The afternoon was dry. I pocketed the matches, left the carport walking by the sort-of fig tree (never knew what it was), went past the palm trees, and out through the "garden" we didn't do much with, the one with the yucca-like plant.
The ground wobbled under me.
Squarely pinned under my foot was an oval-coiled yard long mamba.
I remember thinking both "I have to run" and "If I take my foot off he'll strike." I hesitated. In retrospect it seems like I took a long time, but I hope I decided quicker than that.
I pushed off the soft serpent and ran, screaming the well-understood warning call "Snake! Snake!"
The workmen waiting for Dad's instructions didn't hesitate, but instantly came running with sticks and a shovel. The snake, finally moving, thrashed under the attack, even flying through the air after trying to cling to a stick, and finally decided it was calmer to lie on the ground in several peices. They proudly displayed the relics to Dad, and the snake wound up in the headman's pot.