African Jinn

 

A Steve Braker Action-Thriller

Chapter One

Living the Dream

 The crisp early morning breeze cooled Brody’s face. A bright golden orb was just beginning to show its shimmering tip on the horizon to the east. He reached up and ran his fingers through a ragged, unkempt beard smothering his jawline and flowing up and along his ruddy cheeks. Lank, uncut hair gritty with salt fell almost to his shoulders. His old sergeant major would have had a heart attack if he saw him now. The dark-stained, polished, teak deck felt moist and slippery beneath his bare feet from the morning dew just forming; as the night moved from a cool pleasurable temperature through to a humid, sweltering day. The midnight blue of the night sky was being washed back into infinity. The last few stragglers of stars fighting against the glory of the sun blinked one last time before the day began. Brody felt exhilarated at the beauty of nature at this time of day. A new beginning. The world was fresh. Anything could happen.

 To his port, China cups rattled in their hardwood box as Hassan started preparing the morning coffee. The Jiko, a small brazier, was lit. The long black fingers of charcoal soon glowed red; the smell of burning trees filled the salt-laden air. An ancient, polished, mvule, coffee grinder with a brass, filigree handle appeared from one of the lockers. A measured hand full of the best Kenyan beans was poured reverently into its grinding chamber. A few seconds later, Brody could smell the earthy coffee granules as they were ground to just the right consistency. Hassan took the art of making Arabic coffee very seriously; it was more a ceremony than a task. A few minutes later, Brody was handed a white China mug of steaming black coffee laden with sugar the way the Swahilis love to take it.

 Hassan went back to his jiko and moved on to the second part of his morning ritual. Another locker was opened to show a bright orange Tupperware box. Hassan opened the box and carefully removed a hand full of dough. He gazed at it with the eye of a keen watchmaker, then slammed it down on a scarred slice of a bamba coffee tree. He worked the dough with practiced hands to get exactly the right texture. A sufuria, a black cast iron cooking pot, was placed on the hot charcoal, and fresh coconut oil was added. As soon as the oil started bubbling, triangles of rolled dough were slid into the hot oil. They bobbed and floated around for a few minutes then Hassan carefully ladled them out and set them on a white ceramic plate. As they cooled, he sprinkled a good dose of brown sugar and some local golden honey over the hot fried cakes known as- ‘kiamati.’ Brody loved his morning routine of coffee and sweet sugary cakes. It was a luxury he had gotten used to over the years, and one he would sorely miss if taken away.

 Shukran rose and fell with the gentle swells of the Indian Ocean. A pod of bottlenose dolphins came to play with the bow wash, spinning and flipping out of the water in front of the boat. The smaller ones in the group plunged into the depths and then hurtled towards the surface leaping into the air. Brody imagined he could almost hear their shouts and cheers of laughter, like young children playing on the beach. He wiggled his hip against the long wooden tiller to keep Shukran on course heading directly toward the rising sun.

“Hassan?”

“Yes, Boss.”

“Can you call Gumbao, the wind’s coming up. We should raise the sail and turn his baby off.”

Hassan wandered over to a hatch in the deck, lifted it, and shouted into the hold. “Old man, we need your muscles on deck.”

A grisly white-haired African appeared with a huge smile showing two teeth missing from his upper and lower jaw. “I’m not your old man, kid,” Gumbao said with a gruff smile. “Why can’t you hoist the sail? Or are your dainty cooking fingers too precious for real work?”

Hassan laughed at his old friend, as he passed him a plate of steaming kiamati and a cup of fresh coffee. “No, I just enjoy watching you struggle with the sails while I man the tiller.”

Brody smiled at the banter. His two best friends, and crew, were always at it. Hassan was a devout Muslim who prayed five times every day. Whereas Gumbao was a ruffian, of no fixed address, who lived life to the fullest and never had a care for tomorrow.

 “Hassan, come take the tiller,” Brody said, “Gumbao, we need the exercise this will get our blood pumping, and your baby needs a rest!”

 Shukran was an old fat-bellied dhow that had plied the coast of East Africa for more than fifty years. She had sunk and been refloated on more than one occasion. The dhows that roamed the coast of Africa are always in a state of repair. They are kept afloat and sailing only with daily maintenance. Shukran had come under Brody’s care a few years ago when he had helped save some young girls from slavery in Somalia. Since then, he had lived aboard her with his only two friends in the world. Brody was proud of his ship. Having spent years in the Special Boat Service working for Her Majesty’s government he had spent many hours on boats of all shapes and sizes. When he was presented with Shukran he fell in love, and since then had spent every available dollar making sure she was as good as could be. The deck teak was polished to a high shine, and the brass and stainless steel were clean, without a hint of corrosion. The mast was a solid tree trunk Hassan had found in the forests north of Lamu. She was a wonderful ship, at just over 50 feet long. Shukran was a displacement hull which meant she could only manage about eight knots with a good wind and the engine going, but his life was not about speed or getting anywhere, so they usually cruised along at a leisurely four to six knots.

 The sailing rig on a dhow is called a lateen rig. The boom is hoisted to the top of the mast and the sail flows out underneath tied to a point in the stern where the captain can control the angle of the sail to the wind. When Brody had renovated Shukran, he had kept her as close to original as possible, there were no electrical winches or fancy pulleys. The wooden pulley blocks were made from hardwood painstakingly carved by Gumbao, they had little wooden wheels inside pasted with shark oil to keep them moving.

 “Gumbao, Brody said, “untie the mast from the roof cleat, and let’s get this beast up!” Brody loved pulling the sail up; it was a workout in itself. The stiff five-ply hawser woven rope was full of salt and hard in his calloused hands.

 When Gumbao was ready, they each grabbed the rope and started heaving. The heavy wooden boom with the sail wrapped tightly below it slowly dragged itself up the mast. Brody shouted, “Hassan, bring us into the wind!”

Shukran sluggishly answered the push of the tiller and dragged herself around facing northeast into the Kaskazi monsoon. Brody and Gumbao hauled on the line, jumping up as far as they could to grab the rope then using their combined weight to haul the boom up the mast inch by inch.

After twenty long minutes of swearing and sweating the boom finally hit the tip of the mast. The front of the boom was still attached to the bow, so it now made a triangle, the classic shape of a sailing dhow.

