Lakesong

A story by IMMACULATE HALLA

The water rowed me, like it was the one with the oars, not me. From the far, deep, colder part of Nyasa, my secret Atlantis with countless sardines, to the dirty shores of Zambia town, where middle-aged women sold fish for a living, and my fellow fishermen mended their nets for the next reaping session. 

“Any success, dada?” Rasheed, one of my boatmates, asked once I stopped my boat and threw the oars inside it.

“Just went for a little water stroll, honestly,” I lied. “But the weather seems promising today, so big earns tonight, I bet.” 

At least that last part wasn’t a lie. I jumped out, pulling the boat forward, letting it settle in the shallows as I anchored it. 

“Amina.” He grinned, and I could totally see how he imagined filling up pails and pails with overflowing dagaa on our sunset adventure later. 

Despite the shitty weather lately, I could picture it too, so I smiled. Big harvests, big money. Seeds we never sowed but were given by Mother Nature for us to reap. A fisher could dream, right? I prayed the grey clouds forgot their purpose, and the moon shone like a beacon, guiding us into a successful errand where schools of sweet silver sardines and even bigger fish floated at the surface for us to reach. We all prayed alright. 

“I collected 56 buckets, so the stupid weather god better not play with us this evening. Missing my daily dose of wanzuki for a fortnight is enough.” He muttered under his breath, and I chuckled, not knowing what the man was even thinking with that number of buckets.

And here I thought I was the optimistic one left in our team of three after my brother died. The alcohol surely took a toll on Rasheed. 

The stench of fish spread through the lake bank, making my face twist from contentment to disgust as I stepped into the fish market area where the townsmen of Mbamba Bay crowded to buy what was most prominent here. My eyes searched for one familiar face, and I found the woman already looking at me. We stared at each other until her gorgeous dark chestnut orbs whose colour I swore flicked into salmon when no one was watching, turned away, bashful. I swallowed back a smile, heading in her direction. 

Something about Mama Lisa made me want to share things I’d never share with anyone. Like how I wasn’t an ordinary fisherwoman. How I fished souls of the unsleeping dead from the deep waters and sent them on their way to the grim reaper. I wanted her to know that I was the middleman in the death cycle that nobody knew of. But there was a man, her husband, oh, this persistent dead fisherman, invisibly standing on the way. His soul lingered, holding too tight onto the boulder of ghost life for my liking. I hated finishing other people’s business, but here I was, having no choice but to land my boat on the mysterious widow. 

“Caught any fortunes last night? I heard the weather was terrible.” 

She knew the answer, yet she still asked before I could even get close to her, her back to me. 

“A little. In the morning.” 

Mama Lisa was a daunting rose.

I never cared to ask her if she loved me. A futile attempt. The widow was young and beautiful, and I was an old bat from the sea’s hell. I liked the way she watched me with a keen eye from every corner. While her hands were busy laying her fishing nets over her wooden stand and arranging her fish to dry, her fiery gaze was fixated on nothing but me. I thought of fooling around with her sometimes, but women like her were definitely not into such games. They knew what they wanted. Never settled for an enchanting piece of rock, but waited for that true pearl. Recently, I found myself wanting to be that pearl. 

I hadn’t cared to fathom the meaning of her deep stare until recently, when a certain soul refused to be reaped, only for me to discover that said soul was her old pirate of a husband. We referred to them as pirates, not because they actually were, but because they were a fishing crew that utilized unlawful techniques, such as deploying poison bombs in the water.

I had not yet discovered how Mama Lisa’s husband died when someone found his body in the water a year ago. Some said he drowned, but with his ghost holding on so tight to life, I doubted the case. My initial acquaintance with this enchanting woman was what drew me in. However, her dangerously alluring beauty had left me pondering if she played a role in her spouse’s untimely passing. It was impossible not to wonder if the skeletons could be in her closet despite her not looking like it. And it was obvious I wasn’t the only one salivating over the widow; she was the centre of every sexual conversation the men around here had. It’s like everyone had been holding back, but once the husband was gone, they all wanted to shoot their shots. 

