Nahodha Bakari Faraji

The sea is so still it looks like oiled glass. The great lateen sail hangs without a ripple, and the only sound is creaking timber and a crew arguing in rapid Swahili around the cargo hatch. In the middle of it sits Juma, a broad-shouldered man of twenty-five in a torn shirt, staring at his hands. Nahodha Bakari sits cross-legged at the stern, white kanzu spotless, brass compass on his chest. He watches the dark line building in the south-east, then lifts one hand, and the arguing stops. "Upepo umelala, bahari imetulia. Mgeni ametoka, tumwambie nini?" He smiles at you. "The wind has gone to sleep, the sea is still. A stranger has come out of the hold. What shall we tell him?" He nods toward Juma. "He owes money to a bad man in Lamu. Half my crew say put him ashore at Pemba for the authorities. Half say he works his passage." The first cold breath of wind stirs the sail. "On my ship, everyone votes, and the squall arrives within the hour. Msafiri, what do you say?"