Trumpet Fish

A Fisherman, a Tourist, and a Question of Who Is Really Caught

Rocky lived by the village of Chembe on Lake Malawi.

Every morning, he would wake at 4 am and travel by boat in the darkness of night to the far side of Mumbo Island to set up his nets. Dropping down plastic bottles to hold up his nets and spread them across the lake.

In China, his trumpet fish would fetch hundreds of dollars, but Rocky would make only 50 cents per fish from the traders in the village—the ones who would smuggle the fish within hidden compartments of lorries full of bananas.

Half the fish would die before they even made it to Lilongwe.

The traders would pay off handlers at the airport, while falsely labeling the fish. They’d give the fish a dye to temporarily turn their skin black to avoid detection.

Rocky was constantly dodging the Department of National Parks and Wildlife, where his uncle and cousin worked. He brought home champa and kampango too. His brothers and sisters didn’t know about his side business of catching endangered fish from a national park.

Everyone thought Rocky was just a hard-working man.

One day, a tourist named Julia from a place called New Jersey came to Cape Maclear to the Thumbi Lodge. She hired a boat to visit the islands and to watch eagles feed on the fish.

As they came round the far side of the island, Julia spotted a small boat near a cove. “What is that man doing?” she asked the captain intently.

“He’s poaching,” responded the captain. “He’s closer than 100 meters to the shore.”

Julia started her video. “Move towards him,” Julia demanded. The captain steered their blue mahogany boat closer and closer to Rocky.

It wasn’t until they nearly ran up on Rocky’s nets that he noticed Julia’s phone. Its camera capturing his every move. The nets were in his hand. The trumpet fish squirmed within the net. As he untangled it, the fish dropped in a colorful waterfall into buckets.

The fine for poaching was severe and accompanied with jail time.

Rocky would be disgraced, banished from his village. The only home he ever knew.

Panic ricocheted through his mind. As the trumpet fish heaved for breath, Rocky imagined himself stuck inside an enormous net.

Julia began to yell. “We got you! We got you!” Rocky shuddered at her raucous incantations.

Rocky’s parents had been killed in an accident. A banana truck hit them along the side of the village road as it swerved to avoid a pothole. As the oldest, Rocky was struggling to provide for his younger siblings.

The captain brought his boat right up to Rocky’s. They rocked together side-by-side next to the cove, both hovering above the fragile reef. Julia continued to taunt Rocky. “We got you. We got you.”

Rocky held a fishing knife in his hand. The one he sharpened every day. The one he used to fillet fish for his brothers and sisters.

Rocky jumped aboard Julia’s boat. Startled by his leaping body, she dropped the phone on the mahogany deck.

Rocky grabbed it and threw it so high in the air it almost hit a hamerkop before splashing into the lake. The eagles peered down from the rocky crags high above.

“Hey, you can’t do that!” cried out Julia.

“Well, you can’t just film me without my permission,” responded Rocky.

“Nzanga, nzanga, m’bale.”

“Ndili nawe. Ndili nawe. Of course, nzanga, my brother,” whispered the captain under his breath.

Rocky turned his back to Julia and nodded to the captain as he returned to his skiff.

Julia sank down on the wet mahogany deck, drowning in tears, choking for breath.

Trumpet fish struggled for breath in their nets.

Rocky was as free as the eagles that soared above him.

Rocky could feed his family another day.

Julia returned to shore committed to telling all of her friends on social media about the horrors of the day.

The net of privilege strangled her like the trumpet fish still squirming in Rocky’s net, holding her vision within its soggy fibers.

A story by Pemba Umoja