It was a waning gibbous moon tonight. As the dim lights of the beach resort twinkled like fairy lights far away on the beach, the sounds of the gently splashing waves almost lulled the lone fisherman on his dhow to sleep. His late catch was spectacular beyond belief. Who would ignore that and give way to the useless gossips of sea monsters by the local fishermen! Such mystical nights are when the mighty ocean unveils her full glory to a lucky few at sea. Her chosen ones. Ethereal and exquisite, yet emanating a sense of awe and reverence, whilst she incites mild trepidation and a fear of the unknown…
Ali was born in a small village near Kilifi town near Mombasa. The fourth son of a fisherman, he grew up amongst the smell of waves and marine lives. Ali was special. The sea attracted him as she did no other in their small village. The sea called out to him, spoke to him in hushed tones. The sea gave him catch when all his friends were sent home by her wild groans and frightening waves. Ali never knew his mother. The sea was his mother, his friend, his guide. The sea spoke to him, invited him into her loving lilting embrace, while she fought the demons gnawing at her. Yes, Ali was mwana wa bahari…the son of the sea.
Tonight the pink moon draped the ocean with silver. Sparkling depths of shine called out to the thin strip of white shore afar. The night was a gallant show of riches. Even the scales of his catch lay on his dhow shrouded in a silvery coat.
As his dhow drew near the shore, the music got clearer. Laughter drifted across the mighty ocean and reached his ears. Rich people, in their fancy clothes and expensive cameras, clicking away at what they believed “the awesome mighty ocean”. Didn’t they know the land they stood on was hers. One moment of silent talk with his Almighty Mother was all Ali needed. Even she, the wise and the mighty, was a mother needing a nudge from her child, ever so often.
She heard. Within a minute, Ali felt the tumultuous rage searing underwater. Her wrath was unmatched. She surged her mighty head and showed her devilish face to the shore. Her shore. Her land. Her Kingdom. Now wrapped in gold and silver and fancy covers of silk and muslin. What once was a fisherman’s village with thatched roofs and warmth and love. What once squealed of laughter and jest and Twende Baharini (Let’s go to the sea).
They came. They captured. She receded. Tonight she saved the best catch for her child. With one mighty heave, she swung Ali’s boat to the shore. Her waves flew over the powerless shore in a shower of silver. In an instant the fairy lights went dark, the singing became a scared scream. She paused.
A wave of sympathy drowned her in her own vastness. Mere mortals. Leave them in their world of ignorance, in their created powerless kingdom. This was a play. Reality of the universe lay within her.
Ali was lying face down on the beach, his overturned dhow next to him. The catch safely guarded below. When he came around, the white sand lent him a warmth like home. He looked up. The pink moon smiled. The mighty Indian Ocean had receded. As gracefully as a ballet dancer. In lithe steps, leaving behind her footprints on sand. And a symbol for Ali as a message from his mother.
What remained of her on her shore was a streak of silver. Only Ali knew. She would be here again.
