Siren call

Called home

Arthia stood barefoot on the wet, soft sand with eyes closed and arms streched away from her body. She took deep breaths and let the salt air fill her lungs. At low tide, she could stand where the water had been and imagine being engulfed by it. It was why she came and why all her days began before dawn.

She could hear the water lapping just meters away but would not risk it. Her arms dropped back to her sides, she picked up her sandals and walked up the beach. She risked a look back and saw the first light of dawn touch the water and her heart ached.

The streets were silent, Mombasa would rather brave the heat of the day than rise before day came. She could slink back to her small room without bother and get ready for work the next day.

She rented a room in Old Town which appealed to her from the moment she saw it with its narrow streets and affinity for the very old coupled with a stubborn resistance to the new. Her building only had three floors and hosted six apartments and one storage space that was converted into a single room. Arthia lived in the storage space on the top floor. There she spent her days lulling babies to sleep and driving the older neighbours crazy with her incessant practising.

Her living space consisted of a threadbare cot which was fine because she barely slept in it, by the cot was a trunk with her clothes in it, a small reading table piled high with music sheets, and a key board where she practised. She got work from a few music producers in Mombasa and Nairobi which helped her make the rent and buy food. The larger part of her income went to a savings account because she knew the day would come when she would need it.

Arthia sat by the keyboard and reviewed the work she did the day before. It was Wednesday and the first samples needed to be ready, so she got right to it.

Her head came up at noon when the call to prayer rang out across the city and she realised she still had not had breakfast. She changed into a flowery sundress, put on her sandals, and counted the exact change for her usual meal. Mombasa was awake but still slow to move, she smiled at a neighbour and shook a few kids demanding sweets.

She came to the counter at Juma's after a short walk. His stall was at the edge of a market whose main commodity was trinkets for tourists. Juma was the first person she spoke to when she arrived six months before, sick and exhausted from the long journey. He was a short, thin man from an old Arab family. He had walked away from the glitzy hotels to open his stall where he smoked and gossiped as he cooked.

"Ari! I just put it on the pan, 5 minutes." He yelled.

"I am the only one here Juma." She said.

"Sorry, habit. Have you ever been a line cook? It is always shouting." He said.

"No, I have never been a line cook. In fact, I don't think I have ever cooked at all." She said.

"People must learn to cook. There will be no husband for you if you don't. The white people can get away with it, but you my dear cannot."

"I did not live at home long enough to learn."

"That's too bad. I only have three wives and I can cook, the contract says I can have one more?"

"Give me my pilau and go pray old man."

Juma took her tupperware container and spooned the black rice and chicken stew in. He chuckled as he did it and handed it to her. Arthia turned to leave but he touched her arm.

"There is something else." He said.

Juma reached for something below the counter, he disappeared entirely under it, and rose back up holding a black polythene bag. She took it and put it in the bag with the food. Smiling in thanks at her friend, Arthia left him and rushed home.

Once in her room she locked the door and closed the windows. The food was forgotten and the bundle sat on her bed. She squared her shoulders and took the contents out. They were a collection of letters from the Cook Islands. She ripped open the first few filled with logs, entries upon entries of movement. Several of the entries were circled and those were the anomalies. Arthia looked at one after the other until worry turned to fear which rose up her throat like a block of chalk. The last was an actual letter.

Sister,

A batallion crossed to Gaia during the great storm. I am sure of it. Thank the goddess that they did not all cross, we collected the bodies that floated back onto the shore. There were two boats, one was wrecked and we have collected it, the other made it across. The time is come. Save them, save us.

Mika.

A week had past since the date of postage which meant Arthia was possibly too late. She opened her trunk and tossed the clothes every which way until she found a brand new smart phone. She inserted a just as new sim card and sent the message 'The hull treads water' to four cities across the globe.

From the trunk she grabbed a pre-packed back pack and put the new phone and letters in an outer pocket. She took a few things from the room, trinkets she could not help but collect, and scarfed down her last meal in the small room. Juma would take care of getting rid of everything.

Arthia boarded a bus to Nairobi that evening as her sisters got her message and one after another left the life they had built for themselves and made their way to her.