Whoever Fears the Sea by Justin Fox (english novels to improve english txt) 📕

up shop as the town’s middlemen and the wealth poured in. Rhapta became so important that Ptolemy referred to it as a metropolis, the capital of an African state independent of Arab suzerainty. With the fall of Rome, Rhapta withered and disappeared from memory. No trace of the city has ever been found.

Until now. Just think, both the mythical mtepe and the proto-Swahili metropolis of Rhapta, found and presented to the world by intrepid South African adventurer, Paul Waterson! The great archaeologists and historians of the colonial world had conjectured about and even searched for Rhapta. To no avail. Along comes an amateur and trumps them all!

There were risks, of course, but the payoff would certainly be worth it. Somalia was lawless and many parts had spiralled into anarchy, but they were going to one small fishing village in the deep south, far from the troubles. He was on to an idea that would transform the documentary, even change it completely.

His heart was pounding. Could Rhapta be his big break? Johan would be thrilled. National Geographic, CNN, BBC — they’d all want a bite of this. Then again, perhaps he should keep the idea under his hat. Maybe this was a chance to go solo, to launch his own career as a director?

A man in a blue kikoi summoned him to reception. There was a phone call from Joburg.

‘Howzit going, Paulie boy?’ It was Johan.

‘Good, good. All good, thanks.’

‘The research?’

‘Ja, no, we’re getting there.’

‘Details Paul, I can’t read your bloody mind.’

‘It’s going well. Lots of solid material. Great locations. Amazing architecture, boats. I’m busy organising a dhow for shooting around the archipelago.’

‘When you coming home?’

‘Not immediately. I’m on a bit of a roll at the mo. Probably a couple more weeks.’

‘You’re not getting up to mischief, going off on one of your tangents?’

‘No, Johan, honestly, I’m sticking like glue to the brief.’

That night, Paul went to sleep feeling both calm and excited.

He is under water, kicking desperately towards the light, his lungs screaming. He breaks the surface, gasping for air. A dozen men are floating around him. Allah has preserved them, but his dhow has disappeared. There are planks and some debris and the sailors rope together a makeshift raft. They begin to paddle using scraps of wood. To the west. That is where Azania lies. They paddle and paddle.

Eventually, land wobbles into view and the men stagger ashore. They are quickly surrounded by savages who bind their hands and deliver them to the king. He stands before them on a scaffold, a powerful brute with enormous arms.

Bowls of food arrive and the sailors gorge themselves, but his stomach revolts at the fare and he only pretends to eat. The green herbs his men consume soon turn their heads to madness and reason departs them. They laugh uncontrollably and grow increasingly ravenous the more weed they devour. Meat and coconut oil is laid before them. The sailors become immobile, fattened for the cannibal feast to come.

During siesta, he manages to steal away and makes for the east. He runs as fast as he can, but his step begins to weaken. They are surely after him. He trudges up a dune, feeling hope drain with each footstep. At the crest he looks down. His vision is blurred from sweat and the shimmering heat. There are men down there. A beach, a moon-shaped bay. Beyond them lies an anchored dhow. Merciful Allah! He runs down the dune into the arms of a surprised sailor.

‘You must return with us to our island,’ says the nakhoda when he is taken on board. ‘Our sultan will find a ship to bear you back to Arabia.’

‘Thank you, kind sir. But tell me, what is the name of your home?’ he asks.

‘It is Lamu, the blessed isle.’

‘Laa-moo, what a lovely name.’

He lays his head on a cushion, utterly drained, but safe. Lamu, amu. La-La land. He drifts into heavier, dreamless sleep.

 

CHAPTER 20

 

Paul took a dhow taxi from Shela to the north end of Lamu’s waterfront, where he found the forty-eight-foot Jamal tied up stern to. She was a handsome jahazi and sat in the mirror water like a seabird, elegant lines embodying the spirit of nautical adventure. Her sides gleamed with reddish-brown fish oil and her blue-and-white detailing had recently been touched up. Coconut matting was attached to the railings to increase the freeboard and act as protection against the weather: they might be sailing in rough seas. A makeshift toilet — an open cubicle — hung over the stern. The Kenyan flag fluttered from a shroud. Jamal was everything Paul had hoped she would be.

Husni stood on the quarterdeck, overseeing the loading of provisions. The cook was busy stowing crates of food below the foredeck apron, where his tiny galley and firebox were housed.

‘Permission to come aboard, Captain!’ Paul called out.

‘Hello, my friend, you are most welcome!’ cried Husni. Paul climbed the gangplank. ‘This is my crew: Rafiki, Latif, Taki and that’s Nuru, my serang. And of course the doc down in the galley — he’s our cook.’

Paul called a greeting and the men replied with their salaams. None of them looked much older than thirty, except the doc. Paul shoved his bags under a bench and helped with the last of the loading. Soon Jamal was ready and Nuru started the engine before taking his place at the tiller. The boatswain was a dignified-looking man with a chinstrap beard and bright black eyes. The crew let go the mooring lines and the dhow chugged slowly away from the wharf. Paul looked astern as the buildings of Lamu began to recede. It felt like an auspicious moment and he wished he had a woman on the shore to wave to. In the absence of an admirer, he conjured up a harem comprising Hannah,