July 27, 2007
Kejetia Market
Kumasi, Ghana
Kejetia. From where does this name come? I don’t know what Kumasi’s main market, rumuored to be one of the largest in West Africa, is named for but that’s not important. What is important is that I need a tennis racquet, and can’t seem to find one.
There are courts out at the university, you see, where we are staying for only another two weeks. Of course, I could go out there any time to play until we shove off completely from this town. Wouldn’t you know it, the only tennis racquets I’ve been able to find were in a specialty shop, and they were quality items — Head, Penn, etc. — worth the price tag of 1.8 million cedis, or roughly$180 USD. That’s what you’d pay for them out West, and here, it seems.
But no, I’m not dropping that kind of cash on a tennis racquet I may or may not use more than once while I’m in West Africa. Therefore, unto Kejetia.
You’d think you’d find one in here, you really would. Long, tight paths snake their way through this inner-city shantytown of wooden frames and currogated tin roofs that is home to any consumer good you could buy or imagine. Not high end stuff, no automobiles or Gucci sunglasses (although plenty of knockoffs). But any one thing — tape, a stuffed teddy bear, pencil crayons — you can find in Kejetia. It’s like the African concept of WalMart, without the corporate infrastructure but with mud floors clogged with garbage and stalls where they butcher raw meat.
To get here you walk from Adum where the banks are downhill to the heart of Kumasi where snarled roads meet in a roundabout. Across the street is the entranceway, which is always thronged with crushing humanity walking to and fro, mostly market women carrying merchandise in great metal basins atop their heads. Take a deep breath and step into the tide. From this moment onward, you will not stop moving.
Pick a lane, there are a few to choose from. That way will take you through mechanical parts. This way’s the way to ladies hosiery. If it’s groceries you want work your way to the middle. What? A tennis racquet… go left here, then ask somebody.
Down this small pathway between the stalls in the line among mostly female Africans you keep moving, keep moving. Do not stop. To stop is to clog the system — pressure builds behind you as you bend to tie your shoe. There’s only really enough room on the path between stalls for one human to walk comfortably but true to form the Africans make things bigger than they are, so there are two lines of opposing human traffic and you are stopping one of them, so move.
The ladies at the stalls call a greeting as you pass; they’re not used to seeing a white man in here, and what’s he doing in hosiery? No time to stop and chat though, the girl behind you will bash you with her metal basin if you pause. It’s a miracle she hasn’t already, but her kind are adept with their headgear. Years of practice.
Tennis racquet? You mean like this? No, it’s for badminton, right… what’s the difference? Bigger? Oh, you mean a tennis racquet…. No, for that you’ve got to go to town. You already came from town? Well, you’ll have to go back and look again.
Just head towards the chili powder and take a right. When you come to a building wall follow it until you can squeeze through an alley to the street. Ask for a guy named Kofi, my brother; he’ll know about tennis. (G)
Wednesday, August 1, 2007
Monday, July 23, 2007
Hospitality, Ghana style
July 17-19, 2007
Obuasi, Ghana
Like the shy smile that escapes from the stoic expression of a Ghanaian security guard or an old woman selling snails in the market, Ghanaian hospitality is unexpected. Unexpected, but once extended ultimately warm and genuine.
Take for example a recent trip to Obuasi, a gold mining town not far from Kumasi. While there a colleague and I were warmly welcomed. We were invited into homes, well fed, watered and encouraged to relax with a Star beer in hand while listening to wall-shaking loud Christian rock music. Women cooked our meals outside over charcoal pits; another woman, the wife of Bernard who took time off from his job as news editor of a local radio station to guide us, also spent hours preparing food for the guests from out of town.
Always, I ate with the men, secretly wanting to be let into the world of the women; cooking, tending to the children, knowing how they make so much from so little. A handshake, a modest bow was my only contact. After our meal made over the charcoal pit I met the women. The electricity suddenly cut out in an all-to-common blackout and we stood talking, laughing in the dark. Then the rains came, swift and unexpected. One woman handed me her umbrella; another guided me out the door.