 “Tie her off to the port cleat,” shouted Brody, over his shoulder, as he dashed forward to make sure the bottom of the boom was securely tied to the bow. He grabbed the long sheet for the sail and walked it back to Hassan. “Ready when you are Captain,” he said, as he handed the line to Hassan. Hassan leaned into the tiller pushing Shukran away from the wind, as he did, he pulled the sheet ripping the coconut fronds holding the sail in place. Sluggishly at first, but as the palm fronds broke the sail flapped and billowed dragging Hassan forward as the wind filled the sail. Brody stepped in and helped Hassan loop the sheet around the Samson post on the starboard side of the dhow and pull it tight. Shukran felt the wind in her bright white sail and heeled over bringing her onto a broad reach heading back towards the rising sun.

Hassan said, “Old man, you can turn off that engine now.”

And suddenly there was peace. A peace only a sailor knows, when the engine is turned off the ocean is surprisingly quiet. Shukran was pushed through the light ocean swells at 4 knots; all that could be heard was the wash of the falling waves as they gently broke on the bow. It was a sudden and dramatic change that all seamen relish.

 “Gumbao, let’s get the lines out, there might be a wahoo or dorado we can add to the catch, “said Brody as he looked at the row of six stout wooden cases lined up on the deck. “You really think we can fill them all with fish in one night?”

“Boss, if we hit the tuna shoals just right, and we can keep hauling them in, they will keep coming.”

Hassan called from the stern, “Mzee, don’t you think all that ice will melt long before we get to the rips?”

“Ah boy, you’re always full of the negative. Half will melt leaving room for the fish.”

“The ice and crates cost us 400 dollars,” said Brody, “how many tuna do we need to catch to make a profit.”

Gumbao looked at his two partners in crime as if he was looking at children. “Boss, I’ve done this trip so many times I cannot count. We bought the crates and the ice this morning at the quay in Kiwayu. We are lucky as Shukran has a big sail so we can move faster than the other boats and carry more fish. All we have to do is hit the rip currents out at about the fifty-mile mark and find a shoal of tuna. Then we throw in the hooks and pull them in all night if we have to. Once the crates are full, we turn and head for Kismayo…”

“As in Kismayo in Somalia?” Brody interjected.

“Yes, Boss, as in that one. But you have no problem, you look like all the other Arab traders. Since we left Lamu a month ago, you haven’t shaved or had a haircut. You look more like a local than a local! We can rub some of Hassan’s henna into your beard then you will look like a real Swahili Mzee.”

Brody thought to himself this was very true. They had sailed to Lamu and provisioned, then headed north towards the border of Somalia. The area was totally untouched; not a living soul for one hundred miles in all directions. The coastline was beautifully rugged and broken with many small inlets all covered with mangrove forests. The land behind the barren coast was a massive game reserve used as a buffer between Somalia and Kenya. The place was full of herds of elephants, buffalo, and zebra with prides of lions and packs of hyenas roaming around like street gangs looking for an easy mark. A real wilderness. Brody had decided to go off-grid and live on the ocean and the long white sandy beaches. He speared coral trout, Spanish mackerel, jobfish, and the occasional big-eyed tuna in the crystal-clear waters along the coast. Once they had enough fish for a few days Hassan would steer Shukran back towards the coast and find one of the multitudes of tiny inlets amongst the tangled, sunken, roots of the mangrove trees with their green, effervescent leaves.

Invariably just behind the mangroves, they would find a soft white sandy beach that had never been touched by humans. A quick climb up a coconut tree would provide the much-needed hydration for the day. Then Hassan would cook some sweet potatoes and fish over an open grill. When the fish ran out, they would just rinse and repeat on another beach. Life was idyllic, and Brody was more at peace with himself than he had ever been. The nightmares had almost stopped. The days had merged into weeks. Brody had not worn a shirt or had shoes on his feet for as long as he could remember. His life was simple and carefree. As long as there were fish and coconuts he was prepared to stay as long as he could.

A few nights earlier, as they had sat around the fire, Gumbao had come up with the plan of making some much-needed cash. It was simple, just go out to the rips fifty miles offshore, catch the fish, and take them to Kismayo where the markets were always wanting. Passport control along the East African coast was more of a preference than a requirement, so a quick hop over into Somalia was not an issue. Brody had visited Kismayo many years ago as a soldier on a deadly raid that changed his life, but that was a long time ago, and he was a different man now.

Gumbao broke into his thoughts, “Anyway Boss, it will be a quick in and out. I know the guys on the quay. We’ll sell the crates from the boat to a fish dealer and then be on our way at least five hundred dollars better off. There’s nothing that can go wrong.”

“Sure, Gumbao, nothing ever goes wrong with our plans!” Said Brody with a wry grin on his face. “But for now, let’s concentrate on getting those crates filled with fish.”

Shukran sailed on a broad reach cruising along at 4 knots. Soon they lost sight of land and were alone in the vast open ocean. The day was long and hot on the deck of the dhow. Gumbao sat on the stern rail, always watching his fishing lures bouncing on the surface, like a wounded fish, about fifty yards behind the boat. Brody lay on the stern cushions in the shade content to doze in the early afternoon sun. His life was perfect, not a worry to concern him. Around noon, as Hassan was starting to doze on the tiller, one of the reels suddenly started screaming as the line was ripped from the spool. Brody was on his feet in a second and lunged for the fishing rod as the line raced away. Gumbao moved like a leopard, jumping from a tree onto an innocent dik-dik, and plucked the second rod from its holder, reeling the lure in to stop any chance of a tangle.

Brody felt the strength of the fish on the rod; He watched the line strip off the reel as he tentatively slid the brake lever forward while easing the rod up—then down; the fish slowed and turned. The line dipped into the ocean. Brody held his breath; the moment of truth was upon him. He had to jerk the line up, this would either jam the barbed hook into the hard upper palate of the fish’s mouth- known as setting the hook- or break the line and set the monster free. He jerked the rod up with all of his strength. Then waited.

Sweat poured into his eyes as the seconds seemed to hang in the air in front of him. He turned to Gumbao, who just nodded sagely. Then the rod was almost yanked out of his grip as the fish turned in the water column and raced for the bottom. The fight was on! It was a contest of the ages, between man and beast. Brody fought for a meter of line and the great ocean creature fought to take that meter right back. The line went as taut as a piano sting, as the fish made a small gain taking a few precious yards off the reel. Then as he felt the line slacken, Brody jerked the rod up and gained a few yards. The fish was undeterred and valiantly fought to escape, diving for the depths. Brody stood on the stern of Shukran, his body glistening with sweat, and his biceps taut and strained, as he pulled the rod once again. The fish battled for thirty minutes before it started to wane. Brody felt the give in the line and started reeling as fast as he could.

