On October 11, 2004, I met a goat on my way to the British Council Cameroon. It was standing at the corner, where I turned left, passed the Equatorial Guinea embassy, on my way to end of the street to hail a taxi to take me to work.

That corner had other sites on other days. A papaya tree was there once, then seemed to never appear again (I presume after someone took all the fruit).

Once an electricity pole fell over, taking out the areas power. More regularly men might be standing there pissing.

Once my mum stood nearby with my colleague, Francis.

Only some of these sights were photographed.

The corner should not be confused with the derelict patch opposite my flat where the banana tree grew.

The goat was not there when I returned home in the evening. It was not clear where it had gone. None of the neighbours, as far as I could tell, had a new friend in the back garden. It was not feast time. There were no weddings, funerals, birthday parties or other events in the area.

Perhaps the goat was simply disappointed with the relatively modest fodder on offer and moved on.