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

his mind. In a situation like this, there was no place for dreams or colourful imaginings, no place for heartache or grieving.

He lay on his bed, listening to the cocks crowing and goats scuffling outside the hut. Soothing, domestic sounds. Eventually he got up. Two oil cans, fashioned into wash buckets, had been placed inside the doorway during the night. Where had Farid been during the attack? Silently listening outside the door, or had he been told to make himself scarce? Paul took off his clothes and emptied one bucket over his head, ignoring the pool of water left on the earthen floor. It was his first proper wash since capture and layers of encrusted salt, dust and grime melted off his skin. He carefully washed his hands and feet, as though a ritual ablution. Then he put on a clean pair of khaki shorts, a white T-shirt and sandals.

He would stay on the surface, not letting his mind sink into that which threatened to engulf him.

All day he waited for something to happen. He was prepared; he could take whatever came. Nothing happened. The waiting ate at him. He mustn’t think. His armour was on; his defences were up. But please let it come, whatever it is. Darkness fell. Farid avoided his gaze and said nothing as he delivered a plate of rice topped with tinned tuna and a bowl of camel milk. Paul took a few mouthfuls.

He found it impossible to sleep, fearing that if he closed his eyes, he might wake to the red pirate again. His mind paralysed, he sat watching the door, feeling the painstaking drift of the night. At first light, he slipped into a sleep plagued by nightmares.

Late morning, Farid opened the door: ‘You, come.’

‘Ah, Paul, good of you to come. Please, sit here.’ A disconcertingly affable Mohamed patted a cushion on the ground beside him in a corner of the yard. Paul sat down feeling decidedly wary. The man handed him a sheaf of paper. ‘These notes list our grievances.’

It was Mohamed’s manifesto: The Real Pirates of the Horn of Africa by Mohamed Issa, Captain of the Galoh Coastguard. Some of it was merely in note or bullet-point form. The handwriting started neatly and became untidier as it progressed. The first heading was ‘Fishing Piracy’.

‘I have tried to summarise the crimes and give solid proof. Facts, facts, facts. As you know, the West wants facts.’ Mohamed took a pair of wire-framed spectacles from a red case and placed them carefully on the end of his nose. He half read, half summarised: ‘Every year, foreign fishing companies steal 300 million dollars’ worth of tuna, shrimp and lobster from Somalia, ignoring seasons and quotas. The mother ships never enter local ports, never get searched and remain in our waters for months. The illegal catch is laundered through places like the Seychelles and Mauritius. These criminal governments do nothing about it. And so on and so on. All these things I cover in the first section of my document.’

Paul turned a few pages and came to the next heading, Toxic-Waste Piracy.

Mohamed tapped the document in an agitated manner. ‘Okay, this is very important. It’s about the dumping. Our fishermen have recorded the names of ships, the places and dates of their crimes. We have evidence. Look here, on page nine.’

Paul saw a list of ships with their call signs, type and nationality. There were GPS coordinates next to many of the entries and a brief description of each illegal activity that had been spotted. Mohamed looked over Paul’s shoulder and read aloud, squeezing his elbow for emphasis. Paul didn’t like the sudden intimacy. ‘Mr Mohamed, you are being —’

‘As you well know, my South African friend, there are consequences. Do they really expect us to stand around in puddles of nuclear waste and watch them steal our fish for the restaurants of Paris and London?’ Mohamed stood up and paced the courtyard, punching the air with his finger and appearing to address a far bigger audience than Paul. ‘Why does the UN do nothing? Because its members want to protect their illegal fleets. They are making a fortune in Somalia! Britain, Spain, Italy, Russia, Japan, Egypt, all the other villains — they are the enemies of the Somali people. We will take the fight to them!’

‘But Mr Mohamed, the consequences for your own people will be terrible,’ said Paul. ‘You can never fight the West in open boats. It’s madness.’

‘They have forgotten Somalia!’ Mohamed was shouting now. ‘If we capture a hundred ships, they might begin to remember us. If we capture a thousand ships, maybe they will sit up and listen!’

Mohamed stopped pacing and looked at Paul with a dazed expression. For a moment, it was as though he didn’t know where he was. He came to sit next to Paul again. ‘If you page a bit further on ... here ... these are our demands.’ His tone was gentle, almost pleading.

Paul read the demands: The rich nations must immediately stop their piracy, must help negotiate a political solution, must send aid to alleviate poverty, must help set up a government.

‘If there was a stable government and proper employment in Somalia, there would be no need for piracy,’ said Mohamed.

Paul shook his head sadly. ‘The rich nations aren’t interested, Mr Mohamed. This is a forgotten corner of Africa.’

Mohamed ignored him and read aloud from the document: ‘The EU has the authority to stop the fishing fleets. The owners of big companies must be arrested and tried in the international court. The UN must send experts to clear the toxic and nuclear waste —’

‘Mr Mohamed, you have no chance. Stop now, before they come after you. Return with your brother to Kenya. Husni will be able to organise things. Husni says —’

‘I don’t give a damn what my brother says!’ hissed Mohamed. ‘You and