Ask a question..'Yes', they say which means ...ummm- i heard you speak. Ask it again..'Yes' which means ...i'm trying to understand what it is you said. Ask it again....'Yes' ...which means, i don't really understand what you're saying but is this the answer you're looking for?
He had gone out running as usual that Sunday morning on the scrub-land that bordered the beach. As it wound round, his path intersected with teams of fishermen hauling ropes attached somewhere out to sea to their nets.
They had their rituals...no fishing on Tuesdays and he had his...helping the fishermen at weekends after his run, showing 'solidarity' with an unspecified 'cause'. He did it because it felt good, looked good, gained him some unnamed respect though they'd never figure out why, at his age he would run every morning..even on Tuesdays!
There were fewer crews out today than yesterday..he could never figure out why it varied and so when he finished he had to walk down the beach before he ran into the crews.
It was always the same..he just went to the head of the line, wrapped his black running top round the rope and started digging in and hauling. They probably never knew or cared whether he actually pulled hard - they just appreciated the gesture - but he did and it felt good to haul and feel the different muscles pull. Not so old, not so past it all , he would say to himself.
He would generally share out his efforts amongst as many crews as were close together. Maybe they'd care if he didn't!
Over time he'd come to recognise a few of them. Weekends were different because kids and even out-of-towners would be on the ropes too but the regular guys were recognisably different. Older, generally..but certainly harder and,despite acknowledging him, they rarely smiled. Not hard to understand that really.
He worked that day with two crews.he did one shift on the net that was closest to him as he walked down the beach. A small crew, a lot of grunting, but not much talking. He joshed with the older women who were coiling the rope as they pulled it in. sometimes he would wonder what they thought of this strange person, this topless yevu hauling on the rope...surely he didn't need to do this..he's a yevu, he's rich. Likely no-one could imagine that he did it for fun and to show support.
The other crew were in the final stages of bringing up the fish and that was always the best time..the most fun. He'd taken off his shoes and parked them up on the beach near a buoy ...he'd find them again, he always did, tho rarely where he expected. Pulling in the nets always moved them much farther and faster down the beach than he thought.
He liked splashing into the surf, grabbing and wrapping the net, pushing the young boys out of the way..let a man do this!
Despite the number of men on the net, sometimes he'd get knocked down by the drag of the net when a big wave came in, and they'd all be yelling and pulling and laughing.
He supposed that after 3 or 4 hours of hauling on the net, there was a giddy anticipation when the sac that was where the fish had been trapped became visible. There was for him, though he had no stake in it.
The end always came quite quickly as everyone ran and grabbed and pulled and lifted.
He could never tell initially whether the catch was good or not. The men, especially those who'd been out on the boat and those who'd been swimming with the nets as they brought them in, stood around the end of the net where the catch was trapped.
He didn't push in. He had no right. But they'd let him in to look.
He looked at the catch..silver, flapping, twitching mass. Then he looked at the faces. He supposed that they'd been doing this for so long that they'd hardly be surprised.
This day, however, he could read the disappointment in their faces. They didn't say anything. They just looked. Each in his private thoughts.
There was almost a resigned expression as if to say, who could expect anything different. He knew catches had been bad for a long time now but still to see the disappointment etched on their faces was sad. He didn't know where to look so he looked at the fish like everyone else.
She tugged at his elbow. 'Fish', she said. Though it sounded more like 'Feesh'.
'Peace', she'd said the last time he'd seen her. 'My name is Peace.'
He'd run into her on the streets a few times in their community. He assumed that she lived there also but she was mostly on her own, wasn't carrying anything on her head to sell and no infant on her back.
She was a little different. it seemed as if she would make fun of or with him. She didn't speak much English so he didn't really understand but she would grab his arm and look fierce and then laugh at him.
She always looked hungry. To see her made him sad. For a Ghanaian she was probably skinny and he had wondered if indeed that was hunger.
She reminded him of a street woman that he'd tried to help when he lived in Manhattan.
She whispered in his ear and tugged at his elbow again. She had her tin basin with her to get fish but she would be at the generous mercy of a crew who had brought in a poor catch.
'Feesh, you give me!'
Once before he had seen her at a catch and that time a good one and the fishermen had offered him a couple of fat fish for his help. He'd turned the offer down..their need being much greater than his and she'd been stunned and argued and pulled at him.
This time she was making sure that he knew what was expected of him and he said 'OK, OK...fish' but he knew it wasn't going to happen. He hadn't helped that much this time and the catch was not going to make the fishermen feel at all generous.
He hoped for her and so he helped her find some scraps and her bowl had some fish - small fish, tiny really, and small shrimps but he knew that it wasn't going to happen.
He moved around to the other side of the net...he felt bad for her as if he'd let her down.
He slowly turned away and started to look for his shoes. He turned and looked back and she was watching him with her arms folded. He shrugged and waved and she turned away with her sad, hungry eyes.
Peace.
