Growing up in the islands, our home was a place of both comfort and adventure. We raised goats, sheep, and chickens—just as many of our neighbors did.
Some had cows, donkeys, and other livestock. In the tropics, encounters
with insects and reptiles were commonplace: iguanas basking in the sun,
manicou scurrying through the undergrowth, birds soaring overhead, and
bees and butterflies dancing among flowers. Life was vibrant, filled with
the sounds of the rooster’s intermittent crow and the rustling of trees in the breeze.
But sometimes, the creatures of the wild ventured a little too close.
One evening, my mother and most of my siblings left for a function. My youngest brother and I remained home, though I can’t recall why. As night fell, the stillness of our quiet house unsettled me. I asked my brother to sleep beside me until the rest of the family returned, and he agreed.
We drifted into sleep, unaware that an unexpected visitor had slipped into the house.
The snake, cold and in search of warmth, slithered into our bed and nestled between us. Its presence was unknown to us, peaceful and undisturbed. When my mother returned home, she spotted the intruder and quietly woke us, careful not to startle either us or the snake. She feared that harming it could put us in danger, so she gently coaxed us awake. Disturbed by the sudden movement, the snake swiftly retreated, disappearing into the shadows, leaving us unscathed.
It was an eerie moment that reminded us of the scripture: *“The angel of the Lord encamps around those who fear Him and rescues them.”*—Psalm 34:7.
Our family had many encounters with these slithering creatures, but none were as fascinating as those involving my niece—my oldest brother’s daughter. She practically grew up with us, and if there was one thing I could say about her, it was that she was fearless. She was sharp-minded, an avid reader, and remarkably composed, never one to let circumstances fluster her.
One evening, we sat in the living room chatting, while my niece quietly read a book in the corner of the couch. At some point, she got up to use the bathroom. Moments later, she returned and—without a hint of concern—announced that there was a snake inside the bathroom. Then, as if nothing had happened, she resumed her reading.
Her tone was so calm that none of us took her seriously.
One of my sisters, out of sheer curiosity, decided to verify the claim. Moments later, the house erupted in screams—the stark contrast to my niece’s composure was almost comical. My sister, hysterical, shrieked that the snake was coiled around the bottom of the toilet bowl. The commotion sent the serpent slithering away, likely more alarmed than any of us.
My niece simply looked up from her book, puzzled by the dramatic response, before returning to her reading.
Another encounter unfolded in the bedroom, where a custard apple tree extended its branches near the open window. One of my brothers had planned to cut those branches, but before he could, the tree served as a bridge for yet another unwelcome guest.
As usual, my niece was reading on the lower bunk of a double-decker bed, absorbed in her book. A gentle brush against her arm barely distracted her; she assumed it was a stray leaf and casually brushed it away. But the sensation returned. This time, she turned—and met the eyes of a snake.
She calmly got up and informed us of its presence. When I went to the bedroom, I saw it retreating, vanishing just as swiftly as it had appeared. My brother wasted no time—those branches were swiftly cut down.
Fortunately, Tobago has no venomous snakes, and while these encounters were startling, they were never life-threatening.
Looking back, I admire my niece’s quiet strength. Her unassuming nature, her ability to remain composed in the face of uncertainty—it was a striking contrast to the rest of us. Though we all grew up under the same roof, our personalities shaped our reactions differently.
Life has a way of teaching us that, even in shared experiences, we each process the world in our own way.
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