A multitude of gigantic trees and lush forest envelope a small fishing camp, floating on a dense sheet of saline creek waters.
Like folds on satin, the crests of the water waves glisten beneath the excited sun as they rise in swells, dissipating their energies at the foot of four wooden shacks reposed at the nearby muddy bank.
The small camp stands still in silence, probably in awe of the pristine beauty surrounding it. Birds clad in beautiful feathers chirrup from verdant tree canopies overhead, a butterfly swaggered in its flight and perches on a stake holding a sheet of fishing net drying in the open sun. The tableau appears splashed in a kaleidoscope of flamboyant colours, yet it lies quiet and serene, except for the sound of excited waters rumbling against the creek banks.
"Where’s everyone?" I ask.
From the blues, I got a clue: the inhabitants are gone- pulled away by their quest for daily bread, away, into the crannies of Niger Delta, hunting for the biggest fishes their waters have been blessed with.
That’s why they call it a fishing camp- till dusk no one stays in the huts, and till their nets fishes to its full, no one takes his rest on his bed of bamboo.Tweet