Gumbao shouted, “Boss you better get it on board before the bull sharks sense it’s weak. If they catch it, you’ll only see the head!”

Hassan laughed, “Old man, I thought this was an easy five hundred?”

“Shut up boy. This is only the beginning; by morning you’ll have found out what a real day’s work is.”

Brody heaved on the line, sensing it second by second. When he felt it was close to its breaking point, he would gently release the brake. Teasing the giant fish towards the boat. If he became impatient and pulled too hard the line would break, and the fish would head for the bottom once again.

“Hassan, bring us into the wind, this bugger is ready to become part of the crew.” Hassan pushed the tiller, and Shukran slowly responded. Once the wind left the sails, he dashed to the side rails with Gumbao to wait for the fish.

Brody hauled on the line and the fish broke the surface. Gumbao yelled, “Boss it’s a yellowfin tuna; about eighty kilos I would say.”

The exhausted fish flapped on the surface, as Brody dragged it over to the side of the boat. Gumbao yelled, “pass the flying gaff we need to hook it quickly.”

Hassan passed the long rope with a twelve-inch barbed hook at the end. Gumbao reached out as far as he could and threw the long hook into the side of the fish. The tuna suddenly came back to life and raced for the depths, but Gumbao had the rope attached to the hook firmly tied off to a bollard on the handrail of Shukran. Hassan and Gumbao hauled the fish to the side of the boat then the three of them manhandled the huge fish onto the deck.

Within minutes, Gumbao was working on the animal with a razor-sharp filleting knife. “Boss we can’t put this in the boxes we’ll have to chop it up. It’s a good omen, these fish swim in shoals. I’m sure by morning the crates will be full.”

“All I want right now is a cold beer,” said Brody.

“Sorry Boss, you drank the last one about two weeks ago. All we have is water and it’s warm!”

Brody sank down onto the cushions in the stern, as Hassan pushed the tiller bringing them back into the wind and on the way to the rips.

When the deck was tidied, and the blood had been rinsed into the ocean it was nearing dusk. One box was almost half full of huge chunks of fish which boded well for their venture.

As night was beginning to fall, Gumbao stood at the bow staring into the distance, “We have about an hour to go. You see the swells are changing, that’s the beginning of the rips. The water gets shallow out here and acts differently. The fish love it and come up near the surface to eat. That’s when we grab em!”

Brody was exhausted already and had been dozing on the cushions. He couldn’t believe the energy Gumbao could put into a project. It seemed endless. It reminded him of his old soldier days when they marched all night then had to dig in and be ready for an unseen enemy who were fresh and waiting for them.

Shukran started to feel the swells change under her keel and began rising and falling into the ocean. Hassan said, “Boss we’re about here. We need the sonar to make sure we can see where the fish are.”

Brody turned the Lowrance HDS 10 combined depth sounder and GPS. He had also bought a three-kilowatt transducer to allow them to see the ocean floor at over one thousand feet. The unit came with side-scan sonar which was ideal to spot shoals of fish near the surface. The machine beeped twice as it located the satellites in the sky above them; then a large, yellow map appeared on the left of the 14-inch screen and a deep blue rectangle on the right with a black line at the top. As the transducer started sending its signal, a depth line appeared from the gloom of the blue screen. Suddenly the bottom came into view at sixty feet which were incredibly shallow.

Gumbao was looking over his shoulder and said, “Perfect Boss, we’ve hit the shelf. You watch, in a few miles the bottom will just drop away as we come to the North Kenya Banks where the water just goes down forever.”

Brody set the depth alarm to five hundred feet then went to the bow of Shukran to study the water. The sun had set in the west, and they were waiting for the moon to rise in the east. The water ahead was calm; but different. The waves were running at angles to each other as if they could not decide which way to go. The oily water moved as if a serpent was swimming underneath. It looked beautiful in the fading light. The slight breeze of the evening blew across the water all the way from India. The sound of the ocean flowing under the keel was mesmerizing; a time to meditate on life.

Half an hour later, just as the half-moon started dragging itself out of the ocean in front of them, the alarm on the depth sounder started bleating into the peace of the night. Gumbao ran over to the screen, “Come on Boss we need the lines ready and out. This is local fishing; we don’t use the rods. Put your gloves on and take a hand reel. Just throw it over the back and let out about sixty feet of line. The lures will do the work. Hassan, you watch that depth sounder and get us as close to the edge as you can. When you see a load of fish yell, so we can start jigging the lines.”

“We are on it now,” shouted Hassan, “and I can see small shoals of fish on the screen but nothing big.”

“Don’t worry boy, those are the baitfish, they’re there for our tuna to eat. Keep on them, circle if you have to, but keep the small fish in sight.”

Hassan yelped, “Inshallah, they’re coming, the monsters from below. I can see them on the machine, and they’re big. Guys get ready!”

Thirty seconds later, Gumbao grunted as his arm was almost pulled out of the socket, “We’re on. I have my first fish. Boss, get ready yours will go soon.”

Gumbao expertly hauled the line in, hand over hand, letting it fall at his feet in huge circles to keep it from tangling. He grappled with the leader then reached over the stern and pulled two yellowfin tuna into the boat. Within seconds they had their throats cut. Bright red blood spilled onto the deck. He re-baited the hooks and threw them back over the stern.

Brody watched the old man in awe as he handled the fish and the lines. His hands seemed to be everywhere at once. The fish flapped across the deck and into the gunnels.

“Just leave them till this shoal has passed, then we’ll tidy up, but for now concentrate on getting the fish on the deck.”

Brody’s line went next, the force of the tuna hitting the hooks dragged him across the deck. Before he could react, the heavy-grade fishing line started running through his fingers, it was only the thick gloves that saved him from a serious burn.

 “I’m on!” he shouted. Then grasped the line and wound one turn around his fist and started walking back across the deck.

“No messing Boss, we just haul them in. Each one is a few dollars in our pocket. So, no playing around!”

Brody pulled and staggered ten good feet, then ran forward hauling the line in. The lines had six hooks each and he knew he had more than one tuna pulling for the bottom. The sun had left them a while ago. Thankfully a half-moon glowed silver in the night giving them enough light to work by.

