Pride Eats First

The creature arrived during the monsoon season, when the sea thrashed against the shore and lightning cracked open the night sky. Ebo found it huddled beneath the sprawling roots of a mangrove tree, no larger than a rabbit, its leathery wings folded tight against its trembling body. Water dripped from its iridescent scales as it gazed up at him with eyes like polished amber.

Ebo should have killed it then. Everyone knew the stories.

Instead, he wrapped it in his tattered shirt and carried it back to the hut where fourteen siblings slept on woven mats and brick pillows. His mother wasn't home—she never was at this hour, too busy selling whatever she could to feed her children. With practiced stealth, he tucked the creature into a basket beneath his sleeping mat and covered it with dried palm leaves.

"I'll keep you safe," he whispered, though he wasn't sure why.

Life on the island of Kivuli was harsh but predictable. The elders said they had been forgotten by the gods, left to scratch an existence from volcanic soil while across the water, the Mainland glowed with the promise of abundance. Ebo had seen the lights at night, distant and tantalizing, like stars fallen to earth.

At sixteen, he was the second youngest of his mother's children and the only one who still dreamed of escape. His older siblings had resigned themselves to island life—fishing, farming, crafting trinkets for the rare merchant ships that docked in their harbor. His father, a village chief with five wives, had never acknowledged him beyond the cursory naming ceremony.

The creature grew quickly. Within weeks, it was the size of a housecat, its wings spanning twice its body length. Ebo fed it fish scraps and fruit, sacrificing portions of his own meager meals. At night, he would take it to the beach to fly, watching as it spiraled above the waves, a shadow against the moon.

"One day," he told it, "you'll be strong enough to carry me to the Mainland."

The ancient stories whispered across cooking fires warned of such creatures. Winged serpents from the deep waters, they said, could indeed ferry a person across the strait, but at a terrible price. Once on the other side, you must destroy the creature immediately, or it would consume your soul.

Ebo named his creature Ndoto. Dream.

"You spend too much time alone on the beach," his mother said one evening as she sorted through the day's earnings—a few worn coins and a handful of beads. Her face, once beautiful, had been weathered by sun and worry until it resembled the dried gourds they used for water. "A boy your age should be learning a trade, finding a wife."

"What future is there here?" Ebo asked, gesturing to their cramped hut, to the holes in the thatch roof that leaked during rainstorms.

His mother's hands paused in their counting. "Better a hard life with honor than an easy one built on air." Her eyes narrowed. "You've been listening to the forbidden tales again. About crossings."

Ebo looked away. "They're just stories."

She grabbed his chin, forcing him to meet her gaze. "Listen to me, son. Those who leave this island come back changed, if they come back at all. The Mainland devours what is good in a person. You think your father was always as he is now? He returned from there with gold in his pockets and ice in his heart."

Ebo hadn't known his father had once crossed. It explained much—the chief's fine clothes, his brick house on the hill, his contempt for island ways.

"I'm not like him," Ebo said softly.

His mother released him. "No one thinks they are, until they are."

That night, as Ndoto curled against his chest, now the size of a small dog, Ebo made his decision. He would cross, but he would be different. He would send back wealth to his mother and siblings. He would not forget where he came from.

And when the time came, he would do what was necessary.

Three months after finding Ndoto, Ebo prepared for his crossing. The creature was now the size of a goat, its wingspan impressive enough to carry his weight. He had tested it on short flights around the island's secluded northern cliffs.

The night before his departure, his youngest sister, Masozi, followed him to the beach. Only six, she had her mother's intuitive eyes and stubborn chin.

"Where are you going, Ebo?" she asked, watching him feed Ndoto chunks of dried fish.

Ebo startled. "Masozi! You should be sleeping."

She ignored his admonishment, approaching Ndoto with fearless curiosity. "It's beautiful. Like in the stories grandmother tells."

"You can't tell anyone about it," he said urgently. "Promise me."

She looked up at him, her small face serious in the moonlight. "You're leaving us, aren't you?"

Ebo knelt before her. "I have to try, Masozi. For all of us. There's nothing for me here."

"Mother will cry."

"She is strong. And I'll send for you all, once I've made my way."

Masozi touched Ndoto's scaled head with gentle fingers. The creature leaned into her touch. "The stories say you must kill it when you reach the other side."

Ebo's throat tightened. "I know what the stories say."

"Will you do it?"

He couldn't answer.

Dawn was breaking when Ebo mounted Ndoto's back, a small pack of provisions tied around his waist. The creature's muscles bunched beneath him as it spread its magnificent wings, now spanning fifteen feet from tip to tip. With a powerful thrust, they were airborne, climbing above the mists that shrouded Kivuli.

Below, the island grew smaller—the collection of huts, the fishing boats, the narrow plots of farmland. Ebo spotted his mother returning from her night's work, a lone figure trudging up the path toward their home. His heart constricted with love and guilt.

