A league of Fishermen going out to sea through the Brass River on a rainy
November morning. I reminisced with nostalgia those adventurous days of my boyhood, growing up in the mangrove creeks and serene Atlantic coastline and foraged on these ones bounteous waters of fishy harvest from Foropa to Odioma. I stood on the jetty listening to the howling wind, the chorusing waves sang in strange tongues. I stared at the large expense of the Brass River and exchanged a brief dialogue with the creative spirits of the river. What the river said is not meant for uncultivated ears but the avatars of in the shrine of creativity. I reflected in cold delight I as paddled the weight of my memory to the days when I was a fisherboy guiding my net up and downstream same river in my aunty’s big canoe gliding through the riotous waves from the oil rich Nembe Creek. I always shout at the oil men roaring down on Oil Lions, Modant Marines, Barges, and tugboats, humming down with barrels of our oily woes.