Soon Brody was sweating more than he had earlier. His back and thighs were screaming for a rest, but he had to get the line in and put the fish on the deck. He grappled with the thick monofilament pulling it in hand over hand. There was none of the finesse that Gumbao had shown, his line was just chucked on the floor in a big pile. Brody fought the fish for ten minutes, finally dragging the flapping tuna over the gunwale onto the deck. The fish were still writhing and wiggling when Hassan passed him another fresh line. “Boss, no time to lose. Here’s a new baited line, get it in the water we don’t know how long the fish will stay.”

Brody looked at Hassan with tired dismay, “Shit man! This is bloody hard work. I don’t know how I’m going to keep up with Gumbao.”

Gumbao looked up from cutting the tuna’s throats so the deep red blood could pump out keeping the pink flesh from going red. “Boss this is real fishing, we’re here for the cash!”

Brody threw his line in the water and let it run back behind the boat. Within seconds it was almost ripped out of his hand as another shoal of tuna passed under the boat. Brody set his jaw and tightened his grip. It was going to be a long night!

Hassan expertly kept Shukran crisscrossing between the deep water and the shallow reef all night. His eyes were either on the depth finder looking for the strange, green-shaped fish that would appear from the depths or when the shoal of tuna hit the surface, he would steer Shukran into the center of the boiling feeding frenzy.

Gumbao looked like he was just having fun. He would throw the line twenty feet behind the boat then jerk it a few times and start pulling. Invariably, he would haul in one or two fish. Then with a shake of the line, he would dislodge the fish onto the deck and pick another line and send it back over the stern; he was like a machine.

Brody on the other hand was a newbie and knew it. The experience reminded him of his early days when he had joined the Marines. Everything was difficult and went wrong. His line was always getting tangled and pulling the fish onboard took twice as long as Gumbao. As a soldier, he had always been competitive and saw this as a competition between him and his good friend, but before two hours were gone, he knew he was an amateur up against an Olympic athlete. Then he relaxed and started having fun.

“How many boxes are full?” Brody shouted to Gumbao.

“Boss, full or not, don’t even think about it, just keep pulling the samaki in. We’ll worry about the boxes in the morning.”

Brody took the hint and went back in earnest to his task of throwing the hook into the seething mass of feeding fish. Waiting for a few seconds for the baited hooks to sink into the gloom. Then a quick jerk and the bright stainless-steel hooks would glint in the darkness and the smell of the bait would drive the tuna crazy. Another few seconds and the line would streak out of his hands. Then the long pull. Dragging the five and six-pound tuna up to the surface and throwing them on the deck.

Then either Hassan or Gumbao would dash forward and slit the throats of the fish. By the time Brody had brought another round of fish to the deck the bleeding tuna would have been stowed in the ice and Hassan or Gumbao would be back at their stations.

The night dragged on as exhaustion set in. Every bone in Brody’s body was aching. More than once his feet lost their footing on the slippery deck covered in fish blood and guts and he was sent sprawling across the floor, but there was nothing for it, just get back up and throw the line and pull the fish.

At around 4 a.m. The fish suddenly disappeared. One second the water was boiling in the darkness with a massive ball of feeding fish. Dark silvery shapes leaped out of the water. Then it was gone; as if nothing had ever been there. Suddenly, all they could hear was the hum of Shukran’s engine as she purred along through the night.

Gumbao said, “Go around Hassan, see if you can find them.”

Hassan pushed Shukran’s tiller hard over and the dhow sluggishly moved in a long circle, finally coming back to where they had started. They plied up and down the line, staring at the depth sounder, waiting in silence-blood and gore mixed with sweat dripping from their bodies. Expecting an explosion at any moment. But none came. After thirty minutes of trawling back and forth over the drop-off, Gumbao finally said, “That’s it. They’ve gone for now. But it’s fine, I think we have enough to fill the boxes and head to the market.”

Brody felt so relieved he had not worked this hard in years. He was about to fall onto the cushions in the stern of Shukran when Gumbao said, “Boss before we can stop, we need to finish bleeding and gutting then wash the decks and ourselves. You look like you’ve been slashing goats in an abattoir all night.”

It was another hour before Brody threw a large bucket over the side and pulled up some fresh clean seawater. He lifted the bucket over his head and let the cold, salty water flow over his battered body. Then he scrubbed at his skin getting all of the blood out of his fingernails, hair, and beard. He could taste the coppery fish blood in his mouth. He felt like he had been bathing in blood and guts all night like some sick horror movie.

Hassan was still manning the tiller holding Shukran on a course back towards the mainland. He said, “Boss, you take a nap. I’ll take the first shift and wake you in a couple of hours.”

Brody said, “Thanks man, I’m absolutely knackered, that’s about as hard as I have worked since I got to Kenya.”

Hassan laughed, “I know boss, Gumbao is already asleep.”

Shukran sailed silently into the night heading for the mainland some forty-five miles away. Hassan stood next to the tiller. Whenever he was on night watch he always stood up to ward off the dreaded dozing. The splash of the water against the hull was mesmerizing. A sound he had been used to since he was a child. It was said by the old men of his village in Pemba that the noise was made by the Jinn, mystical creatures that lured sailors to their death. His father had taken him out on the boats before he could walk. He would sit in the small dugout canoe called an ingalawa and watch his father stand on the bow and throw his net long and wide into the shimmering ocean. Then as if by magic he would scoop up hundreds of tiny silver sardines. As the morning wore on the boat would fill with the wriggling mass of silver and white fish. His dad would say, “Son, these fish come all the way from the south. They swim thousands of miles just to come and help us eat. Allah is good in all things and always provides.”

Shukran plowed on into the darkness, there was no other light anywhere in the ocean. The swells gently picked her up and then placed her gently down on the far side of the wave. He loved this time of the night. As a Swahili, he loved the night more than the day. It was a time to think and wonder at what was around him. He knew all of the stars in the sky, the North Star was easy to find the brightest in the sky and the best to navigate by. But the planet Jupiter was also a good guide and Orion’s Belt plus many others. His grandfather had sat with him on the beach back in Pemba when he had managed to buy his first fishing boat. The old man spent hours with Hassan, explaining how to get home if he was blown away from the islands. Fishing on the western side of Pemba was fine as it was a shallow channel then the mainland. However, once you went for the bigger fish at Ras Kingomasha, then you were dealing with the ocean for real and could be swept out to sea.

His grandfather said, “Son, you listen to me, and you will always be able to get home. The ocean is a good friend that provides for us, but she is a cruel mistress to boot. If you get lost, you must know the stars as the ocean is forever. Allah made it for us to feast on. But be incredibly careful, there are devils and genies out there too that can drag you out to sea and you will never return. Inshallah, we are all safe and well.”

Hassan was a very good Muslim. He prayed five times every day without fail. He loved his God and could never imagine a time when he would forsake him. Although he now worked with two infidels, he felt close to them, and he knew his God was looking over them as much as he helped Hassan. His friend Gumbao was a lost soul, gone forever, there was no way of bringing him back, so all Hassan could do was look after him and keep him in his thoughts and prayers. Mr. Brody was different: they had met a few years back when the stranger arrived on Hassan’s Island looking for a place to dive. It was obvious from the outset that the dark brooding man did not want the normal tourist trips and tricks. So, Hassan had set the young man up in a small shack on the beach, no posh hotels. Then he had taken him diving in the mornings and left him to drink in the afternoons. He knew his new friend was troubled, his eyes were flat and bleak, and he had very little to say. When things went wrong, he would go into a rage, almost losing his temper. But Hassan had liked the man, as he was honest and humble. Over the years, as they had gotten to know each other, Brody had loosened up and now smiled and laughed, and he never lost his cool. But there was still a coldness in his eyes, a place that could not be reached. Sometimes when they were all asleep on the boat, he could hear Brody muttering in his sleep. He would toss and turn on his mat as if he was fighting demons.

A noise on the starboard bow brought Hassan back to the present. He watched as a pod of dolphins jumped in the darkness, like gray and white ghosts rising from the ocean only to return with a small splash. These were the genies his grandfather had spoken about. They were good and bad. Some saved sailors in the ocean and others took them to their deaths.

The day was just about to start, and he kicked Brody gently on the foot, “Boss it’s time to wake up. I’ve to pray, then I’ll make coffee before I sleep.”

“Fine, I’m awake, you go and pray I’ll take over on the tiller.”

Brody dragged himself up and shook off the night. A cold bucket of seawater sat on the deck next to the side rail. He grabbed the bucket and sloshed the water over his head bringing him back to the land of the living. Once he was refreshed, he wandered over to the tiller, unhooked the rope they called the autopilot and pushed Shukran more toward the land. She heeled slightly as the wind hit her sails then gently evened out and came onto her new course. Brody watched Hassan prepare. He washed his hands and his feet carefully, then he got the fancy little Allah compass out of his pocket, so he knew where Mecca was. Then he carefully placed his mat in exactly the right position. Once everything was set and correct, he bowed his head and brought his hands up to his chin muttering some words in Arabic. Then squat down to kneel and press his forehead on the mat. The prayers only lasted for a few minutes, but they were essential to Hassan. Brody felt little about God, he had seen way too much of life’s evil to ever believe in such things. The day in Somalia when he had been forced to kill kids holding A.K.47s was the last he had thought about a greater being. He loved the ocean and all it gave him, but as far as he was concerned it was all a freak of nature. Millions of years of evolution playing out in front of him. He had no place for a God in his life.

Chapter Two

Kismayo

Gumbao stood on the deck, appraising Brody. “Kid, I think he needs more henna in his beard. You Swahilis love that stuff. I don’t think it is orange enough.”

“Old man, what do you know about our ways. You’re just a ruffian that lived in the streets of Mombasa Old Town.”

“Shut up boy. I grew up with you lot. I’m a proud Lou and know how things should be.”

“Guys,” Brody interjected. “I think the beard is fine. This kanzu makes me look more like a tramp than a trader.”

Brody was dressed to look like an Arab trader. With his straggly uncut hair, and now orange beard, along with the teak color of his face and arms, he could easily pass as the crew of one of the dhows that plied the coast from Mozambique to the Horn of Africa.

Hassan said, “Just make sure you keep your mouth shut. Your Swahili is O.K. but not in the markets and towns. We all speak sheng, which is a mixture of all the coastal languages. Just nod and I’ll jump in.”

“Don’t worry Boss, I know the people on the wharf in Kismayo we’ll be in and out in a couple of hours. No problem,” said Gumbao with his ever-present smile.

“What’s the town like?” asked Brody.

“It’s small and really dusty Boss. The harbor is very old. The Sultan of Zanzibar first opened it way back when. Then the English had it for a while, as usual. Then it went to the Somalis and then to the Al-Shabab who have it now.”

“Isn’t that really dangerous then?” asked Brody.

“Ah boss, we’re all coastal traders here. Just out to make a living. No one takes much notice of a dhow or two coming in and out. Especially when we have some fresh fish to sell.”

Hassan butted in and said, “The harbor is way out of town, we’ll have to get a bike in it’s a bit of a ride, but I need some supplies and charcoal for the jiko. Boss, you can come with me, but you must not talk. The Al-Shabab are everywhere, they have religious police that make sure everyone is following the Koran. If they catch you then we are in shit.”

Brody wanted to tell them that he had actually been just north of Kismayo many years ago when he was in the Special Boat Service. He had been sent to capture a particularly noisy cleric that was threatening to bring hell to the western world. If the Somalis knew he was around and grabbed him, it would be a lot more than a bit of shit. But he figured it would be fine. That was a long time ago, and he had to admit his disguise was very good. As long as he kept his mouth shut.

Kismayo had a well-marked channel, even the Lowrance HDS 10 had the approach lines clearly drawn on the map. The English had done an excellent job. Hassan expertly maneuvered Shukran through the channel towards the long spit of land that jutted out at almost right angles to the beach. This made a huge natural harbor. As soon as Shukran was inside the spit of land Hassan carefully turned her one hundred and eighty degrees, so she was pointing back the way they had come. Then eased her up to the ancient blocks of the harbor wall. The place was busy with fish buyers and sellers, and charcoal merchants selling huge sacks of the burned wood. Even cows were being unloaded in stained, torn slings from a massive wooden dhow that was moored further along the pier.

“This place is so busy. I thought they were at war with the west and just about everyone else?” said Brody.

