Whoever Fears the Sea, Justin Fox [i love reading .TXT] 📗

almost asking for ice. Mohamed drank shah from a narrow glass with a gold rim.

‘Wine from your country, the Cape.’

‘Thank you, Mr Mohamed, it’s good of you.’ The wine was badly corked. For a moment, Paul thought it might be poisoned.

The woman was tall and slim, her hair swept back from a high forehead in tight braids. He noticed a delicate floral pattern of henna on her hands.

‘Come and sit with me, thamani,’ said Mohamed. She went and sat side-legged next to him. Mohamed cradled her head in one hand and bent it into his lap. Paul couldn’t decide whether it was an act of tenderness or ownership. She closed her eyes, almost dutifully, and a big hand began to stroke her braids.

‘Seeing that you are worthless — which I do not believe for a minute — I am thinking about doing something different with you.’

Paul looked apprehensively at his captor. The gentle voice was pure menace.

‘I am going to educate you.’

Paul ran through a likely list: cat o’ nine tails, keelhauling, hanged from the yardarm. No other form of pirate education sprang immediately to mind.

‘First, I will teach you why we are guarding our coast. We want the world to know our story and you will be the one to tell it. You will be our, what do you call it, PR man? Our agent in Johannesburg.

‘I want to tell you about pirates,’ said Mohamed, his voice deep and sonorous. ‘Not us; the real pirates. For five hundred years, foreigners have come here to steal. First the Portuguese, then the Dutch, the English, the Italians. All pirates.’

‘But that was so long ago. You can’t still —’

‘After colonialism, we thought we were free,’ Mohamed interrupted. ‘But no. When Somalia fell apart in 1991, the international community washed its hands of us. But it wasn’t exactly hands off, you see.’ He grew agitated, running a deliberate finger across the scar on his forehead. ‘We have the best fishing grounds in the world. It is our national treasure. Like thieves in the night — I like this expression — the foreigners crept back into Somali waters. Trawlers from everywhere. They chased us out of the sea, poured boiling water on our fishermen in their canoes, cut our nets, rammed our boats.

‘I am a man of principle, a man of God, Merciful Allah be my witness. When I came here two years ago, I saw what the foreigners were doing. It would have been wrong of me not to act. Now, when a ship’s ransom is paid, the whole town celebrates. Food and khat for everyone. We slaughter goats. We pay good money for everything, double the going rate. A year ago the people were starving; now there are generators supplying electricity, our shops are properly stocked, builders have work. We have television. Soon we will sponsor a clinic.’

‘But what about the violence?’ said Paul softly.

‘Don’t you talk to me about violence, mzungu!’ Mohamed leapt to his feet and stood over him. Paul cowered, expecting a blow. ‘How dare you speak to me about violence, you white pig!’

‘I’m sorry.’

Mohamed stepped back, still looking down at Paul with contempt, then returned to his cushion. ‘Do not misunderstand us.’ Mohamed’s voice was matter of fact again. ‘We are religious, but this is not jihad. They are calling us terrorists. It is an old story. Our grievances are about life and death. Our lives, our deaths!’

Paul’s throat felt constricted, as though hands were wrapped around it again.

Mohamed stared at him for a long time. ‘Our people were starving. So we intercept the foreigners and levy a tax, you understand.’

‘Modern-day privateers,’ said Paul.

‘What is that?’

‘It’s an old word. A privateer is a boat — or its commander — authorised to attack shipping. Sort of like piracy with the blessing of your own government. Sir Francis Drake was a famous English privateer.’

‘I like the word. I will use it.’ Mohamed took a sip of tea and continued, telling Paul how Italian fishing boats brought barrels of toxic material, threw them overboard, then filled their nets with illegal fish: two crimes for the price of one voyage. When there was a storm, drums came ashore all along the coast and broke open on the reefs. Whatever was inside killed everything in the water. Dead fish by the thousand washed up along the coast. They even dumped rubbish from European hospitals. Mohamed had seen syringes on the beach. Children had developed breathing problems, bleeding mouths, hair loss and skin diseases.

‘We have even seen malformed babies.’ Mohamed shook his head. ‘The ransom money we get is nothing compared to the damage they have caused. Do you know the saying “He that sows the wind, shall reap the whirlwind”?’

‘It’s from the Bible,’ said Paul, thinking how much his interrogator reminded him of Dom Jerónimo.

‘Yes, it is Christian. It was taught to me when I was young. I am a man of the sea. I like this saying very much. He that sows the monsoon, shall reap the cyclone. It has already begun. The last few years are nothing compared to what we have planned. I have met with my brother leaders from Hobyo, from Eyl. Chief Afweyne, my friend in Harardheere, has this idea to form the Somali marines. He is raising funds and training men. My friend Garaad, in Kismaayo, is doing the same. We are of one mind: the foreigners must go or else the cyclone will blow them out of the water.

‘Up till now, we’ve concentrated on the trawlers, but they are heavily armed these days. Since we took a Korean cargo ship a few months ago, the game has changed. We will now go for more commercial vessels. For the bigger ships, we’ll get millions of dollars. Not bad money for poor fishermen. Cargo ships, oil tankers, cruise liners, luxury yachts: