My First Fishing Fisaco ( A Shattered Fantasy)

 As a kid, one thing I always loved and fantasized about but never got a chance to do was fish. I had always imagined myself swinging a fish net with a hook into a small body of water and then dragging out at least five fruits of my labor (tilapia fish). Not only did I only fantasize, but I seldom also had dreams of myself either fishing, close to a riverside, with a fish net, or having a chat with expert fishermen—dreams that my over-religious mom wanted to destroy with religious superstition. 

One of the days, I told her about a dream where I was going fishing with two of my childhood friends, Kingsley and Raphael. This woman took my case to her Wednesday prayer band group, where my mere passion-driven dream was interpreted to mean an initiation into the marine world. Omoor. The prayer bombardment that was discharged on a seven-year-old innocent me that afternoon was definitely more prayetic than the entire prayers of Pastor Jerry Eze, the Nigerian pastor that earns 3 million Naira monthly from Youtube for praying.

 The kabashing and tongues speaking, the warfare songs, and the burning of the bedsheet on which I slept while dreaming of the so-called "marine kingdom initiation" as a symbol of binding and casting—all because of a hilarious dream I had! Ah!

At some point, during the prayer session, one of the deaconesses even suggested that a 12-inch plank be used to knock out the foul spirit attempting to draw me into its territory. Well, thank God her idea was countered by the prayer group leader, Bro. Chibuzor reminded her that the weapons of believers' warfare were not supposed to be carnal. But  left for my mom, she was already on the go. Like ready to allow her prayer group to use even a Fulani cow stick on a child she waited and prayed for nine years become his arrival. Unfortunately, even after their dramatic spiritual exercise, I had several other fishing dreams, which I hid.

But the one ironic thing about my whole obsession with fishing was that I never once fished. Why? The mom factor again. The woman was thoroughly strict and never gave her kids a breathing space. With the dream saga and how much interest she has seen me develop in fishing, my own case was that of a total lockdown. I wasn’t allowed to move and play around like other kids so that my so-called "marine spirit" could be monitored. Human CCTV cameras and police were installed by my mom at all strategic places, especially my school. About four of my school teachers, who were her secret security agents, monitored my activities and reported any mischievous or suspicious ones to her. There was no chance to misbehave at all!

Soon, as I grew older, my fishing interest and zeal watered down, and as time went on, I despised everything "fishing" and joined the bandwagon of kids shouting "Engineer, doctor, Lawyer, Banker". Suddenly, I began to develop that African mindset of viewing fishing as a profession for the primitive, uneducated, unskilled, or other Efulefu type of persons living in riverine, sloppy, and remote areas of Ungwan Rogo and Rukuba. Sadly, that caused an about ten-year pause in the whole fishing enthusiasm and passion.

 

Until just recently, about two months ago, while I was scrolling through my YouTube feed in search of the usual Sabinus, Brainjotter, and Lasisi Elenu comedies, I came across this very awesome documentary. Guess?  A fishing documentary that showed the diverse and unique techniques used by expert fishermen to get over a thousand fish with just a net throw. Omoor, I was wowed! Surprisingly, I didn’t stop at just being WOW; while I continued to rewatch the 25-minute video, I caught a very different type of emotion and goosebumps! Guyyy.

At those moments, the feeling was like that of a backslidden believer giving his life back to Christ at a Deeper Life Easter retreat crusade. All I could think of, as I continued watching other fish and fishing documentaries, was finding the nearest reservoir or pond where I could go fishing to satisfy the long-starved urge. Of course, no human could stop me this time. I was now a 20-year-old behavior-wise independent 300-level undergraduate of Biochemistry, now totally in charge of his life. The only person I owe about 5% of my whereabouts to presently is my little above-4.2-inch roommate, who of course won’t tell me what to do despite being older.

The only thing that was holding me down at that moment was my semester exams, which were in about a week or so. If not for the upcoming exams, which I seriously had to read for in order to boost my already humbled GP, I definitely would have looked up the nearest fishing pond on Google, booked an appointment, paid the fare, and enjoyed those moments I was denied in childhood.

Patiently, though, I held up my urges like a porn addict attempting celibacy for those exam weeks but kept fueling my fishing enthusiasm by watching fish-on-fish videos and documentaries. Omoor, maybe I really had some connection with the marine world, as my mom’s prayer band had said, because Omoor, how I grew addicted to watching videos many humans wouldn’t watch even if they were paid was extraordinary.

During those waiting and exam preparation days, I had also almost wanted to ask a few friends and coursemates what they thought about fishing or maybe recommend a cheap, free pond where I could fish, but then flashes of that weird look my mom gave me the day I told her about my first fish dream kept me in check. 