Gumbao said, “Boss, war or no war you gotta eat, and to eat you need money. The Al-Shabab turn a blind eye to us as they need food too. We’ll be in and out before you know it. Now you and Hassan head into town. He knows it well; I think he has a cousin or an uncle that will help you. Me, I’m going to sell this fish and make us a cool five hundred dollars.”

Brody and Hassan jumped off the deck and onto the old stone harbor wall. As usual, after so long at sea Brady still felt the movement of the ship below him and swayed from side to side. Hassan laughed, “Boss you have been out too long!”

Hassan gently pushed Brody behind him, “Boss, you just look stupid. I’ll do all the talking. We’re heading to town to visit my uncle. He’ll help us with some supplies, and he is family, so I have to say hi.”

Hassan walked into the dense crowd of people all jostling and pushing to get their wares on a ship or off a ship. Everyone was shouting at once in Somali, Arabic, Swahili, and many other languages Brody could not make out. But business was being done, and goods were moving from A to B. Brody was shocked to see this much commerce in a town that was virtually under siege from the Western Military Forces and even Kenya was building an attack force with its eye on this well-placed strategic port.

A man pushed Brody aside as he was heading for the edge of the dock, he had a wad of dollars in his hand and was shouting at a captain who stood above them on the deck of his dhow. Brody momentarily lost sight of Hassan, as he weaved in and out of the people, but he pushed back at the angry man who looked at him and spat a stream of words in what Brody guessed was Somali. Brody nodded and smiled then ducked behind the man and went after Hassan. His heart was pumping as the last thing he wanted was to be recognized as a muzungu.

Brody broke through the dense crowd on the edge of the dock and looked for Hassan. Immediately he saw four men leaning against a wall smoking cigarettes. Each man had a scratched and worn A.K. 47 with a long banana magazine clicked into place. They were deep in conversation and ignored him as they watched the crowd.

Hassan touched his arm, “Boss, don’t stare at them, they’re the religious police. They’re watching for infidels or people who are not following their Koran. No radios or T.V here Boss. And women are not allowed out unless their husbands, older brothers, or uncles will walk with them. Let’s go, I’ve found a bike to take us to town.”

Brody followed his friend away from the men with the guns and the crowd at the dock towards a group of guys standing next to dilapidated bicycles. Hassan started talking to them in a language Brody did not understand, before long a note was exchanged, and two men readied their big black bikes for the journey. Hassan whispered, “These are black mambas, the old bikes the British bought when they ran the place. The design has stayed the same forever.”

On the back of the black mamba was an ancient seat with a coarse mat on the top. Brody hitched up his long Kanzu, exposing the sandals made from old car tires, and climbed on. The man pushed off and started pedaling towards the town. The spit of land jutted out about three-quarters of a mile from the mainland and was only about the width of a single-lane road. They joined a procession of bikes, all either heading into town or back out towards the harbor. Brody settled in and watched the world go by. This was a strange place indeed, first, there were no women at all, not a girl child or woman anywhere on the journey. The men looked hard and withered. They all dressed similarly to Brody in long kanzus, mostly of dull browns and greys. Everyone wore either a small pillbox hat on their head, or had a checkered cloth looped around like a turban trying to combat the furnace of a sun beating down on them. The area was all bright white sand which reflected the heat and made the day almost unbearable. The smell of sweat started to engulf Brody’s nose as the man pushing the pedals around began to feel the heat of the late morning.

Hassan looked across at Brody, and said in Swahili, “We must rush, the mosque will be calling us soon, and everyone has to stop and pray. No one is allowed to work during prayers. We all must attend the mosque.”

Brody nodded his understanding.

On the quay, Gumbao was busy trying to create an impromptu auction to get as much for his fish as he could. There was a great deal of interest as the fish were obviously fresh, but other boats had come into the harbor earlier selling tuna so the market had already absorbed almost as much as it could take. Gumbao saw a tall aloof man standing slightly to the side of the group, He walked over to him, “Sir, you look like you need some fish?”

The man nodded and answered in Somali, a rough language that always sounded like everything was an argument. Gumbao understood Somali, as he had plied this coast for years, “This tuna is fresh. You can eat it now or dry it and take it home where you will get good money.”

A man jostled Gumbao’s arm, “But old man, I need some fish too.”

Gumbao was about to tell the second guy to back off then remembered the Arabic way, everyone can talk at any time. There is no interfering, you just blurt everything out and then negotiate until someone comes up with the cash. He said, “No problem how many boxes are you taking?”

The second guy replied, “Not a whole box, I need like twenty fishes.”

“Ah, I’m selling per crate only. No splitting.”

A third man spoke up, “Look, old man, the fish came earlier you are lucky to get anything now. We will take everything off you for three hundred dollars American cash. Right now.”

“No chance,” said Gumbao, “this is quality fish caught last night. I want two thousand dollars for the lot. First come first served.”

The taller Somali pushed the second guy out of the way, “Two thousand dollars is too much. I can give you six hundred for all right now. What do you want dollars or Kenya shillings?”

Gumbao knew a lot of Kenyan Shillings were forged in Somalia, “I’ll only take dollars, good American ones that I sit here and check before you take. The best I can do is eighteen hundred dollars for all. You will pay more if I divide the crates. Look the ice is melting and you know it’s a good deal.”

The man who had been pushed out of the way raised his arm as he used the other elbow to get to the front of the group. “That’s still too high old man, All I have is eight hundred here take it right now,” as he tried to push the grubby dollars into Gumbao’s hand.

“I need double that before I part with one fish.”

Another fat sweating man pushed into the front of the group, he had a brown stained kanzu with a tear in the collar and a dirty red scarf wrapped around his head. “Fisherman, I will take all the boxes from you for nine hundred dollars. That is the best offer you have had, and a better one you will not see on this dock. Take it!” He reached out his hand to shake Gumbao’s. But Gumbao was holding out for the last one hundred dollars.

He shouted to the crowd, “This man is offering nine hundred who will give me fifteen?”

A shout from the back of the crowd confirmed an offer of nine hundred and fifty.

Gumbao thought to himself, “almost there.”

He knew he had to be quick, as the mosque would start calling the loyal Muslims to prayer very soon. Once they went to pray, they would conspire against him and come back with a terrible offer, so time was against him now, but he smiled at the rough-looking group and said, “I have nine hundred and fifty, anyone give me a round thousand and I’m done with this?”

The tall Somali guy from the beginning stepped out of the crowd with a handful of bills and said, “Here count this; it’s one thousand even.”

