"Useless! Rotten, muddy sludge-trap!" The roar of the river swallowed Musa’s scream.
He stood in the stern of their narrow wooden boat, shaking a net that seemed like a little pull would tear it apart. The river, on the other hand, didn't seem to care or pity his struggles. It's thick, brown muscle of water, noisy and indifferent, carrying silt, dirt, and debris toward the sea. Musa sometimes wondered how the fish survived in such environments. He had spent his last coins on this nylon-like net, and now it was trash.
Sitting on the muddy bank of the same river was Zola, an old man who had been in the fishing business for years. He was Musa's teacher. He sat on a sun-bleached log, his legs folded in. He didn't look up from the net he was meticulously mending. His fingers kept moving like spiders making a web, rhythmic and sure. He whistled an old Hausa song.
It wasn't long until Musa stomped onto the shore, throwing the almost ruined ney at Zola’s feet. Then he dumped himself on the same bleached log as Zola.
Finally, Zola let his eyes move from the net to Musa. "What is it?"
Musa mumbled some words first: "The current is too fast today," Musa spat. "It's like the water is trying to break me."
Zola didn't offer a hand or a word of pity. Instead, he reached for a heavy stone beside him and tossed it into the current. The splash was gone in a second, swept away. He nodded and proceeded to toss a dry leaf he picked from the floor too. The leaf spun, dipped, and rode the edge of a whirlpool before sliding safely into the reeds. "Musa, you're yet to understand some things," Zola said.
Musa turned to look at him. "Understand things like?"
"Like, strong things snap easily," Zola said, his voice like dry gravel. "Adjust. If you get angry at strong tides it's bound to snap at you."
While Musa was still trying to understand what he meant. Zola finished tying a small knot on his net and testing it with his thumb. He stood up and said “You don't fight water or the river. Neither does the water fight its river. They just listen and you should do the same.”
Musa scoffed. “Listening won’t catch fish.”
Zola smiled, not kindly. Just that smile that knew he was going to prove it. He walked to the edge of the river, his feet sinking into the mud like they had done a thousand times before. “Watch, Musa,” he said.
He pushed his boat back into the river, and with his repaired net, he jumped in and sailed, unlike Musa, he sailed not against the current but sideways, letting his boat bow and breathe. Then he threw his net inside, following the current. The current pulled hard, but instead of the net fighting against it, it bent with it. Zola smiled, then gently he shifted his grip, loosening here, tightening there, the way one calms a stubborn goat. Minutes passed. The river kept roaring, brown and busy, pretending not to care. Then his net began to grow heavy. Heavy with silver creatures.
Zola pulled slowly. Not with force. With timing. When he finally pulled the net inside his boat. Inside it were lots of fish. He turned to look at Musa at the bank of the river.
Musa’s mouth fell open.
Zola rowed to the bank and laid the fish on the bank. Musa was still trying to find his words when Zola spoke.
“The river is older, stronger, and wiser than your anger,” he said. “You shout at it, it will not answer. You wrestle it, and it will break you. But if you learn its mood, it pauses and releases its soft edges to feed you.”
Musa stared at his torn net, then at the water. For the umpteenth time, he realised he was wrong. His anger had ruined his fishing.
Then picked up his net and stepped back into the boat.
This time, he didn’t curse or force. He put on the cloak of patience, letting his mesh sink, tilt, and travel. Sailing with the current. Letting the river pull.
And finally, when he lifted the net, there were not as many fish as Zola's but his first win for the day.
Musa laughed, a short breathy sound, like someone learning again.
On the bank, Zola smiled and nodded his head in approval. Then he sat back down on the log and resumed his whistling.
The river rushed on, muddy and indifferent. But Musa no longer felt it was trying to break him.