Later that evening we were offered a ride by a man who had room in his car. The next day we drank pito, a fermented drink from palm trees with the galamsayers (illegal miners) in the bush. They too were hospitable, warm, welcoming, despite the job we were both there to do, which was tell their unfortunate story.
And then there was the legal mine worker at Anglogold Ashanti who insisted he stop the car so he could harvest some corn for us from the company’s property. Or the women we met while on a father visit with Bernard. He was there to see the child he had with another woman. We left nothing bur rather walked away with meat pies for our trip back to Kumasi.
Ghanaians are quick to socialize and to extend an offer to socialize with them by offering the best chair in the house (even if it means it comes from a bedroom at the back of the house), an overturned bowl or a stool to sit on.
Unexpected and greatly appreciated. Makes me wonder what I am giving in return. (T)
Obuasi, Ghana
Like the shy smile that escapes from the stoic expression of a Ghanaian security guard or an old woman selling snails in the market, Ghanaian hospitality is unexpected. Unexpected, but once extended ultimately warm and genuine.
Take for example a recent trip to Obuasi, a gold mining town not far from Kumasi. While there a colleague and I were warmly welcomed. We were invited into homes, well fed, watered and encouraged to relax with a Star beer in hand while listening to wall-shaking loud Christian rock music. Women cooked our meals outside over charcoal pits; another woman, the wife of Bernard who took time off from his job as news editor of a local radio station to guide us, also spent hours preparing food for the guests from out of town.
Always, I ate with the men, secretly wanting to be let into the world of the women; cooking, tending to the children, knowing how they make so much from so little. A handshake, a modest bow was my only contact. After our meal made over the charcoal pit I met the women. The electricity suddenly cut out in an all-to-common blackout and we stood talking, laughing in the dark. Then the rains came, swift and unexpected. One woman handed me her umbrella; another guided me out the door.
Later that evening we were offered a ride by a man who had room in his car. The next day we drank pito, a fermented drink from palm trees with the galamsayers (illegal miners) in the bush. They too were hospitable, warm, welcoming, despite the job we were both there to do, which was tell their unfortunate story.
And then there was the legal mine worker at Anglogold Ashanti who insisted he stop the car so he could harvest some corn for us from the company’s property. Or the women we met while on a father visit with Bernard. He was there to see the child he had with another woman. We left nothing bur rather walked away with meat pies for our trip back to Kumasi.
Ghanaians are quick to socialize and to extend an offer to socialize with them by offering the best chair in the house (even if it means it comes from a bedroom at the back of the house), an overturned bowl or a stool to sit on.
Unexpected and greatly appreciated. Makes me wonder what I am giving in return. (T)
Pieces from Obuasi
July 17-19
Obuasi, Ghana
When I should have taken a picture
A small child, maybe three years old, squats atop a huge mound of garbage in a community near Obuasi, about an hour’s drive south of Kumasi. The mound is taller than the highest building in a 10-kilometre radius. People are selling oranges, meat pies at the base of the mound, and a mechanic shop spills out from the foothills of the heap. Meanwhile, the young girl is crouched. I watch her; she uses her left hand to wipe, somehow managing to balance herself atop layers of trash. I’m not the only one watching. A tin can’s throw from the girl sits a vulture about the size as her. We both watch. I walk away and the bird stays, no doubt hoping to claim its piece of paradise.
***
Mob justice – do you want my cell phone?
Am walking back to the guesthouse with a colleague when a crowd gathers in front of us. They’re yelling. It’s difficult to see what’s happening in the dark as I struggle for firm footing on a road that’s quickly turning into a mudslide. I hear screams that sound like a wounded animal. We stop and ask what’s going on and are told a young man was caught trying to steal a woman’s cell phone. “It’s not that serious,” my colleague says, pushing me on. “They won’t kill him.” Is that supposed to be a relief?