Gumbao heard the first call of the cleric for the morning prayer, he knew this was the time to bow out gracefully, and he had made the one thousand anyway, so he grabbed the cash and started counting it.

The tall Somali said, “You will come to pray, then we will unload the catch?”

Gumbao was no Muslim, but he decided the safest place to be right now was beside the tall Somali, so he nodded in agreement.

The men with the machine guns had started walking up and down the quay, shouting at everyone to go to prayer. All the men turned as one and headed towards the quayside where there were large stone overhangs that had been changed into prayer rooms, so the men did not have to rush back to town.

A hosepipe ran from the roof into a large blue plastic barrel. The men all lined up and washed their hands, feet, and faces then moved into the shade of the overhanging rock. Gumbao followed stuffing the now-counted notes into his pocket. He had the basics of praying and knew all about the washing of his feet and hands and face, but the prayers themselves were beyond him.

The Somali man stood next to him; he was keen to stay near his money until the deal was finalized. “Fisherman, I will show you what to do. You are no Muslim I can see that from a mile away, but those men with the guns want us all in here and to pray to Allah, so as they have the guns this is what we shall do.”

Gumbao nodded his agreement and walked dutifully behind his new host to the back of the room in a darker corner away from the cleric and the men with the A. K’s. “Now just follow me and do as I do this will all be over in ten minutes; Allah does not want to interfere with trade and business too much.” The tall man said with a wry smile.

Brody was in the same predicament in the small-town square of Kismayo. They had arrived on the bicycles just as the cleric had started to chant his prayers from the tower of the mosque. It was amazing to Brody how the people were affected. Everyone just stopped what they were doing and headed towards the Mosque. They were like robots; it was as if a switch had been flipped in their heads as they all rushed to pray. The boda boda men turned and rode straight to the entrance and parked their bikes. Hassan jumped off his bike and came over to Brody, “we have to join them and pray, everyone here is either a Muslim or an infidel and you don’t want to be the last one.”

Brody whispered back in English, “I don’t have a clue what to do in there.”

“Don’t worry,” said Hassan, “I’ll lead you.”

The two men did the same as Gumbao had done and filed into the Mosque. Hassan was an expert and felt completely at ease, but Brody didn’t know what he was doing and just blindly followed his friend through the ritual of the prayers. By the time the ten minutes were over, Brody was convinced everyone in the Mosque was watching him. As the seconds slowly ticked past, he expected to feel the muzzle of an A.K. pushed into his back. His mind was awash with the thoughts of stinking jails and pictures of him on T.V. as an infidel who had abused the Koran. Hassan nudged Brody with his elbow and nodded towards the door. Brody had been so absorbed in his own personal nightmare he had not seen the other men filing back towards the door and freedom.

Brody and Hassan emerged into the burning day to find the two boda boda men waiting for them to finish the ride to Hassan’s uncle’s house. The streets were dusty, with long concrete buildings along each side. Once, many years ago the road had been tarmacked but now it was just a collection of deep potholes and rutted tracks running around them showing the safest route for bicycles. Brody sat on the back of his black mamba and watched the world go by. The shops on either side of the road were just long metals doors painted in a variety of dull colors. Most of the doors were folded back to reveal a brown wooden counter at the front, with a man in a kanzu leaning on a counter, then behind him were the wares he was selling. There was no blaring music, like Mombasa, or televisions or ladies parading up and down. This place was sullen and sad, the Al-Shabab had removed all life. Everyone seemed to be looking over their shoulders and hurrying off to be somewhere else. After five minutes, Hassan asked the boda boda riders to stop and they dismounted. Then Hassan started walking towards a narrow alley between two shops. As soon as they were out of earshot, Hassan said, “My uncle owns these two shops, and lives in the back with his three wives and seven children. They have been here for many years. I hope he remembers me.”

Hassan bashed on a large black metal door and shouted, “Hodi, Hodi.”

A few minutes later, a woman slide a small metal plate back in the center of the door and peered out, she asked in Swahili, “Who is it, we are eating, you can come back later?”

Hassan replied, “I’m Hassan from Pemba, I would like to see my uncle Hashan Mohamed if he is home?”

The lady retreated and slid the small door closed. Hassan looked at Brody, “It has been years since I met my uncle, I hope he’s here.”

Just as they were starting to get worried the door opened and a small, fat man stepped out into the sunlight. He looked Hassan up and down then smiled broadly, “You look just like your father did when he was your age.”

Hassan held his hand out to shake but his uncle just enveloped him in a hug, “Come boy, and bring your guest, we have just sat down to lunch. You must sit with us and eat. Who is your Arabic friend?”

Brody shuffled his feet, “Hujambo mzee, ninaitwa Brody.” ‘Hello, sir my name is Brody.’

Hashan looked at Brody with a smile, then a laugh, “You will have to do better than that muzungu to fool anyone around here. That Swahili is nice, but not really for Kismayo!”

Hassan spoke up, “Uncle, this is my friend Brody ,we live on his dhow. We didn’t want him recognized as a muzungu here, so I dressed him up like an Arab trader.”

“The look is good,” said Hashan, “but the accent is awful, he sounds like a missionary. Remember those that used to come to the island all Swahili sanifu, we could never understand what they were saying.”

“We are teaching him, uncle.”

“If he is your friend then he is my friend. Come and meet the family.”

The house was on two floors behind the shops which Hashan had built and run for many years. There was a kitchen, which was full of chattering women in bui buis all sitting on the floor around a large metal plate piled with rice. They all had a hand full of rice and a piece of fish with some greens. Hashan led them through the throng of women and into the back room which had a flight of stairs leading up to the second floor. Hashan pointed at the stairs, “That is for the children and the women, I live down here to get some peace!”

The rooms on the ground floor were sparsely furnished. There was only one long wooden trestle chair, like a pew from a church along one wall. The floor had some brown and green cushions scattered around and a thick Persian rug. Hashan sat on the floor, “Brody are you O.K. sitting on the floor we do not use the chairs they are only for visitors.”

“I’m good,” said Brody settling down on the rug.

“Uncle,” said Hassan, “How is life in Kismayo now the Al-Shabab has taken over? The last time I was here you had the Ugandans and the Kenyans helping you?”