The deceased husband remained a persistent soul, refusing to be taken away because he had unfinished business back here. The more I caught the woman eyeing me, the more I prayed she wasn’t the business he insinuated. Because those secret smiles she sent my way surely posed an invitation to a sexual affair from one woman to another. And we all knew I wasn’t about to say no.

Women like her preferred being treated like what they were—lilies. Watering when needed, tenderly handled, their heads patted to sleep while their kids called you ‘Auntie’ on the other side of the room. 

Mama Lisa looked at me, as if calculating to hand me some of her fish for free or straightforwardly call me for a little rendezvous. I wasn’t sure which I preferred, but I definitely wanted both now that I was determined to help her husband finally rest in peace rather than dispute. I needed to raise the damn man out of his hot waters before, Hades forbid, he drowned me in mine. 

* 

Mama Lisa’s lips tasted bittersweet. Right there, I knew they would be my second poison. Catching fish for a living and dying came first, of course. The search for permanence in her tongue had me mortified, threatening my lifetime fear of commitment. But I still couldn’t confide my ulterior motives. 

So that bonfire night, I stood far away from the woman as I chatted with other fishermen. Then I had my ass down on a log, sipping on a cup of wanzuki as I watched the same devil of a woman sway her hips to the music. Her manner, seductive. My eyes permanently lingered. Her movements, wrapped in the khanga I had previously bought her. She was a work of art over the beach gravel. Her delicate feet moved sinfully, and I hated how all the men stood around drooling. I made my way towards her. To flirt with free fish, share secret kisses, and chase after her shadow under the glowing Sunday moonlight was an old game for me now. An old cardigan. I had bigger plans, a brand new, expensive leather jacket. 

“Moira,” My name rolled off her tongue, a lure pushing me into a dark abyss. I consented to it and witnessed myself forever and happily gone. 

Lakeshore parties were what they were—endless booze, a bonfire wild enough to scare the crocodiles away, and fishermen who smelled like new money chatted away pretty ladies while both sides pretended not to have multiple wedding rings and chronic STDs. It wasn’t exactly my scene but, that magical night, I wrapped my arm around the waist that I couldn’t call mine and let her stir her heated body over mine, raising the temperature higher than the deafening music. Her back pressed against my front, sending shivers down my spine, proving the intention of all the deep stares she had been giving me too many times to count when I worked on my boat every morning and evening. 

People stared, of course they did. Their eyes seared us all the way to the furnace with daddy Satan before god herself could have a chance to condemn us. Two Mbamba Bay townswomen getting sensual together had never been a public sight before. But I was too drunk to care and the widow dancing on me was too far gone into the pleasure ride to be sensible about her surroundings. 

I became a victim of Mama Lisa’s love. A well-nourished antelope that willingly walked into its hunter’s trap. A prey, finding pleasure in being killed. A strange traveller who found a home in the confines of a witch’s cavern. 

This was the kind of woman I had always wanted, I found myself thinking. Lady of my dreams. But I had found her in the body of a ghost’s wife, a ghost I was yet to cast away. 

“Let’s leave this place.” Mama Lisa whispered into my ear. 

I intertwined our fingers, holding a hand that used to be promised to a dead man, now mine.

* 

“Isn’t this the most beautiful thing ever?” 

I wasn’t sure if she meant the tremendous sight of the indigo waters of Nyasa at night, perfectly entwined with the midnight sky full of stars, or the fact that it was only the two of us. I agreed with both, so I nodded. 

Mama Lisa and I strolled farther from Muhalo beach, barefoot, our hands entwined in the darkness. Away from the bonfire-lit splurge of rejoicing drunkards to a hushed, deserted shore space where I felt more down to earth than I did whenever I was undersea collecting poor old souls. 

“My husband forbade me from going to celebrations hosted by fishermen,” she said out of nowhere. 

Finally, something about the husband. Lord knew how long I had waited. In a haste, I took out my mental notebook, flipped to a fresh page, and clicked my pen, ready to solve the troublesome puzzle. 

“Why?” I asked. 

“Because Nyasa fishermen are the kings of promiscuity. Obviously.” 

“Well,” I stopped us at a good-looking spot, and with my eyes, urged her to sit with me on the prickling sand. “He should've warned you about the fisher woman, too.” 