Where am I?
Ama, 17 years old, strips naked and sings. We watch from a distance and a staff member of the Pentecost Prayer camp is instructed to clothe her and tell her to calm down. There is an oboruni visitor, says the pastor.
Later Ama’s mother explains that her daughter ate cake that had a concoction in it, a mixture of juju (aka voodoo) and cocoa, and that’s what made her “mad.” Ama is in chains; she clings to me, calls me her friend. She speaks in Twi, her voice shakes and she tugs at the chain on her ankle.
Another girl, visibly mentally handicapped, flails her arms, moans to communicate and cries out when people approach her. She’s eight and wants to move freely but can’t.
A man who uses a blue plastic bucket as a drum becomes tired and folds himself onto the hard cement floor.
He unwraps scraps of paper from the cloth that he uses as a shirt. He says this is his cash and extends his hand asking for a thousand cedis. “Give me thousand, thousand,” he says.
The pastor prays, hands in the air. Women surround him, murmuring “Jesus, Jesus,” competing to be heard over each other’s voices. Adding to the din are the disabled girl, who keeps moaning and the chained man who keeps chanting, “thousand cedis, thousand cedis.”
Destitute and depressing
A 100-year-old Ghanaian man looks a lot like a tree trunk; gnarled but somehow strong. The 100-year-old man I met recently is living at what the government calls a home for the destitute. The owner calls the man an ‘inmate.’ His eyes belie his situation and tell a story that upon a hurried, sideways glance looked desperate. I averted my eyes wanting to respect both his age and his Muslim beliefs.
He, a man who had a stroke 12 years ago, and a blind mentally handicapped boy whose family left him at a bus stop a few months ago are classified as Ghana’s destitute. Living amongst them is 70-year-old Ernest. White, British, wealthy and married to a Ghanaian woman half his age who works at the home. We meet, he extends a hand, that same hand later gropes his wife, his wife’s sister and anyone else who comes within reach. He, unlike the rest of the ‘inmates’ chooses to live here. (T)
Obuasi, Ghana
When I should have taken a picture
A small child, maybe three years old, squats atop a huge mound of garbage in a community near Obuasi, about an hour’s drive south of Kumasi. The mound is taller than the highest building in a 10-kilometre radius. People are selling oranges, meat pies at the base of the mound, and a mechanic shop spills out from the foothills of the heap. Meanwhile, the young girl is crouched. I watch her; she uses her left hand to wipe, somehow managing to balance herself atop layers of trash. I’m not the only one watching. A tin can’s throw from the girl sits a vulture about the size as her. We both watch. I walk away and the bird stays, no doubt hoping to claim its piece of paradise.
***
Mob justice – do you want my cell phone?
Am walking back to the guesthouse with a colleague when a crowd gathers in front of us. They’re yelling. It’s difficult to see what’s happening in the dark as I struggle for firm footing on a road that’s quickly turning into a mudslide. I hear screams that sound like a wounded animal. We stop and ask what’s going on and are told a young man was caught trying to steal a woman’s cell phone. “It’s not that serious,” my colleague says, pushing me on. “They won’t kill him.” Is that supposed to be a relief?
Where am I?
Ama, 17 years old, strips naked and sings. We watch from a distance and a staff member of the Pentecost Prayer camp is instructed to clothe her and tell her to calm down. There is an oboruni visitor, says the pastor.
Later Ama’s mother explains that her daughter ate cake that had a concoction in it, a mixture of juju (aka voodoo) and cocoa, and that’s what made her “mad.” Ama is in chains; she clings to me, calls me her friend. She speaks in Twi, her voice shakes and she tugs at the chain on her ankle.
Another girl, visibly mentally handicapped, flails her arms, moans to communicate and cries out when people approach her. She’s eight and wants to move freely but can’t.
A man who uses a blue plastic bucket as a drum becomes tired and folds himself onto the hard cement floor.