Won’t my friends think that I might be suffering from chronic brain turmoil or cancer of the testicles if I began discussing some weird shit about fishing instead of the usual student discussion of learning high-income skills in tech, crypto, forex, or content creation? You see, this time, no one was going to make me feel stupid, demonic, archaic, or weird for wanting to try this fishing thing out. I would rather keep silent, do my thing in silence, and probably share my experience afterward. Whatever rubbish would be said then was undoubtedly going to be as useless as all the court cases challenging the 2023 Nigerian elections.

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During my exam days, I also booked a date with one of Enugu’s top fishing reserves. The reserve area was relatively new, as it was officially launched in 2019. According to the information I saw on their website, the fishing reserve had like two spaces: the normal fishing space for actual fishermen whose profession and source of income was fishing. 

These ones were given longer fishing time and, of course, paid a higher fee; they probably even made payments to the fishing reserve organization monthly or yearly. Then there was the fun space for people like me who just wanted to have fun, learn how to fish, or probably just come to feel the goodness of nature.

 I paid for the latter, and a payment confirmation was sent to my email about 5 minutes later. I had already picked the 11^th of August, the day I was going to write my last exam paper, as my scheduled date. As soon as I was done with the goddamn paper, piammmmm.

The Joy I had after my semester final paper is the exact Joy the House on the Rock Choir, Warri Branch, would refer to as "Joy in Chaos". An unexplainable joy that made no sense. The only people that were permitted to be that joyful were either these rich kids or Yahoo boys that could dole out even 50,000 Naira to sort a course without stress, students who were close to lecturers, or an entirely senseless and unserious student who doesn’t even care if he or she graduates with a third-class lower. Only this kind of person would be smiling after battling with such treacherous exams from the deepest pit of hell.

An exam that made one of my female coursemates vomit the expired eba and egusi she ate three days ago is, of course, no ordinary one. For me, though, it was all smiles. For the very first time in history, I submitted my exam script, and without joining the cliques of exam lamenters or textbook/notebook checkers, I quietly found my way home. I had an appointment, you know. Lol

Joyfully, I got home, pulled off my sweaty clothes, arranged my room, showered, ate, had everything I would need for this fish trip—fishing net, hook, gear, extra clothes, and money— put into my red schoolbag, and was now fully ready to embark on my first fishing missionary trip, only to pick up my phone to see a mail from the useless fish pond organization saying that the booked schedule had been postponed and rescheduled for the next day due to a few issues beyond their control.

 Jezzz. I almost went mad. What kind of rubbish was this one? What is wrong with these mugus, these idiots, and these foolish fools? Stupid people, I continued. May life in general, continue to remain beyond your control, in Jesus' Name. One of these days, the government will cease you people's license, and y’all will fall out onto these frustration-filled streets to toil, hustle, and tussle like every other fellow out here. 

Wicked Imbeciles, how would you just cancel someone’s appointment just like that, whenever you wanted, and then feel like the silly statement "sorry for the inconvenience" has covered for your inadequacy and unprofessionalism? I cursed, cursed, cursed, and cursed until my voice was almost cracking and I was almost on the verge of bursting into tears, then I angrily laid down on my soft, sloppy bed.

My mind then raced through the rubbish I had written in the day’s exam—the pure carry-over exams I had written. Mtvhweeew. Despite sitting close to at least three very intelligent coursemates, I still scarcely even completed a single question out of the designated five we were instructed to attempt. Questions were as tough and unchewable as a burnt offering roasted in an Abakailiki woman’s charcoal pot. The great and mighty, the Okpos and the gurus feel am for their bodies today.

Annoyingly, the fishing that would have subsidized the agony of this hellish paper is now postponed to tomorrow. The actual definition of losing at home and away, Tufia I should have joined the clique of lamentors and lamented our way to finding a solution for our failure instead of returning here to this disappointing email from this useless fishing reserve. I hissed aloud again and lay upwards, speechless and looking up at my room’s dirty ceiling. Soon, I napped my angry self to sleep.

I couldn’t believe my eyes when I woke up to check my phone and see that it was 1:27 am (i.e., midnight). I have literally slept for over 11 hours! Jesus! There is nothing anger and frustration can’t do to a man. Was I battling with amateur Jukun warriors, or was I trying to resolve all the devilish questions from the exams I had just written in my dreams that would have caused this abnormally lengthy sleep? 

Ah! My wayward roommate had even returned, quietly kept his bag, and journeyed away to his usual Ashawo quarters. He is probably at the bosom of one of his voluptuous girlfriends, caressing and dipping his fingers into forbidden regions, and probably even using his tongue to lick up infections. Thank God HIV, Syphilis, gonorrhea, and the rest are not communicable diseases and are not transferable by air like COVID-19. Once he collects, he will suffer the result of his misdeeds alone.

