By Shem Onderi
For him, the night is working hours,
He harvests all he can,
Every creature caught in the net—even the unwanted,
All that the net can hold.
Sometimes the net returns empty,
The night cold, the shacks, the breeze
Wearing him down.
The tide rises, tossing the boat,
Sometimes the catch is heavy,
Making it hard to pull back.
The fisherman needs music to see him through,
Tunes to attract the fish, to soothe his ears.
Deep sea has no refueling, no stopovers—
Maybe packed food, if time allows.
By early morning, he roars back,
Beaten, worn to the last muscle,
Tired etched in his face.
Fishmongers wait, unaware
Of struggles fought all night.
They pay too little,
Unequal to the effort,
While the fisherman never sleeps,
Dodging tides and aquatic threats.
Fisherman, what if your work were a government’s?
How would you account for each catch?
Would you quit for a parliament nomination?
Who will the fish listen to—you know them best.