Bafia, Cameroon, November 26, 1980.

I’ve just returned home from work after stopping for a few beers and brochettes.  I read over my letters and get ready to wash up when I see the green mamba.  Not again.

Yesterday a black mamba joined me in the living room.  With the help of two construction workers, we chased it with sticks.  Somehow it disappeared through the kitchen.  Remembering something about a board belonging under the kitchen door.

Today, I grab my machete and search the house, cornering the intruder in the bedroom closet.  He’s hiding in my white Adidas gym bag.  Well, I’m not going through this anymore.  So I begin to relentlessly whack the bag.  There’s no motion, so I lift the bag with the machete and carry it outside.

My neighbor’s three sons come to see what’s happening.  I tell them there’s a snake in there, hoping it’s dead.  They’re beyond excited.  We circle the bag, stretch our necks.  I peek inside, tell them I’m going to open it.  They take cover.  It looks dead, but I make sure.  They take the Adidas bag.

I sleep with the machete by my side.  The board goes back under the kitchen door.