He unwraps scraps of paper from the cloth that he uses as a shirt. He says this is his cash and extends his hand asking for a thousand cedis. “Give me thousand, thousand,” he says.
The pastor prays, hands in the air. Women surround him, murmuring “Jesus, Jesus,” competing to be heard over each other’s voices. Adding to the din are the disabled girl, who keeps moaning and the chained man who keeps chanting, “thousand cedis, thousand cedis.”
Destitute and depressing
A 100-year-old Ghanaian man looks a lot like a tree trunk; gnarled but somehow strong. The 100-year-old man I met recently is living at what the government calls a home for the destitute. The owner calls the man an ‘inmate.’ His eyes belie his situation and tell a story that upon a hurried, sideways glance looked desperate. I averted my eyes wanting to respect both his age and his Muslim beliefs.
He, a man who had a stroke 12 years ago, and a blind mentally handicapped boy whose family left him at a bus stop a few months ago are classified as Ghana’s destitute. Living amongst them is 70-year-old Ernest. White, British, wealthy and married to a Ghanaian woman half his age who works at the home. We meet, he extends a hand, that same hand later gropes his wife, his wife’s sister and anyone else who comes within reach. He, unlike the rest of the ‘inmates’ chooses to live here. (T)
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Obruni trio incites small riot in tro-tro park
July 6, 2007
Korfidua, Ghana
*Special Guest appearance by N. Lesaux
When teaching children that you can’t believe everything you hear or read, I might use the example that in some countries, like Ghana, roosters crow much before dawn. A good segue to a more serious discussion about people bending the truth a little or a “rule of thumb” that doesn’t always apply.
On a typically hot Friday, in an eastern Ghana crowded tro-tro park, Trish, Graeme, and I arrived on our return to Kumasi. Reportedly, there was a tro-tro leaving imminently. I deemed the tro-tro in question to be "full"; it appeared two to a seat. But, the mate who deals in tro-tro logistics ensured Graeme—a trusting guy—there was space for us and our sturdy, Canadian-made packs. It wasn’t in our best interest to express doubt.
With the work of three men, our packs were compressed into new shapes, and the back doors barely closed. Our eyes on the luggage and Trish buying a baggie of popcorn (a harbinger, really), we were clearly focused on the wrong things. Inside the seemingly full tro-tro, a heated conversation in Twi between the mate and passengers was taking place. In just seconds, before we could see exactly what was happening, there was a flurry of honking and the tro-tro, now carrying our packs, drove across the chaotic parking lot where the heated discussion escalated. We quickly followed. With passengers on their seats’ edges waving their tickets, Trish asks, “What’s the problem here?” Various folks explain that they have purchased tickets, yet the mate tells them at least one person has to get off. Borrowing Trish’s words, many exclaim “it’s not fair,” and Trish reassures them they have a seat.
Next, Graeme (like Alexander having a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day) is whisked into the middle seat of the front row, where he sat motionless for several hours so as not to shift gears for the driver. Still at the door, Trish and I were insistent we wouldn’t bump anyone off. The mate motioned for each of us to take a jumpseat at the door. Maybe the mate isn’t riding? Nope, he was riding and took it upon himself to share Trish’s jumpseat; by journey’s end, the three of us were busy naming capital cities of countries worldwide.
The ride itself was entirely uneventful. In hindsight, there wasn’t room for three, white or black. And, as someone who advocates for people with disabilities, I can’t help but worry about the dwarf who disembarked from the tro tro as the scene in the park started to brew… (N)
Korfidua, Ghana
*Special Guest appearance by N. Lesaux
When teaching children that you can’t believe everything you hear or read, I might use the example that in some countries, like Ghana, roosters crow much before dawn. A good segue to a more serious discussion about people bending the truth a little or a “rule of thumb” that doesn’t always apply.
