature’s wrath with ancient skin.
A crocodile, a monster wide,
With hunger man could never bide.
Sixteen feet and iron jaws,
Two thousand pounds with lethal claws.
For years it dragged the young and old,
To lake’s deep heart so dark and cold.
And those who’d seen it met their fate—
Too late to warn, too dead to hate.
The law came fast, the beast was chained,
Its reign of terror now constrained.
They did not kill the monster king,
But moved it far from suffering.
So now that village breathes in peace,
Their nightly cries and killings cease.
Yet legends tell of John’s brave stand—
The night they took their fate in hand.