The Old Adage says: "Once a fisherman always a fisherman; the other man’s
line is always greener/heavier"

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A Man Born to Fish (Part One)


In the quiet calm of the distant backwater, the young man waited, eagerly
anticipating his day’s catch.  He imagined his small basket with its regular
catch of small fish, and in the manner of young men the world over, he
dreamed of the day he would land THE BIG ONE.

His family, fishermen one and all, laughed at his dreams, and advised the
young man to be content with the catch he knew he could rely on: "Better the
fish in the basket than the ones still swimming in the river," they would
say.  And the young man dreamed on.

Day followed by week followed by month followed by year, and the dreams grew
bigger and better and brighter.  THE BIG ONE was there, somewhere, waiting
in the silent depths of the mighty river; waiting to be landed and admired
and enjoyed. And the young man dreamed on as he fished, imagining his moment
of triumph.

Year followed by year, and word came downstream of The Island.  The reports
spoke of fish the like of which he had never dreamt:  fish of gleaming
colour, of magnificent size, of inestimable value in the market place.
Patience, the young man’s family advocated, would bring its own rewards, but
patience was a quality in short supply for the young man. His eyes were
drawn up-river and away from the familiar landscape of home, and his dreams
told him of the fish that were, even as he sat by his peaceful backwater,
getting away.

His decision made, the young man packed up his hooks and lines and baskets,
and quite ignoring the laments of his family, travelled in search of The
Island.  The way was hard, and the going was heavy and the journey was long,
but the young man’s dreams were as long and as heavy as THE BIG ONE that
awaited him in the swirl of the waters around The Island.

The old and wise men made space on the banks of The Island, and the young
man took his place there.  The talk was of fish of colour and size and
value:  of giants that had been caught in years gone by; of the ones that
had gotten away;  of the monsters still waiting their turn to be hooked.
The young man boasted that his would be the hook to bring in the biggest and
best catch The Island had ever seen.

Day followed by week followed by month followed by year, and in his mind’s
eye the young man weighed and measured his record catch, and basked in the
envious praises of his fellow fisher men.

His hook and line remained empty.

Patience, the old and wise men admonished, would bring its own rewards, but
patience was an elusive thing, and the young man’s eyes were drawn away from
The Island to that place, far far away, where salt waves roared and ocean
winds blew.

A passing traveller told of the west where no land was, told of marine
wonders which would fill three canoes, told of wealth that could not be
told.  The traveller’s tales swamped the young man’s heart and head and no
longer was The Island sufficient for his needs.  Only the west would suffice
for this dreamer of dreams and catcher of fish.

His decision made again, the young man packed up his hooks and lines and
baskets once again, and quite ignoring the advice of the old and wise men of
The Island to stay a while longer, he began the long journey towards the
setting sun.

The way was hard and the going was heavy and the journey was indeed long,
but the  young man’s dreams grew with each footstep he took, and the ocean’s
swell seemed to reach out to him to bring him ever closer.  To the west he
travelled until he could go no further, and the south beckoned him further
still, deep into the land of the high and mighty lion.

Guardian of the ocean’s mysteries, the high and  mighty lion allowed the
passage of the fisherman into the heart of its territory.   It watched as
the young man baited his hooks and cast his lines deep into the endless
depths of the ocean.  It watched as the young man waited for THE BIG ONE to
bite.  It watched as the young fisherman grew accustomed to the changing
tides, to the summer storms, to the winter winds.  It watched and saw the
young man’s imaginings grow ever richer and ever larger, anticipating his
catch.

His hook and line remained empty still.

By the oceanside, the young man practised the art and science of fishing:
he practised day followed by week followed by month followed by year.  He
practised until really there was nothing much more to learn.  And the high
and mighty lion sharpened its claws, anticipating a fight with other lions,
and watching the fisherman do his very best.

Expert in his craft, the now not so young man vowed that THE BIG ONE would
not continue to elude him.  If he were to take his hard-won skills back to
his homeland, he knew that the prize would surely be his:  in familiar
homewaters, under a familiar sky, reward would come his way without doubt.