"Goodbye," he whispered, though the wind tore the word away.

The crossing took hours. Ndoto flew steadily, powerful wings beating against the air currents. Halfway across, a storm threatened, dark clouds gathering to the west. Ebo leaned low against the creature's neck, whispering encouragement as they raced against the approaching tempest.

The Mainland coastline emerged from the haze like a promised land—lush and green, dotted with structures larger than anything on Kivuli. Ndoto began to descend toward a secluded stretch of beach, away from the fishing villages and port facilities visible farther down the shore.

As they spiraled downward, Ebo felt the weight of decision pressing upon him. The knife at his belt seemed suddenly heavy. The stories were clear: the moment he touched Mainland soil, he must destroy the creature. If he hesitated, if he showed mercy, Ndoto would transform into something monstrous, something that would consume him from within.

They landed on wet sand. Ndoto folded its wings and turned to look at him, those amber eyes trusting and warm. Ebo drew his knife, raised it high.

And couldn't bring it down.

"I won't hurt you," he said, sheathing the blade. "You saved me. We'll find another way."

Ndoto nudged his hand with its snout, purring like distant thunder.

The elders, Ebo decided, were wrong. Or perhaps the stories had been twisted over generations, meant to discourage crossings rather than warn of real danger. Ndoto had shown no signs of turning malevolent. They would stay together, hidden from prying eyes until Ebo found his footing in this new world.

He didn't notice the faint crimson glow that flickered in Ndoto's eyes as they walked away from the shore, toward the promise of the Mainland.

Ten years passed like water through cupped hands.

Ebo Kivuli, as he now called himself—taking the island's name as his own—had risen through the ranks of Mainland society with bewildering speed. His natural intelligence, coupled with a hunger born from deprivation, drove him to excel. He began as a dockworker, then a merchant's assistant, then a trader in his own right. By twenty-six, he owned three trading vessels and a fine house in the Mainland's capital.

He married Zuri, the daughter of a prominent family who saw in Ebo not an island refugee but a man of uncommon ambition and charm. They had a son, Jabari, upon whom Ebo lavished the attention he had never received from his own father.

True to his promise, he sent money back to Kivuli, enough to build his mother a proper house and establish his siblings in various trades. But he never returned to visit, and as the years passed, their letters grew fewer.

Throughout it all, Ndoto remained with him, though the creature had changed. It grew larger, more serpentine, its once-iridescent scales darkening to the color of dried blood. Ebo could no longer keep it in the house; instead, he converted an old stone outbuilding on his property into a special chamber. There, he would bring offerings—first just food, then objects of beauty, and finally, secrets whispered in the dark.

For Ndoto fed on more than meat now. It fed on Ebo's pride, his ambitions, his ruthlessness in business. And in return, it granted him insights—where to invest, which rivals would fall, what whispers in what ears would advance his interests.

"You worry too much about your family on that wretched island," it told him one night, its voice a rasp like stones dragged across metal. "They hold you back. Cut those ties. Become who you were meant to be."

Ebo resisted, but less forcefully each time.

When Jabari turned eighteen, Ebo announced his plans for his son's future: he would study medicine abroad, then return to establish a practice serving the Mainland's elite.

"I've already arranged everything," Ebo told his wife and son over dinner in their opulent dining room. "The finest medical school in the Western nations has agreed to accept him."

Jabari set down his fork. "Father, I've told you before. I don't want to be a doctor. I want to study art and literature."

"Nonsense," Ebo said, waving away the objection. "There's no future in such pursuits. Medicine brings prestige, connections, a worthy legacy to build upon."

"It's not my legacy—it's yours," Jabari said quietly. "Just as your father tried to force his vision upon you."

Ebo's hand tightened around his wine glass. "You know nothing of my father."

"I know you fled your home to escape his control, only to become him."

Zuri placed a calming hand on her husband's arm. "Perhaps we should discuss this another time."

But Ebo was already rising from his chair, anger pulsing in his temples. "You will obey me in this, Jabari. I did not sacrifice everything to give you a life of ease, only for you to throw it away on foolish dreams."

Jabari stood as well, his young face set in lines of determination that reminded Ebo painfully of his own mother. "I'm not going. I've already applied to the arts academy, and I've been accepted."

"Then you'll do so without my support," Ebo snapped. "Not a single coin."

"Ebo!" Zuri gasped.

"I expected as much," Jabari said, his voice steady despite the hurt in his eyes. "Fortunately, I've secured a scholarship. And there's something else you should know." He took a deep breath. "I'm in love. Her name is Adanna. She's a Western woman I met at the academy open house. We plan to marry after we graduate."

The room seemed to tilt beneath Ebo's feet. A Western woman. A foreigner. His son's defiance cut deep, but this revelation was a knife to his heart. All his plans, his carefully cultivated connections with powerful Mainland families, unraveling before his eyes.