On a typically hot Friday, in an eastern Ghana crowded tro-tro park, Trish, Graeme, and I arrived on our return to Kumasi. Reportedly, there was a tro-tro leaving imminently. I deemed the tro-tro in question to be "full"; it appeared two to a seat. But, the mate who deals in tro-tro logistics ensured Graeme—a trusting guy—there was space for us and our sturdy, Canadian-made packs. It wasn’t in our best interest to express doubt.
With the work of three men, our packs were compressed into new shapes, and the back doors barely closed. Our eyes on the luggage and Trish buying a baggie of popcorn (a harbinger, really), we were clearly focused on the wrong things. Inside the seemingly full tro-tro, a heated conversation in Twi between the mate and passengers was taking place. In just seconds, before we could see exactly what was happening, there was a flurry of honking and the tro-tro, now carrying our packs, drove across the chaotic parking lot where the heated discussion escalated. We quickly followed. With passengers on their seats’ edges waving their tickets, Trish asks, “What’s the problem here?” Various folks explain that they have purchased tickets, yet the mate tells them at least one person has to get off. Borrowing Trish’s words, many exclaim “it’s not fair,” and Trish reassures them they have a seat.
Next, Graeme (like Alexander having a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day) is whisked into the middle seat of the front row, where he sat motionless for several hours so as not to shift gears for the driver. Still at the door, Trish and I were insistent we wouldn’t bump anyone off. The mate motioned for each of us to take a jumpseat at the door. Maybe the mate isn’t riding? Nope, he was riding and took it upon himself to share Trish’s jumpseat; by journey’s end, the three of us were busy naming capital cities of countries worldwide.
The ride itself was entirely uneventful. In hindsight, there wasn’t room for three, white or black. And, as someone who advocates for people with disabilities, I can’t help but worry about the dwarf who disembarked from the tro tro as the scene in the park started to brew… (N)
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Briny Ocean Toss...
July 2, 2007
Ada, Ghana
Long ferry rides between Pictou and Prince Edward Island, time in a rubber dinghy and standing on a pier anywhere in the world always make me long for home. Call it the salty sea air, the familiar rhythm of the waves, or plain ole maritime nostalgia, the longing to be close to the water is a part of me. A part, that with time and distance from home, encrusts like a barnacle to my memory.
And so it was that I happened on the Atlantic Ocean (on this side of the world!) recently; the North Atlantic’s hotter and more rollicking cousin, the South Atlantic.
(*Note: Images of beach only, courtesy N. Leseaux. The Bald Guy took the camera, hence the absence of photos of the actual ocean voyage about to be described...)
My shipmates: a crew of Ghanaian competitive deep sea fishermen, a fellow Canadian and Moses, a Ghanaian who had never been to sea before. (Note: A trip onto the ocean is as elusive to many Ghanaians as the tundra is to many Canadians.)
Good timing and a smile landed me a seat on the “Hooker” for the afternoon.
(*Note: Above photo is NOT an image of the Hooker)
The Hooker, complete with the logo of a buxom woman in silhouette sitting in the curve of a hook, is a private yacht/deep sea fishing vessel. She’s owned by three, presumably wealthy, Americans and operated by Ghanaians who compete to catch some of the world’s biggest fish in competitions around the world. The boat is fully rigged with high tech green flashing gadgets and sonar screens, bait the size of the biggest lake trout I’ve ever caught, and hooks designed for slaying fish the size of a whale.
We traveled about 30 kilometres into offshore waters, smashing through waves sometimes three times the height of the boat. Standing with legs square, holding onto the hooker’s grips as we rollicked over the waves crashing to shore, I fully embraced the ‘barnacle’ and couldn’t resist humming that Maritime classic, “Farewell to Nova Scotia.” Far off Nova Scotia was quickly forgotten between heaving a sigh and a wish and then part of my tuna sandwich over board.
We fished hard for seven hours, mostly trawling for blue marlin. Despite my preparation to land this 300 pound fish, which included a quick course in the art of stand up-sit down fishing, the mighty marlin didn’t surface. Two wa-who (phonetic spelling) did instead.
