Trawlers.
The huge marlin crashed against the side of the flimsy boat drifting in the vast blue expanse. This
was a fight to the death which the old fisherman could not afford to lose. He dug in his heels and
pulled at the fishing net with all his might his heart beating madly in his chest. The dark blue
beast thrashed wildly, threatening to send the old man overboard. He let out a strained groan as
he felt the net begin to tear into his palms and red hot pains shooting up his arm while he
struggled to hold on to the large animal.
The sea had always calmed the old man, giving him strength when he thought of its resilience, its
endurance, always present, no matter what, but now he felt it was unforgiving. Cruel even. It was
days since he’d had a good catch. Years since he’d had what could be called a plentiful catch. All
they got these days were small fish that had somehow escaped the big metal boats. Enough to eat
for the day, but nothing to sell. He had been thinking of that when he left his house that morning.
* * *
The smell of rotting fish hit his nose and he clicked his tongue in disgusted fury. It had become
a constant occurrence, dead fish washing up ashore, yet he did not think he would get used to the
it. He longed for the days when the sea smelt of salt and life, when the winds were heavy with
the scent of freedom and possibility.
He planned to join a group of his friends as was his routine in the morning. He’d sit with them
and drink cheap locally brewed liquor while they laughed and talked, hoping to numb the dull,
blunt pain of disappointment they were assured to get once they set off to fish. He found them sitting at the local drinking shed which in itself was a pitiful sight. Something was however
different that morning.
He could see a few new faces. Fishermen who never drank before sailing into the ocean, they
had not given up yet. They were younger than him. Men who he loathed to see, men who
reminded him of who he had been but worst of all, they reminded him of all he had lost. He did
not like to admit it, but he envied them. He envied that period of time before all the light would
be gone from their eyes. The time before they would inevitably realize that it was a downhill
plane they were all on. The fish would keep on decreasing; their catches would get fewer until
only the monstrous boats looming in the distance would remain, and just like they had done in
other villages, they would suck their oceans bone dry.
The newcomers greeted him warmly, a bit too cheeringly for his taste. The old man responded
with a grunt. He spotted his friend watching him with an amused grin on his face. His friend
waved him over, patting the chair next to him.
“You know you don’t have to look so disgusted when you see them,” his old friend Mwavuli
said laughing. “It’s a good thing that they are so hopeful.”
“They think they are so much better than we are. Looking down on us, calling us old drunks.”
“We are old drunks, you old drunk,” Mwavuli interjected. Their drinks arrived and they sat
drinking in silence for a while. The old man was once again lost in his thoughts.
He thought of the old days. They were constantly on his mind. The days when he had learned
how to fish from his father when he was just a boy. He wondered what his father would think of
him if he were alive. Would he understand? Would he be ashamed of the man he’d turned out to
be? A man bent and broken by forces much stronger than he would ever be. A man who had
1watched as foreign boats had come and swept up their livelihood and sucked the joy from a
practice as old as the village itself.
He signaled to the waiter for yet another drink. He needed his thoughts quieted down. The shed
was now getting fuller with more people pouring in.
“What’s this all about?” he asked Mwavuli who was downing what must have been his fifth cup
since the old man had gotten there.
“It’s election season, have you forgotten?”
He had forgotten. After a while, all the days started to blend together. Who cared if it was time
for fresh elections anyway? It was always the same. A new person, fresh full of ideas came with
promises and long, sweet speeches that made everyone believe their lives would drastically
change, then they’d win, get sworn in and forget everything they had promised. Mwavuli didn’t
mind though, he knew every season had something good to give.
“Odesa is running again. Drink up old friend, I am quite sure he’ll pay.”
As if on cue, Odesa walked in with two bodyguards. The old man scoffed. He knew Odesa. A
local boy he had seen growing up who now felt the need to walk around with bodyguards in his
own village. Odesa walked to the front of the drinking crowd, and they began cheering. He
cleared his throat in a performative fashion and addressed them.
“Wananchi hoyee!! I believe I do not need an introduction. You all know me because I grew up
here. You have all raised me. I have served you before and now I come seeking to serve you
once more. I am not like these new green politicians. They come here like they know us, like
they are one of us but who are they? I ask again who are they?”
2The crowd went wild chanting Odesa’s name over and over again. He smiled mockingly at a
young woman standing at the back. The old man who was watching him looked back and noticed
the young woman who stood out like a sore thumb in the crowd of mostly drunk men and a few
middle-aged women clad in lesos. She was in a grey pant suit holding a large briefcase. He
wondered how he had not noticed her. The woman began walking to the front.