“Promiscuous too, isn’t she?” She asked, eyeing how I raised my knees and hung my elbows on them. Something about the way she was always so immersed in every insignificant movement of mine made my insides squirm.

“Used to be,” I answered. Used to be, until a certain dead spirit interfered with my personal peace, I thought. “Until you swallowed me into your waves, that is.” 

A giggle left her mouth, one that I was sure could keep a dead man awake seeking vengeance. 

“I haven't come to any of these since he died. This is my first one.” she admitted. 

I ignored how my blood rushed when she indirectly indicated that I was the sole reason for her coming to the celebration. From a somber widow, who preferred to lock herself inside, to a smiling woman, who got her sister to stay with her kids so she could go out to dance. Character development right there. In all truth, she was too beautiful to stay inside all the time like that. She deserved to take over the world. 

A graceful, comfortable silence settled in. Nothing but the sound of crackling water, faraway music, and soft splashing waves filled the air. 

“See that?” Mama Lisa pointed a finger far down beyond the lake, a piece of land that was only visible through squinted eyes. I noticed a faint orange flame in that direction. “Fire lit in Malawi.” 

“You’re kidding, right?” I laughed a little, wondering if I was really looking at a bonfire from a whole different country on the other side of the humongous lake.

“At least that’s what my husband told me,” she chuckled along. “Sounds unbelievable, but c’mon, you can totally see it with your own eyes.” 

I still couldn’t believe it, and I squinted my eyes again at the sight, wondering how the hell was their land invisible during daylight. 

“Perhaps he’s right.” 

“Let’s see if they can notice us.” The woman got up on her pretty feet and flailed her hands in the air. “Heeey!” 

I laughed at her funny attempt. 

“Hey! Hello!” She kept on jumping up and down. “Over here! Can you hear me?!” 

I covered my ears with my hands to conceal from her piercing screams, only for her to laugh along with me. 

“I’m Marina! What’s your name?” 

When she finally accepted that she couldn’t get their response, she dropped herself back next to me in a plop. She sighed, pouting, and I shamelessly stared at her lips. 

“Fucking pricks.” She cursed, throwing a stone I didn’t even see her pick into the water in fake anger.

“I’m pretty sure they speak a different language.” I pointed out when my laughter died. 

“Still, pricks.” She scoffed, letting it go. 

Then it hit me. Marina. Her name was Marina. 

The name that a ghost of a certain man had been chanting ever since I found him. 

*

The ship’s horn roared every late morning, but that’s not what stirred me awake. It was the cleaning duty that awaited me down the shores. I grunted from weariness but got up from my dying bed, anyway. 

In my usual worn-out cargos and an old brown flannel that once belonged to my brother, I made my journey from my cheap little rented room to where the boats parked. 

We harvested heavily last night, and I had come back in the early morning feeling like my arms were about to fall out from all the net pulling, so I passed out easily into my sheets, dreaming of none other than the lady whose husband haunted me. Marina. 

He still refused to go, nothing new there, claiming he only would after the woman declared the truth of her whereabouts the last night he saw her. How could I even make her say that without seeming intrusive? I pondered how much trouble a dead man could bring if I failed to usher him off quicker. I spotted my boat and got in. 

“Fishing at this hour?” A man who had been washing his clothes in the water beside me turned my attention. I recognized him as a fellow fisherman but couldn’t put a name to his face. 

“No. Just boat strolling.” I lied; I wasn’t doing either. 

“No wonder you’re the best fisher around here. You’re always in your boat, always in the water. You even won the last rowing race and surpassed all the men.” 

I was born in the sea. I wanted to point it out, but couldn’t. Moreover, winning had nothing to do with gender. But it was too beautiful a morning to waste arguing with an unschooled man who was raised under the antiquated, harsh policies of the homophobic and misogynistic Tanzanian culture. 

“What a woman.” He added, and I began to row away slowly, ignoring the underlying sexist offense in his remark because, having heard it my entire life, I had lost the care to respond.

Besides, it was my dead brother’s job to argue against people in my defense. I had bigger matters at hand—a persistent soul that refused to move on. 