The high and mighty lion roared as our fisherman took his leave of its
territories, and as other lions moved in for the coming fight.

Retracing his steps northward, and keeping the ocean always in sight, the
fisherman made his way home, to where THE BIG ONE surely awaited him.

Younger fishermen watched as he baited his hooks and cast his lines:  they
admired his expertise and his style.  They begged him to share his
knowledge, to watch their own efforts, to criticise their techniques.
Taking him to their leader, they asked that he too should be a teacher and a
judge of their skills.  And so it was.

The man born to fish knew his talents were great and without question, and
his heart grew heavy with pride.  Now, instead of casting his lines with the
first light of dawn, the fisherman slept on in the comfort of his bed,
dreaming his dreams and feasting on his experiences.  THE BIG ONE was surely
his.

The young fishermen grew angry with the expert.  They criticised his habit
of sleeping while they fished, and they wondered how he would ever judge
their developing skills from his bed.  They planned to return to their
leader and ask him to dismiss the stranger.  They went to report that he was
not a suitable judge, no matter what his fishing skills were.

The man born to fish heard whispers on the wind of the young fishermen’s
plans, and he announced to any who would listen that he would leave straight
away and take his talents elsewhere.  Not waiting to be dismissed, the man
packed his hooks and lines and baskets and left the Oceanside.  He would
return to the riverbank of his birth, where his family would welcome his
return with feasting and dancing, but first he would pass on his knowledge
and expertise to a wider audience.  He owed the world that much.

Searching for the best position available, the man came to the tallest
building he could find, and there told of his potential power to hook THE
BIG ONE which was waiting just for him.  He spoke eloquently, and who could
resist him ?  He was urged to take his place in the tallest building and to
use his power and skill to serve the other wise ones speaking to the wider
audience.

Time was taking its toll on the man born to fish, and his heart was
hardening with arrogance as well as age.  He considered  his knowledge and
experience to be above that of all others, even of those who had served
longer than he in the tallest building.  Envious resentment grew in every
sinew of his body, and he looked for ways in which to take the lead.

The wise ones knew his game.  They asked him why he no longer cast his lines
into the water, but sought instead to land a different catch.  They asked
why their lines seemed so much more preferable to a fisherman.  Was it that
he thought the other men’s catches were always bigger and better than his
own ? Could it be that he wanted to hold all the lines for himself ? There
could be no answer to their questions, only a jealous silence.

Then came the day that A BIG ONE made his presence known throughout the
land.  Times were changing, and the once gentle landscape of home was
becoming weary with harsh change.

The wise ones in the tallest building in turn bid farewell to their wider
audience, and travelled  safe and honest pathways across the four corners of
the earth. They promised to return when the BIG ONE’s day was done and the
wider audience applauded them.

Our fisherman remained in the tallest building, and his pride grew with each
passing day. THE BIG ONE would be his for the catching, and the catch would
be his alone.

As had happened so often in his life, the fishermen’s schemes met with
failure.  His hooks and lines remained empty, and when the waters of home
grew too turbulent for his talents, he knew he would have to find fresh
waters to fish.

By cover of night, the now old fisherman made his escape from the tallest
building and flew to a safer shore.  There he tells all who will listen of
his talents as a fisherman, and once in a while he casts his hooks and lines
in hope that THE BIG ONE will bite.

Those who do listen to him, know that it probably never will.

Those who do not listen to him, know that he has been using the wrong bait
all his life.

(To be Continued)

Ebrima Ceesay,
Birmingham, UK.



"Kebba Jobe": I am glad that you have accepted my invitation to debate me,
so do expect my fisrt posting very, very soon. I had to spend some time this
afternoon, writing this satire as promised yesterday.  Anyway, I have now
got free time in my hands.

Kebba Dampha: What can I say about you, other than the fact that you are
indeed an asset for the Gambia. Anyway, I'll get back to you after sending
my first posting to the L, vis-a-vis my debate with "Kebba Jobe."


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