“That was the Amisom, The African Union Mission in Somalia, they are still here, but the Al-Shababa have chased them away from this region. The fighting in the streets was pretty bad for a couple of weeks. Now there is an uneasy peace as long as the Al-Shababa don’t do anything stupid like a suicide bomb then they leave each other alone.”

“Are you safe here, Uncle?”

“Ah boy, where is safe, I have my business. I sell to the locals and make enough money to get by. There are a lot of Somalis that live outside of the country these days and they send back money for their family. Smuggling money is a thriving business! I have two small boats that head to Lamu every month. My guys pick a sack of money from a shop in Lamu town and bring it here. The religious police are as hungry as everyone else, so they do not notice me bringing in the cash. I then distribute it to the families and take my fair share. All is good and Allah always provides.”

Hassan mumbled, “Alhamdulillah.” ‘Praise be to God.’

“Now let’s eat. I hope you like fish. We have not had any meat in a month or so.”

Two ladies filed out of the kitchen carrying a large tray each, and a bowl of water. Hashan said, “This is my second wife, Kamaria, she has a face as round as the moon!” The young girl blushed. She was covered head to foot in a black bui bui even her face was partially covered— only her pretty brown, oval, eyes could be seen.

She knelt in front of Brody and carefully laid the bowl in front of his knees. Brody just stared, he did not know what to do and felt embarrassed that a young lady would be kneeling in front of him.

Hashan said, “If you want to act like a good Muslim man you have to learn a bit about our society! She wants you to wash your hands. Hold them out for her to help you.”

Brody gingerly held out his hands as Kamaria took them and poured water over them then soaped and rinsed and dried his hands. Brody was both surprised and shocked that a woman would be so subservient, but all he could do was follow along as he was in another man’s house in a town full of Al-Shababa.

Kamaria went around all the men and washed and dried their hands. Then she stood back, and her sister wife came forward.

Hashan said, with a broad smile on his face, this is my youngest wife, number three, “Her name is Hediye, a true gift to a man of my age.”

Hediye laid two large metal plates in front of the three men. The first had a substantial portion of boiled white rice, the second had a whole silver king mackerel which had been fried then placed in a sauce of tomatoes and chilies.

“My friends eat until you are full, the rice is courtesy of our wonderful saviors, the soldiers of Amisom!”

Brody and Hassan didn’t need to be asked twice and dug into the lovely meal using their hands as the women had done in the kitchen. When the meal was over, Kamaria came back with her bowl and water and washed everyone’s hands.

Then coffee was served in a copper filigree pot that looked like it was a hundred years old. Brody sat with his back against a cushion, feeling very satisfied. “Hashan,” he said. “If we want to pick up some essentials for the boat and our trip back to Kenya, can you tell us any good shops with stock? I noticed as we were coming in the shops are not exactly full of stuff.”

“We still live a day-to-day life here Brody, most of the things come in on a dhow and are sold on the docks. But if you go back to the main road and turn to the left there are a couple of dukas along the road that keep some stock, you should find something.”

Brody wrapped his scarf around his head assumed the slightly bent-over stance of an elderly mzee Swahili trader and wandered out to the road. He turned left and walked slowly down the dusty road. He soon found what Hashan had been talking about, a row of slightly better-kept shops that looked more like garages with big heavy metal doors painted black. As the shops were open, the doors were folded back against the wall revealing a dark interior. There was no music or bright attention-seeking signs. Just deafening silence. Brody walked into the first shop to have a look around. An old man was asleep on the floor. The shelves had a few bags of rice, some tins of tomatoes, exercise books, pencils, and a stack of meticulously kept Korans. Brody didn’t want to bother the old man, so he crept back out to the street. The next shop looked much better; this man obviously had connections. The door was open but only halfway. A young man with a bright white kanzu and a red kofir hat sat behind a worn but clean wooden counter. The man said, “Salaam Alekum.”

Brody replied, “Alekum Salaam.”

The young man carried on in either Somali or Arabic, Brody was not quite sure, so he tried his Swahili to see if it would work. He said, “Pole sielewi.” ‘Sorry I don’t understand.’

The man immediately turned to Swahili as if it was his mother tongue and blurted out, “Jambo Rafiki Unataka nini?” ‘Hello, my friend what do you want?”

Brody was still stuck as he knew his Swahili would not last long, so he tried another tack, “Unaelewa kingreza Rafiki?” ‘Do you understand English my friend?”

The man switched again like magic, “I speak a little, bwana. I used to live in Lamu many years ago when the tourists were around.”

Relieved Brody said, “Great. I just came in on a dhow to sell some fish. I’m leaving in an hour or so, and I was looking for some supplies.”

“Well, you have come to the right place, but do not speak English when you are out on the road the religious police will want to talk to you very quickly.”

“I’ll be careful.”

“So, what do you want? We get the rations from the Amisom soldiers. They have a, what do you call it? A back door, where we can collect sacks of rice and tins of food. Sometimes we even get meat but not so much lately. It’s strange we usually pay in charcoal; they don’t want money. But who cares as long as we get the supplies the world keeps turning. Allah is great in all things.” The man waved behind him, and Brody immediately noticed he only had a stump at the end of his right arm.

Brody looked away quickly not wanting to embarrass the young man.

“Don’t worry my friend, I am used to this now,” the man said waving his stump in the air.

“What happened?” asked Brody.

“When I came back from Lamu many years ago, I was a young and stupid boy. I thought the world was there for me to use and abuse. Those tourists from the west just drink and smoke bang. The world is easy for them. I forgot I was a good Muslim from Kismayo and took on the ways of the devil. I arrived here with no job and no family. My father had died in a bombing and my mother was shot accidentally when the Amisom came in and started searching. So, I had no one. I hunted around for food, and I was sleeping on the docks and in the Mosque. But the hunger became too bad. I tried to pray and quell my evil thoughts, but my stomach said different things to me. One afternoon it was too much for a weak man such as myself: I had not eaten for three days. I just could not stop myself, the Shetani was in me and took me to the market. I crept up on a stall and took a bunch of bananas then ran like the wind up into the sand dunes behind town. The man minding his stall did not even notice. I sat above the town looking down on my world and ate every single banana. It was strange to me, I felt both happy and sad. I knew I committed a mortal sin, and Allah was watching. But because I was from the den of infidels in Lamu I just didn’t care.

If you enjoyed this except and would like to read more, then please click close. You will find the buy tabs at the bottom of the page.

 

Thanks, a lot

Steve

www.stevebrakerbooks.com