Expectant fishermen’s nets return little fortune

nightlong excursion on the lake. Junior joins a group of other men who are busy making final checks on their canoes.

For years now, Junior and his ilk have endured long nights on the lake searching for silver cyprinid or omena. It is the only business they know. Theirs is a sad story of toil and sweat whose final chapter is yet to be written.

“It all depends on the weather. We are at the mercy of the elements out there. If the current is rough then we might just return here tomorrow morning with empty canoes,” says Junior, apprehension written all over his face.

Our questions seem to distract the other men who cannot understand why their lowly occupation would attract media attention.

We watch as some load engine fuel on board while others disentangle the fishing nets. They have hired the canoes from other businessmen with whom they will have to share the profits from the following day’s catch. In Junior’s case, the boat owner pockets 25 per cent of the catch while he divides the rest between himself and his two helpers. On a good night, Junior can harvest omena worth Sh5,000. But at what cost for the resilient fishermen?

“The lake can be rough,” Junior tells us. “Two people died recently and were found the following morning. These canoes can capsize in a raging storm and we can’t even afford life jackets.”

In fact, Junior is ill-equipped for the gruelling task ahead. A thin polythene bag with two slits on the either side for his arms to go through acts as a weak buffer between his body and the biting cold. A loaf of bread and a soda will be his meal for the entire night — hardly a proper meal for the energy-sapping nocturnal endeavour.

These men’s fortunes depend on the small fish swarming towards the lamps, attracted by the light and the insects that fall into the water after being killed by the hot lamps.

If all goes well, they will cover a small area of the lake. But if the opposite is true, then Junior and his friends will have to cover at least 100km during the night. Many are the nights when they return with nothing. We wish Junior a fruitful night and promise to catch up with him the following morning.

This hit-and-miss business is replicated on the nearby islands of Mfangano and Takawiri. Earlier in the day, we visited Takawiri where a group of young men had cast their nets far into the lake hoping for a bountiful catch of the bigger species such as tilapia and Nile perch. We watched and waited as they pulled the nets to the shore, their entire bodies shaking with every pull. The women and children watched and waited. Expectations were high.

Two hours later, the nets were on shore. Their disappointment was intense. Only a tiny fish that could hardly feed a baby had been caught in the net. The young men threw it back into the lake and melted into the village hurling curses along the way.

“How long can we keep doing this? How long shall we toil for nothing?” If only we had answers for Rose Akinyi, a mother of six who had been struggling to keep the net submerged.

Despite the setbacks, these fishermen will never give up. They trudge on, egged by a desire to make it in an unforgiving environment. However, their greatest enemy walks on two legs. According to Edwin Odhiambo, it is the greedy middlemen who pose the greatest threat to the fishermen’s survival. From Kisumu, Siaya to Homa Bay and as far away as Nairobi, the shrewd business people have conspired to ensure that the fishermen earn the least from their night-long vigils.

“They dictate the price; a very low price, but go on to sell the fish at exorbitant prices all over Kenya. They used to be just a few in times past but their numbers have increased considerably,” states Odhiambo, aged 30.

Some blame the closing down of some fish factories in the area for this exploitation. Others say overfishing is to blame. Still others say such factories will push middlemen out of business. The truth lies somewhere in between. Local leaders have over the years promised to build factories but the talk has remained just that — talk.

“We have asked the government to consider giving us loans to supplement the unpredictable fishing business to no avail,” says Boniface Aketch, a member of the nearby Kolunga Fishermen Association. But it is not all gloom. At daybreak, we head for Litare village to catch up with Junior as promised. Scores of other fishermen are anchoring their canoes and offloading their cargo. Egrets give them a hard time as they try to reap where they did not sow. The whole village comes to life again. We spot Junior. His face beams with joy. “The night was good as you can see. We might get a total of Sh7,000,” he tells us.

The canoe is packed with omena, which is eagerly awaited by a group of women. They will buy a basin for Sh700 and sell it to other business people after drying in the sun for close to five hours.

We leave Junior to get breakfast and some sleep. When the sun goes down, he will be at it again, repeating a ritual that has ensured that he and other Rusinga Island fishermen survive from hand to mouth.