* 

All deceased souls were collected, except one that had me knocking on the widow’s door on her late husband’s memorial day. I couldn’t miss it for the life of me if I wanted the truth. 

Marina wore a black veil and a matching long black dress that swept the cement floor of her tiny living room as she walked. She welcomed me to the next open seat, right after her six sisters who wore matching white diras that screamed remorse more than a burial ground. At least I knew the woman had these many sisters. Rounds of “Mwauka” fumbled over one another from their mouths, and I greeted back “Nauka” once, nodding at the rest respectfully. 

‘Tell me something, Marina.’ My posture begged the widow, who settled on her feet on the mat beside me. 

‘Cautious, please, Moira.’ The way she leaned on my knee and placed a hand on my lap was enough for a response. The women talked, resuming where they left off before my sudden arrival. More people arrived, and soon enough, we headed out to the cemetery. Marina walked behind them all, begging me to stick with her by holding my hand so tight I was sure I wouldn’t be able to run if I dared. As if I could even willingly divert from her god-like touch. Merely being the focus of her attention was a blessing, as much as I hated to admit it. 

“It was on a morning like this when his dead body was brought to my doorstep.” She said, her voice low for only me to hear. “Heavy. Pale-skinned. I couldn’t even look at his face without the immense guilt rising like bile up my throat. It almost killed me, I swear.” 

My heart picked up a different pace, palpitating as I digested each word that left her now unguarded mouth. I thanked the situation for making her vulnerable enough to open up to me. We rounded a corner, stepping into a field with humongous mango trees hiding the scorching gaze of the sun and myriad gravestones filling the ground surface.

“I shouldn’t have done it.” She whispered, and I squeezed her hand in our hold. “I shouldn’t have hit him or discarded the poor man in the middle of the sea where they could find him. But what do you do with the semiconscious body of someone who threatened your life?” 

“Marina . . .” 

“You should’ve seen the way he s-struggled.” Her voice quivered, eyes glinting. “The way he kicked, screamed, grasped the intangible splashes of the water . . . Maybe I wouldn’t have done it if he hadn’t treated me like his personal punching bag every day. Maybe I wouldn’t have done it if I actually loved the man.” 

I was transported back to a foreboding mid-December night, when we lurked at a potential best fishing spot in the middle of nowhere. Three of us on the front boat, and connected to a long string, was our back boat in which my brother, Mashaka, sat. 

“Don’t take the back boat. It’s always the one in there that ends up being the dead man.” He always joked, and the fear that ran through me that night finally took his words to heart.

He bellowed, and like everything that didn’t float, was swallowed by the deep waters. The loud gasps he took made me more frantic with the oars to the point the boat tilted, almost flipping us over to our demise. 

“Calm down, Moira. We can save him!” Rasheed had cried, as if we weren’t already miserably failing. Throwing me invisible ropes of hope. “Don’t panic. We can do this.” 

Like a plan of the gods, my brother disappeared. The surface of the lake splashed brand new. So serene, it was unbelievable to think it had just gobbled my brother like a monster. As if it hadn’t just taken a body into its heart. It was an accident that was supposed to be forgotten, one with no one to blame but nature. Yet, like Marina, I never stopped blaming myself.

I remembered crying, screaming. I remembered thinking, ‘Dear brother, you shouldn’t have taught me how to fish these sardines. You should’ve taught me, before everything else, how to fish men.’

Maybe if I was a little bit stronger, a little bit bolder, I would’ve saved Mashaka.

A certain weight lifted from my shoulders, and something in the air shifted. I felt it in the way the wind howled through the leaves above us. The splash of water reached my ears, marking how close we were to the shore. The husband’s distant cry of vengeance had ceased. I let out a breath, surprised at how easily the cling of his disintegrated fingers withered away from the boulder they were stuck to. He wilted, melting and drifting away like foam. The monster gobbled him in a calm rage, setting me free, setting Marina free. 

But what would happen to the two of us now? The widow sensed my brief, intense distress, how it flashed through my eyes and disappeared before she could dissect it. 

‘This is the part where you leave me. Because there’s no way you could stay.’ Her eyes conveyed a quiet understanding. I interlocked our fingers. She reciprocated, tighter than before. Her husband fully gone. Dead men held no wives.