The surface of the muddy lagoons of Lagos appeared almost silken in the early dawn light. A mist had spread over the surface; it was harmattan season. The Sahara wind blew hot and dry as the villagers climbed into their dugout canoes. The wind was to be their guide, leading them toward the manna of the water. The lagoon was teeming with fish of all sizes and colours, from the smallest fries to the heaviest barracudas. The fishermen from the islands loaded their nets onto their boats; they had a long day ahead of them. This was the season when fish were plentiful. Once they had arrived at the deepest point of the immense lagoon, the fishermen threw their nets into the water in groups of two or three, then with a heave they hoisted them up, letting the nets slip through their hands and the mesh rustle between their fingers.
Two hours later, at daybreak, it was the turn of the masons to go to work. Like the fishermen, theirs was one of the oldest trades in the world made possible by the lagoons of Nigeria: construction. The builders filled their buckets and pails off the sides of their canoes, while a man named Chinedu pushed his into the lagoon and climbed aboard. He stood up and pushed the oar through the water. The tip of the canoe cut gently through the lagoon, and Chinedu covered his face with a scarf. It was difficult to breathe in the dusty harmattan air. Today, he planned to head to the east of the lagoon, where the earth was muddy and viscous, the water was shallow and he could spend all day diving until he had gathered around a hundred kilos of sand. He would load the sand into his boat, and deliver it to the men who made huts. He arrived at the eastern shore, stripped off and dove into the water. Then with a heave he hoisted it up, his first bucket filled with sand, and poured it into the canoe.
It was early afternoon, and on the banks of the lagoon the Nigerian mothers awaited their husbands’ return. The boats laden with fish came to dock along the slick waterside, and the women hurried to fetch the fish and bring it to the market to be sold. There they would grill the fish over hot coals or dry it in the sun, and wrap it up in old newspaper. They would carry their wicker baskets on their heads, wrapped in scarves. To each their turn, each their fisher, each their man. Chinedu’s canoe pulled up beside the fishing boats; he had brought in a good haul of sand today.
Chinedu made his way over to the hut-builders; around ten others like him had already brought buckets of sand to the village. More men brought palm branches, thatch and banana fibres, setting them at the base of the huts being built. They also cut down reeds and bound them with string to make the doors. The builders worked fast and in good humour, even as the harmattan blew around their ears and the sun beat upon their shoulders. Sweat trickled down their backs; their work would not stop until night had fallen. The huts were built quickly, and the village was growing by two houses a day. Soon, Chinedu, his wife and their two children would move into their new home on the banks of the lagoon.
Alan Alfredo Geday
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