Chapter 16: Crocodile Smiles
1200 Words
The week began with a whimper.
Dodo's car sputtered to a halt just as she was about to turn into the school gate. Portia groaned from the passenger seat. Henry offered a bored shrug. A line of irritated parents hooted behind them, their vehicles gleaming in the Durban morning sun.
Dodo stepped out, kicked the tyre gently, then harder, as if fury could fix what oil and spanners could not. She paid a tow truck R450 she hadn't budgeted for, then a mechanic who promised a quick fix. Two days later, when the car refused to start again, she paid a second mechanic—twice as much.
By Thursday, she had R200 in her account, no petrol, and a week’s worth of grocery needs swirling in her head like laundry in a machine.
“Ma,” Portia said that evening, eyes glittering with excitement, “We’re going to Crocworld next week. The whole grade. We’ll see real crocodiles. Isn’t that crazy? They say there’s one that’s like five metres long! The teachers say we must pay R300 by Monday.”
Dodo's smile twitched. Crocworld. The lower South Coast. Air-conditioned buses. Packed lunches. Pocket money. She remembered her own first school trip at that age, the bright pink lunchbox her mother had packed with leftovers and half an apple.
She nodded, lips dry. “Okay. We’ll sort it.”
She waited until Portia had gone to bed, then messaged Portia’s father. The reply didn’t come from him. It came from his wife.
> Dodo, please stop ambushing us like this. We budget. If Portia needs anything, we must be informed ahead. Money doesn’t grow on trees.
The words scalded her. Like she had asked for Gucci. Like wanting her daughter to see a crocodile was unreasonable.
The next morning, at the taxi rank, as she gulped back frustration with the steam rising from her takeaway coffee, Dodo told Thuli everything.
“You’re wasting time,” Thuli said, chewing gum. “Why don’t you invest that money instead of begging for it?”
“Invest what money?”
“There’s this group. Sawina. My aunt did it. You start with R1500 and they double it. I got my payout in four hours.”
Dodo raised an eyebrow. “Four hours?”
“You want the money or not? If it works, you go to the next level. R5000. But you must move to the Telegram group. That’s where the serious ones are.”
Dodo hesitated. Then she remembered Portia’s face. The way her daughter had already started packing snacks.
That night, she took the last of her fuel money—R1500. Four hours later, her phone buzzed. R3000. Just like that.
She laughed out loud. Cried a little. “God, maybe you really are good.”
The next morning, she did the math. If R1500 became R3000, then R5000…
She opened Henry’s piggy bank and counted. R2000. He’d been saving all year. His w******p status was a screenshot of Carvella loafers.
She hesitated only a second. Then transferred her own R3000 and Henry’s R2000.
She sent the screenshot.
Four hours passed. Then six.
Nothing.
She texted the receptionist.
> We’re verifying your payment. Be patient.
At midnight, she tried again.
Blocked.
She sat in bed staring at her phone as if it might reverse the loss with a prayer or a scream. It stayed cold and blank.
In the morning, she called Thuli.
No answer.
She called again. Left a message.
That afternoon, Thuli answered with her usual bluster. “Are you sure you followed the instructions? I’ve been investing for months. Never had a problem.”
“I sent everything correctly. They blocked me.”
“You probably messed it up, sisi. I don’t know.”
Then—click.
Silence.
Had she hung up? Was it network? Dodo didn’t call back.
Instead, she went online.
She typed in: Investment doubling in four hours real?
Ten thousand warnings poured out of the screen. She read one, then another, and another. All scams. All promises of quick returns. All gone in seconds.
She closed her laptop. Pulled the duvet over her head. And wept.
She wept for Portia, who wouldn’t see the crocodiles. For Henry, who would open his piggy bank and find it light as smoke. For herself—for the slow, grinding despair of being a single mother trying to do everything, and never quite enough.
When her children got home, she stayed locked in her room. “I'm working,” she called out. “Writing something.”
She didn’t move until evening. She wiped her face, rubbed a little powder under her eyes, and stepped out with a wide, empty smile.
“Goodnight, babies.”
Portia blinked. “Are you okay?”
“Of course,” she said, hugging her too tight. “Just tired. You know, writing is like giving birth through your forehead.”
Portia didn’t laugh.
She watched her mother retreat down the passage, the smile still plastered on like a broken mask, and something about it felt wrong.
That night, when the house was finally quiet and the guilt no longer let her rest, Dodo opened her laptop again. This time, she opened a new document on her blog draft panel.
Title: The Crocodile Smile of Quick Money
By Dodo M.
You don’t need to go to Crocworld to meet a predator.
They live online now, in fake testimonials and crisp logos. They speak in voice notes with soft, soothing tones. They say things like “quick returns” and “short-term doubling.” They ask for proof of payment and give you just enough to taste hope. They bait you with your dreams and sink their teeth into your desperation.
I fell for it.
I am a mother. That means I juggle, stretch, improvise. I cut back on my own needs to buy my daughter a school trip she will never forget. I say “yes” when I want to say “maybe.” I panic in private and smile in public. I borrowed my son's future for the promise of something immediate.
And I got bitten.
Scams don’t always look like danger. Sometimes they come dressed as solutions. Sometimes, they feed off your desire to be everything for everyone. And sometimes, the face that tricks you isn’t a stranger—it’s a friend who means well but walks ahead without checking if the path still holds.
This week, I learned that shortcuts cost more than long roads. I learned that investing without understanding is gambling with borrowed chips. I learned that a mother can drown trying to build a lifeboat for her children.
I write this so someone else doesn’t fall in the same ditch. So someone else knows that when a stranger promises double in four hours, it’s not a gift—it’s a grin from a crocodile you can’t see until you’re halfway down its throat.
I’m not okay today. But I will be.
And so will my kids.
Tomorrow, I will tell them the truth. Not because I want pity—but because they need to see that even mothers fail and get back up.
Especially mothers.
#CrocodileSmiles #MothersFallToo #LessonsFromScars
- Writer