Her sharp eyes scanned the gathering patiently as she waited for them to settle down. When most
of them were settled, she began to speak. The old man was somewhat surprised by her voice. It
was soft but she sounded sure and confident. He grew more curious as to who she was.
“Jambo! I am Imani. While it is true that I am new to politics I’d like to assure you that I am no
stranger to this village. You all knew my parents; they were born and raised here. My father was
a fisherman just like you right up to the moment he got lost at sea.”
The crowd stirred. They all knew exactly who she was referring to. Stories about the man who
had dared go out to the deep waters never to return had echoed all over the small village. They
were used to warn young fishermen who, when frustrated by their small catches were likely to go
farther and farther into the ocean. They had sent out search parties and prayed and comforted the
inconsolable wife who had just delivered a baby.
That was back when the old man was yet to accept their cruel fate. He had been one of the men
to go out looking for Imani’s father. They had looked for days, going out farther than any of
them would dare go out on their own. It was then that they had first caught a glimpse of the
foreign boats. Monstrous and imposing, the boats would move over the ocean for days at a time
catching thousands of fish all at once with their large nets.
3After the big boats were done, dead fish would wind up washing ashore. Fish that had been
unfortunate enough to get caught by the indiscriminating nets of the foreigners but were not good
enough for them. This angered the villagers. The waste of it all, not to mention the smell. They
had no clue that the stench would soon be the least of their problems.
Imani’s father had been found in a faraway village, bloated and rotting. His wife had moved
away, grief-stricken, never to be heard from again.
“My father did not have to die. He left that morning looking for fish to feed his family...”
“I am sorry but what does that have to do with anything? We knew the man, yes, but should the
people give you their vote out of sympathy?” Odesa who was still standing asked. Some of the
men in the crowd murmured their agreement.
“I am glad you asked,” Imani replied looking anything but. “The people should give me their
vote because I will make sure nothing like that happens again. After my father died, politicians
like yourself sent their sympathies. However, none of them got to the root problem. I am going to
bring real change…”
The old man yawned. A few differences here and there, but they all followed the same tired old
script. He did not think anyone really listened to their speeches anymore. One more drink then he
would leave.
“As I was saying, the problem is that the leaders who have been in power only treat the
symptoms of what is ailing our society. None of them want to cure the disease. I do. When you
elect me, I will do everything in my power to ban the industrial trawlers. The big metal boats
must return where they came from!!”
4The old man who was just about to leave sat back down. When the villagers had realized that the
foreign boats threw dead fish back into the ocean, they had complained to their leaders. They
wanted them gone but the leaders had given long explanations about jurisdictions, words the old
man did not entirely understand but the message had been clear; the metal boats were there to
stay.
The leaders had paid young men to clean up the beaches. It was part of their benevolence,
offering young people jobs. Then the years had passed and the true effects of the metal boats
became known to the villagers. Catches got fewer and fewer. Fishing became an unrewarding,
soul-sucking Sisyphean task. Many of them had been fishermen their whole lives; they knew
nothing else. The old man knew nothing else. His father had been a fisherman before him, and so
had been his father before him. He had hoped his son would have taken over after him but he had
left for the city to look for a paying job.
“The industrial trawlers have taken away most of your sons. They now scrub toilets for rich
people in the city. If they got an education, they now work in corporations and contribute to this
god forsaken cycle that is sure to finish off our villages.”
Imani continued speaking and now the crowd was enchanted. This was everything they wanted
but had long given up on happening. The old man didn’t dare hope. He had been a fool to believe
in the words he had heard all his life: ‘the sea will provide’. He had used those words to sooth his
spirit when his nets came up empty time after time and when he starved so his son could eat the
only food they had left. He had repeated them like a mantra, a prayer when he went fishing in the
morning thinking his faith would attract the fish. He had been a fool, a hopeful fool but not
anymore. What did this young woman intend to do to heal the ocean, to bring it back to life, so it
could feed them and sustain them?
5“So how do you plan on getting rid of them?” he voiced his concern. His voice sounded hollow
to his ears. It was a voice that had long been devoid of any joy. “You say you will do everything
you can to have them banned, and we should just believe you. What more can you do that those
before you were unable to? You lost a father who you can’t even remember, but that does not
mean you know our stories. You left, whether or not it was by your own choice; you are a
stranger. If someone has to lie to us and buy us cups of poison to help us forget our misery and
lead us to our graves quicker, then it should be one of us.”
The old man stood and left before she could reply. He could not think of anything she could say
that would sound truthful to him. They were all liars. He knew that deep in his bones. They only
cared about themselves and who could blame them? Many of them had grown up poor, one taste
of money and they did not care who they hurt. They got into bed with the corporations; they stole
until there was nothing to steal, but at least the sea would always be there. Fierce and unbowed,
indifferent to the squabbles of humans who would come and go. He decided to go fishing.