"Get out," he whispered. "Get out of my house."

That night, Ebo visited Ndoto's chamber, his mind clouded with rage. The creature had grown enormous over the years, barely fitting in the converted outbuilding, its wings folded tightly against the stone walls.

"He defies me," Ebo said, pacing before the creature. "After everything I've given him. After everything I've sacrificed."

Ndoto's eyes gleamed in the darkness. "The boy threatens all you've built. This Western woman will dilute your bloodline, weaken your position among the Mainland elite."

"What can I do? He won't listen to reason."

The creature stretched its neck toward him, scales rasping against stone. "There are ways to... discourage such unsuitable attachments. If the girl were to receive threats, perhaps evidence of a scandal involving her family..."

"You would have me destroy his happiness?"

"Sometimes we must break what we love to save it," Ndoto whispered. "Didn't your island elders tell you that? Isn't that why they insisted you should have killed me?"

Ebo stared at the creature, suddenly seeing it clearly for the first time in years. It had grown grotesque, its once-beautiful features twisted into something monstrous. And he realized with a sickening clarity that the stories had been right after all. Not about Ndoto's physical transformation, but about what the creature did to one's soul.

"No," he said. "I won't do it."

Ndoto's mouth curved in what might have been a smile. "You already have, old friend. I sent the letters this morning, in your name. Quite convincing, if I do say so. The girl will receive them tomorrow."

Horror washed over Ebo like ice water. "What have you done?"

"Only what you truly wanted," Ndoto said. "Deep down, where your pride lives."

Ebo rushed from the chamber, intent on warning Jabari, on somehow intercepting the vile messages sent in his name. But as he approached the main house, he saw his son already loading bags into a carriage, Zuri standing nearby, tears streaming down her face.

"Jabari!" he called. "Wait!"

His son turned, face hard with betrayal. "Haven't you done enough? Adanna just received your threats. How could you, Father? How could you sink so low?"

"It wasn't me," Ebo began, then stopped. It had been him, in every way that mattered. He had nurtured the creature, fed it with his ambition and pride, allowed it to twist him into something unrecognizable.

Just like his father before him.

Jabari climbed into the carriage. "Goodbye, Father. I hope someday you remember the man you wanted to be when you left that island."

As the carriage pulled away, Ebo felt something break inside him—not his pride, but the shell it had built around his heart. He turned to Zuri.

"I've become everything I swore I wouldn't," he said, his voice hollow. "I don't know how to find my way back."

Zuri's eyes were sad but not unsympathetic. "Begin by destroying what destroyed you."

The stone chamber seemed smaller when Ebo returned, torch in hand. Ndoto filled every corner, its massive body coiled around the perimeter, its wings pressed against the ceiling. Its eyes followed him as he entered.

"Back so soon?" it purred. "Did you come to thank me for solving your problem?"

"I came to finish what I should have done twenty years ago," Ebo said, raising the torch. "When I first set foot on the Mainland."

Ndoto laughed, a sound like breaking glass. "You can't destroy me, Ebo. I am as much a part of you as your own heartbeat. I am your ambition, your desire for more than you were given. I am your rebellion against the limits of your birth."

"No," Ebo said. "You are what happens when ambition becomes corruption. When desire turns to greed. When rebellion forgets its purpose."

He stepped forward, torch extended. Ndoto reared back, suddenly wary.

"Think carefully, old friend. Without me, what are you? A nothing. An island boy playing at success. Everything you've built, you've built through me."

Ebo's hand trembled. Could he do it? Could he sacrifice all he had achieved? His wealth, his position, the respect he'd clawed from a society that initially saw him as nothing?

Then he thought of Jabari's face, of his mother's warnings, of little Masozi asking if he would have the courage to do what was necessary.

"Not everything," he said. "And what remains will be enough."

He thrust the torch against the creature's wing. Ndoto shrieked, a sound that shattered the night, as flames caught on the leathery membrane. Fire spread quickly, engulfing the massive body. Ebo stepped back as the heat intensified, watching as decades of his pride burned away.

The strangest thing happened as Ndoto burned—Ebo felt lighter, as though chains were falling from his soul. Each scream from the creature seemed to clear his mind further, until he stood before the conflagration not as a wealthy trader or a failed father, but simply as himself—the boy who had once dreamed of a better life for those he loved.

When it was done, when nothing remained but ash and embers, Ebo walked out under the stars. Dawn was breaking over the Mainland, the first light touching the distant horizon where, beyond sight, Kivuli waited.

He thought of his mother's words from so long ago: "Better a hard life with honor than an easy one built on air."

For the first time in twenty years, Ebo knew what he had to do. Finding Jabari would be his first step, but not his last. There was an island calling him home.

And this time, he would cross the water with nothing on his back but the weight of his own choices.