The Farm: King Cobra Head - Cut

When I was a little boy, five decades ago, the memories of those days are still vivid in my mind. I grew up on a farm in the remote boundaries of three barangays: Dumlan, Anibongan, and Libaylibay. My grandfather owned a sprawling 28-hectare farm, lush with coconut trees, coffee, abaca, and a variety of bananas. The farm was a paradise of assorted fruit trees, including lanzones, durian, cacao, and jackfruit. We also grew essential crops like rice, corn, camote, karlang, gabi, pao, and balanghoy. Our farm was bustling with life, home to carabaos, chickens, ducks, pigs, and a tilapia fishpond.

My grandfather was meticulous about maintaining a clean farm. He employed several laborers to keep the grass trimmed and the trails clear. The paths were so pristine that even a dropped needle could be easily found.

One fateful day, as I walked down the immaculate trail, I suddenly froze. A massive king cobra lay coiled in my path, its eyes locked onto mine, ready to strike. My heart pounded in my chest as I stood paralyzed with fear. Just as the cobra lunged, my father appeared out of nowhere, wielding a gleaming bolo. With a swift, powerful swing, he beheaded the serpent.

But the terror was far from over. To my horror, the severed head of the cobra continued to move, its jaws snapping furiously. I turned and ran, the head seemingly chasing me down the trail. I sprinted with all my might, my legs burning, my breath ragged. It felt like an eternity, but after about 100 meters, the head finally stopped, lifeless at last.

The encounter left me shaken, but it also became one of the most unforgettable moments of my childhood. It was a stark reminder of the wild, untamed beauty of the farm and the bravery of my father.