No matter. A day fishing opens the eyes, flares the nostrils and douses one with a good dose of humility and homesickness. (T)
Ada, Ghana
Long ferry rides between Pictou and Prince Edward Island, time in a rubber dinghy and standing on a pier anywhere in the world always make me long for home. Call it the salty sea air, the familiar rhythm of the waves, or plain ole maritime nostalgia, the longing to be close to the water is a part of me. A part, that with time and distance from home, encrusts like a barnacle to my memory.
And so it was that I happened on the Atlantic Ocean (on this side of the world!) recently; the North Atlantic’s hotter and more rollicking cousin, the South Atlantic.
(*Note: Images of beach only, courtesy N. Leseaux. The Bald Guy took the camera, hence the absence of photos of the actual ocean voyage about to be described...)
My shipmates: a crew of Ghanaian competitive deep sea fishermen, a fellow Canadian and Moses, a Ghanaian who had never been to sea before. (Note: A trip onto the ocean is as elusive to many Ghanaians as the tundra is to many Canadians.)
Good timing and a smile landed me a seat on the “Hooker” for the afternoon.
(*Note: Above photo is NOT an image of the Hooker)
The Hooker, complete with the logo of a buxom woman in silhouette sitting in the curve of a hook, is a private yacht/deep sea fishing vessel. She’s owned by three, presumably wealthy, Americans and operated by Ghanaians who compete to catch some of the world’s biggest fish in competitions around the world. The boat is fully rigged with high tech green flashing gadgets and sonar screens, bait the size of the biggest lake trout I’ve ever caught, and hooks designed for slaying fish the size of a whale.
We traveled about 30 kilometres into offshore waters, smashing through waves sometimes three times the height of the boat. Standing with legs square, holding onto the hooker’s grips as we rollicked over the waves crashing to shore, I fully embraced the ‘barnacle’ and couldn’t resist humming that Maritime classic, “Farewell to Nova Scotia.” Far off Nova Scotia was quickly forgotten between heaving a sigh and a wish and then part of my tuna sandwich over board.
We fished hard for seven hours, mostly trawling for blue marlin. Despite my preparation to land this 300 pound fish, which included a quick course in the art of stand up-sit down fishing, the mighty marlin didn’t surface. Two wa-who (phonetic spelling) did instead.
No matter. A day fishing opens the eyes, flares the nostrils and douses one with a good dose of humility and homesickness. (T)
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
Waterfall
July 5, 2007
Wli, Volta Region
Ghana
Gonna get last-minute poetic on this one... we went to Volta with Nonie, Trish's longtime amigo and sister spirit...
Water.
Falling.
Through Air.
Bound by trees.
Mountain hidden.
African fortress... guide required...
Beautiful hominid finds solace...
and takes a bath...
and picks friend's sunburned flesh...
and clutches shorn mate 'round the throat.
He also bathes.
And tries not to disturb the bats...
That hang alongside the Earth Fountain.
O my friends
cleaned by Mother Nature's milk.
Time to go.
Wli, Volta Region
Ghana
Gonna get last-minute poetic on this one... we went to Volta with Nonie, Trish's longtime amigo and sister spirit...
Water.
Falling.
Through Air.
Bound by trees.
Mountain hidden.
African fortress... guide required...
Beautiful hominid finds solace...
and takes a bath...
and picks friend's sunburned flesh...
and clutches shorn mate 'round the throat.
He also bathes.
And tries not to disturb the bats...
That hang alongside the Earth Fountain.
O my friends
cleaned by Mother Nature's milk.
Time to go.
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
“It will have to be shot”
July 4, 2007
Hohoe, Ghana
Help! Can anybody hear me?
I know my voice must be muffled by this cobra’s esophagus that I find myself so rudely half-inserted into, but still: if anyone can hear me, help a brother iguana out. For the sake of all that is decent and sacred, come quickly, and bring a crowbar. Or better yet, a machete.
