Masters at work

Seated on a dry tree stump at the beach, we watched the fishermen work. The placid lake was basking in the ambiance of the evening. Midget waves relayed and crashed against the sandy beach receding to the lake crestfallen like an adolescent walking away from the girl of his fantasy after being turned down. A stray dog with only good use of three legs limped to the beach. He gazed at his own image on the glassy surface, took a drink and winced a couple of times whilst the waves distorted his image. A blitz of apprehensive barks ensued. A vexed fisherman threw a wet maize cob at the dog, striking him between the neck and fore limbs. He howled and scuttled off.

The fishermen operated like clockwork loading nets, buoys, anchors and other fishing paraphernalia into their boat. The stocky fisherman in army green slacks and a stained old yellow 'vote Museveni T-shirt' seemed to be the guy in charge of the fishing outfit. He stood at the beach and signaled instructions to the other three men. In his right hand, he held a small radio close to his ear and occasionally stumped his foot on the wet beach whenever he heard something he didn't agree with on the broadcast. He could be seen pacing and grimacing. I watched him and thought, I know nothing about him and he knows nothing about me. I wondered what his story was. I was sad that I would probably never know.

The men on the boat finished loading and called out to the stocky guy. He hurried to the boat, radio still held to his ear and embarked. The fisherman in the aged leather jacket pull-started the Yamaha engine. It coughed once and purred to life. The other men stared at the sky while the stocky man lowered the radio from his ear to read the time on his wrist watch.

The sun was already fast receding behind the sky. Over the horizon where the sky appeared to meet with the lake, a bright amber art piece was taking shape, nature's own adept fingers working seamlessly to create this sensation. The fishermen, steered their boat right out into the growing sunset and blended in. The masterpiece was complete. Four fishermen in a dugout with a motor engine sailing against the tide bathed in the tranquility of the amber ball of fire changing to hues of orange and then almost tangerine.