He got into his boat and rowed to their usual grounds, casting out his net but not paying any
mind. He knew it would take hours before he could catch anything. The sun was high up in the
sky, and the sea was a marvelous shade of blue. It gleamed like a bed of sapphires, so beautiful
one could almost forget it no longer had much to give them.
The old man kept rowing. He liked the motions. He loved the feeling of his oar moving on the
water, over and over again until they became one. Him and the ocean. He would normally carry
his radio with him and listen to whatever was playing. Love songs by foolish youngsters who
claimed they would fall ill and die if they were not loved back, rap songs by other young people
who were convinced everyone wanted them dead because of their money and fame. They were
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all welcome distractions. There was nothing like getting invested in fake problems to forget your
real ones.
He did not have his radio with him that day, he had forgotten it at the shed in his hurry to leave.
Thinking about the shed made him angry once more, and he began to row faster. He was angry at
the world, at his rotten luck, at everything. The winds were strong, and his boat kept moving,
pushing him further and further away from the shore. When he finally noticed how far he’d
gotten, he stopped worriedly. He must have rowed for hours. His frail muscles did not feel sore,
but he was sure to regret it in the morning.
He decided to go back, but he remembered it would be sunset by the time he got back. The other
fishermen would have already taken any fish swimming near their fishing grounds. The old man
would have nothing to eat that day. He pondered over the issue for a minute and decide to try his
luck where he was. He would start heading back after a while but he felt he had to try. He cast
out his net hurriedly, hoping for a small fish or two to take home and that is when he caught the
biggest beast he had ever set his eyes on.
* * *
The marlin tugged at the worn-out net, and it began to tear. The old man felt a cold, sinking
feeling in his stomach. His arms were shaking from holding on, and he had no idea if he could
keep it up. The fish was gigantic and powerful, and every pull felt like a death sentence to the old
man. It was a dark, humongous creature very different from the fish he’d caught his whole life.
Even back when they were in plenty. He looked at the animal struggling in the net and he hated
it. Hated it more than he had ever thought he could hate an animal that was also determined to
survive.The marlin had now torn away at most of his net and would soon be free. The old man let out a
guttural scream. Using one hand he held on to the net despite the pain and searched for his knife
with the other. He found it easily strapped to his waist. It was small but sharp. He had owned that
knife for a long time, using it to carve out the fish. With reckless abandon, he bent down from his
boat and stabbed the fish.
Blood poured out sluggishly and stained the blue ocean. He stabbed again and the animal fought
with less vigor. His hands covered in blood, the old man felt justified in his anger. The fish was a
foreigner just like the trawlers. It had come to destroy. His nostrils were filled with the rusty
copper scent of blood. Jab after jab, he went on, all the while screaming, feeling the weight of
years of disappointment and frustration and channeling it into the poor animal. The marlin was
not moving anymore; its body, covered in blood was still caught in the madman’s net.
The old man came back to his senses when he noticed the net or what was left of it anyway. He
sat back up on his boat panting exhaustedly. He looked at the dead fish floating next to his boat.
Shame swelled up in his throat and came out as big teary blobs down his cheeks. His net was
ruined and all he could do was take out his frustration, his anger, on an innocent creature drawn
up from the depths of the omniscient, beautiful blue ocean. He heaved big pathetic sobs that
shook his whole body. How would he get a new net? The old man took a huge breath and tried to
calm himself. He could still salvage this, he thought. He could carry a piece of the animal; maybe
someone would be interested in buying some of it. He could get the money to fix his net.
He reached down for his net. The dead fish was even heavier than before, and he cursed as he
tried to lift it. He put his foot on the edge of the boat to gain balance, pulling the net with both his
hands. Without warning, the marlin kicked, one last heave from a dying animal. It threw its
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bleeding tail in the air as if in defiance of death itself. The old man, startled, lost his footing,
falling into the depths of the frigid water.
The ocean swallowed him into its darkness. The sun was setting and the water was almost
freezing. It disoriented him, making him lose all sense of direction. His senses were numbed, and
his thoughts scrambled. He held his breath as he tried swimming to the surface. His exhausted
arms waved uselessly in the water, but it was too much for his tired, worn-out body to bear. As
the murky water began closing in on him, the feeling of dread at the pit of his stomach abated.
All that was left was defeat.
The villagers found his body a week later. It washed up on their shore, and they cleaned it up just
like the dead fish next to it. In the distance, the big metal boats moved over the wide ocean. The
vast unyielding ocean which would always be there, unbothered and indifferent.
(Short story competition, October 2024, Chuka University – Trawlers)
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