The Talking Head

African drums are talking. Over weary wastes of felt and jungle, the drums bring you a story of Africa. Africa, that land of mystery and strange ritual, ebony bodies, witch doctors, and sudden death. The land of jungle and impenetrable swamp, where the primeval sweat of Mother Earth rises in my asthmic clouds of fever-ridden vapor,

to hang suspended in the foliage of the ageless guardians of the jungle. This is the story of a little band of explorers led by Professor Anton Edwards, a giant of a man the keynote of whose life is scientific discovery.

Two hundred miles from the banks of the Upper Congo River in the jungles of French equatorial Africa, Professor Edwards has made his camp awaiting the coming of the sports dancing farther into the hinterlands. With him is his daughter Lorna, just graduated from an American university, Andonguru, a huge native messiah of royal blood.

It is night in the African jungle. Father, can't we do something to stop it? Yes, loner. You mustn't let that sort of thing get on your nerves. But in Africa, my dear, not New York, we must adjust ourselves accordingly.

Yes, I know all that, but the things absurd. Whoever heard of a severed head talking and setting up a cackle like that. If I hadn't seen it myself, I wouldn't even countenance the thought. It's against all the laws of nature we've been taught to revere.

As I said before, my dear, this is Africa. Anything can happen. The only way to keep one's sanity is to accept Africa and Africa. Well, accept you. Yes, I suppose. I must admit, when the witch doctor brought this preserved head out and it started cackling and mumbling, I was shocked.