I dragged myself off the bed, went straight down to my kitchen cupboard, picked up a sachet of milk and milo, and made tea for my very hungry self. I then picked up my phone and resumed watching my usual fishing documentaries until dawn and until my 6 a.m. alarm rang.

The way I had rushed out of the house that morning, I’m sure neighbors would have wondered whether I had received intel that cultists would be parading the vicinity by noon or whether I had been urgently summoned by the dangerous and unforgiving spirits of my ancestors for an extremely important meeting. Well, Dem no go understand. The Vibration and frequency of my body at that moment could only be compared to that of an anxious groom on his wedding night waiting to consummate the dividends he has for eight years denied with the "No sex until marriage" mantra.

I boarded a taxi, which then took me to Eleme Junction, Enugu, where the fishing reservoir was said to be located. I then asked for directions from pedestrians until I had located the big white gate they had given as a description. 

At the gate, I met his very annoying security guard (gateman), who interrogated me as if he had at one time seen me on the DSS’s list of imprisoned fraudsters and afterward took me to an office where my identity and payment were confirmed. As usual, the unprofessional organization apologized for any inconvenience their identity and payment confirmation might have caused me.

 Of course, they would have definitely seen how furious my countenance looked. Yesterday, they canceled my appointment, and today they treated me like an Agejunle criminal in the name of confirming whatever rubbish they were confirming. Nonsense.

 

Getting to the fishing space, instead of the negatives I had already been expecting due to the nauseating and annoying behavior of the staff and organization, Padre Fishing Lot (the name of the fishing reserve) had such a lovely, clean, and fresh fishing space with lots of thrilling attractions.

Upon entrance, I smiled with such reassurance while glancing through the park’s massive allure. I had dropped my bag at a spot and strolled around the fishing area, of course saying hi to my fellow fishing amateurs, who seemed to be having a hard time with their fishing activity. Somewhere in my mind, I puffed in the seemingly prideful feeling of being better than all the obvious first-time fishermen and women there. Even though I was a first-timer too, per se, I was sure I wasn’t going to be as miserable as these ones who were struggling with loading their fish net. Of course, I have watched more than 27 documentaries of at least an hour in the past 30 days; definitely, that has set a huge gap between me and the up-and-coming fishermen.

After my strolling, I settled at the left edge of the river where I intended to do my own fishing and then aggressively pulled out my fishing gears, so forcefully that I had invited the attention of almost everyone surrounded by the river and even made this very light-skinned, almost albino-eyed lady close to me had quivered in fright. Goal achieved. I had actually wanted the attention of these bloody amateurs. I wanted these amateurs to watch me while I showed them the proper way of fishing out a thousand fish with just a net throw. The numerous documentaries I had watched were going to play out now.

After clearing up my fish net and loading the rope, cast net, and weight with so much vigorous energy, I had the fish net cast into the river so nosingly that once again I invited attention and had many staring at me as if I were a relative to Portable Omololami. Now that I had their attention again, I began vigorously swinging and swinging the fish net up and down, left, right, and center, for at least 17 times. At this point, everyone had left what they were doing to stare at the upcoming Terry G in their midst. I continued swinging until I was convinced that I had caught at least 10,645 fish. These people will be awed today.

After I was swinging, I tried to pull off my net, and truly, my expectations were not cut short. My net was damn heavy, like really heavy, probably three times heavier than the head of Comrade Adams Oshiomole. Guyyyy. In this life, my brother, be unique; don’t follow the crowd; stand out; use your technique; and trust me, evidence must dey.

Now that I was convinced that I had caught a Guinness World Record-deserving number of fish, I mustered the whole strength in me and tried this time to pull it out, but instead of pulling the net’s contents off, I was getting pulled into the river instead. As I kept trying to pull, I kept getting pulled. Ah! Was I this stamina-less? Or were the fish made of metallic iron? Why was it this difficult to pull an ordinary weightless fish?

Ah! At that moment, I knew that I needed external assistance, but sharing the glory of this great catch was a no-no for me. No! I will drag out my stuff myself and have every accolade to myself.

I breathed in and out seven times, then this time I mustered every single ounce of energy I had gathered from all my ligands and muscles and pulled the fish net out, and broooooohhh, brooooooh, what I ordered was not what I got. Instead of the 10,257 fish I had expected to use to pepper my counterparts, what my net caught was an old, soggy boot with weeds tangled around it. Instead of the one-man glory I had envisaged, what I got was a shaming, collaborative wickedness that engulfed laughter from spectators. Brahhhh! I have never been more embarrassed in my life.

With a bruised ego, I gently packed up my stuff, inserted my Oraimo earpiece into my ears, buried my face in my home, and went home amidst the laughter.