Mood: Recursive-piscine mood
[Toot!] Index: 1.2
Communism Bit: Off
I’m thinking, What if Jonah, when he was swallowed by the fish, what if he ate the fish? Maybe he wasn’t into sushi. Maybe the fish didn’t have scales, and the prophet was into goodly ol’ kosher stuff. Or, maybe, if he had eaten the fish, that would have led to infinite recursion; because, you see, the fish had eaten him, also! So, in eating it, he’d have eaten himself (inside the fish, at which point he would eat himself just as he had eaten the fish, and then had to eat himself again (inside himself, at which point he would eat himself just as he had eaten himself earlier and the fish yet earlier, and then had to eat himself again (inside himself, at which point he ...))).
You see, where I stay, you can smell the lake. It’s a bit interesting to think you’re stepping in a pond that has three countries on its edges. Most of the people I meet on this road are holding oars and nets—the huge majority of them are fishermen. And women balancing baskets of fish on their heads, also. And some boda-boda guys ferrying the fish by the hundreds. (I feel sorry for them fish: first to die by drowning in air, then to die by boda-boda.) Sometimes, like twice a day, I see fish of scary proportions. I mean, I’m an Entebbe boy; we know fish pretty well. But to see a fish that could positively conceal this laptop in its body, that’s worrying. What if I get eaten by a fish? My very thin (even serpentine) proportions could make me appear worm-like to them, so I’m not just theorising. Anyway, back to the fishermen.
On this same road, there are big, big bushes. I saw some fisherman, with oars in one hand, calling into one big bush for one “Yona”. For the Other Peoples (I’d say for the Nations, if I were in punning mood) “Yona” is “Jonah” in our dialects here. So, after thinking about beig eaten by fish, I chuckled when I saw an angry fisherman calling into the bush for Jonah. I was thinking, He’s been eaten already, dude, don’t you know?
After a while, the man started talking to Yona, who I couldn’t see. Saying some stuff like I won’t be calling you for so long next time. You know what time I come, and yet you still expect me to beg you to come get your fish ... At this point, I’m passing the fisherman, and I’m slightly worried he could be a frothing-at-the-mouth psycho who is even armed with a spear-shaped piece of wood!
But there was a Yona exiting the bush, actually. A cat with a beige coat was purring towards him. It hops over the gulley that drains water (and tadpoles) towards the lake, and the fisherman squats towards Yona. A small fish is produced, and placed at Yona’s feet. The man mumbles some stuff I didn’t hear (although I had stopped to watch, waving my curiousity licence), and then he gets up to leave. Yona purrs a bit, then paws the fish. It jerks. It’s alive! Yona gon’ get eaten, Allah! Run, Jonah, run! Tell Nineveh that in forty ... But Yona slapped the fish strongly on the trunk once, twice, thrice, fouice, fivice ... Tamed by cat style kung-fu, the fish calmed down a bit and conceded a bite. And then Jonah took the still-jerking fish into the bush.
That’s another thing about Entebbe. If it takes your fancy, you can have your fish kick its way into the pan. But now I’m dying to know the back story of this fisherman who feeds a cat that seems to even be a stray. And likely everyday.