This is not my fault, let me assure. I was merely relaxing in the shade of this small mango tree, digesting a fine repast of flies and others from the insect world — creatures that, incidentally, you humans consider pests — when suddenly this savage black serpent sprang at me from out of nowhere and swallows my upper torso.
Aagh! The pain from her fangs is excruciating! Each one punctured the skin behind my forelegs, what you humans would call the ‘armpits,’ thus eliminating any chance I might have had at fighting the beast off or running away. Now her venom has paralyzed me and I can feel my head being slowly digested.
O! Won’t someone come to my aid?
What’s that!? I can hear you! Someone is there, a witness to this criminal assault. Humans, talking. Surely they’ll intervene; they are said to practice morality. For pity’s sake, please save me!
I am melting, and the voices don’t seem to be getting any closer. Perhaps the humans are afraid. Can they not see my desperation, that the cobra has her maw full of me at the moment? They have nothing to fear. Just step up, swing a cutlass, cut her in half and pull me out. I’ll just scuttle away, as always, but with a promise never to utter an ill word about humans, if one of you would kindly pry me from these jaws.
AAGH! She’s done it now: clamped down with those merciless throat muscles, gave a brutal twist and snapped my spine. Even if I could have recovered from her poison, I’m doomed now. I’m snake feces.
She is pulling me deeper into the long cavern now, fleshy and dark, the tunnel of my death. My ears are slowly melting in digestive acid, but I can just hear the words of one of those pitiless, voyeuristic humans watching this terrible display. Judging by the accent, he sounds like a local. “It will have to be killed,” he says.
I presume he means the cobra, not me. For I am already dead. I’ve had a good life, I suppose, for an iguana. I just hope those wretches watching know that one day the cobra will come for them, too. The cobra gets us all, in the end. (G)
Hohoe, Ghana
Help! Can anybody hear me?
I know my voice must be muffled by this cobra’s esophagus that I find myself so rudely half-inserted into, but still: if anyone can hear me, help a brother iguana out. For the sake of all that is decent and sacred, come quickly, and bring a crowbar. Or better yet, a machete.
This is not my fault, let me assure. I was merely relaxing in the shade of this small mango tree, digesting a fine repast of flies and others from the insect world — creatures that, incidentally, you humans consider pests — when suddenly this savage black serpent sprang at me from out of nowhere and swallows my upper torso.
Aagh! The pain from her fangs is excruciating! Each one punctured the skin behind my forelegs, what you humans would call the ‘armpits,’ thus eliminating any chance I might have had at fighting the beast off or running away. Now her venom has paralyzed me and I can feel my head being slowly digested.
O! Won’t someone come to my aid?
What’s that!? I can hear you! Someone is there, a witness to this criminal assault. Humans, talking. Surely they’ll intervene; they are said to practice morality. For pity’s sake, please save me!
I am melting, and the voices don’t seem to be getting any closer. Perhaps the humans are afraid. Can they not see my desperation, that the cobra has her maw full of me at the moment? They have nothing to fear. Just step up, swing a cutlass, cut her in half and pull me out. I’ll just scuttle away, as always, but with a promise never to utter an ill word about humans, if one of you would kindly pry me from these jaws.
AAGH! She’s done it now: clamped down with those merciless throat muscles, gave a brutal twist and snapped my spine. Even if I could have recovered from her poison, I’m doomed now. I’m snake feces.
She is pulling me deeper into the long cavern now, fleshy and dark, the tunnel of my death. My ears are slowly melting in digestive acid, but I can just hear the words of one of those pitiless, voyeuristic humans watching this terrible display. Judging by the accent, he sounds like a local. “It will have to be killed,” he says.
I presume he means the cobra, not me. For I am already dead. I’ve had a good life, I suppose, for an iguana. I just hope those wretches watching know that one day the cobra will come for them, too. The cobra gets us all, in the end. (G)
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