Sunday* always gets to his ponds just before 5:30 a.m. while the water is still cool from the night, and the catfish are already at the top, waiting quietly for their feed.
He has been doing this for twenty-odd years, on the same stretch of ground outside Mowe, Nigeria, so the routine has long become second nature. He checks the netting. He lifts the bag, and he knows its weight the way you know the weight of your own child.
Then he raps the hollow galvanised frame of the tarpaulin tank twice with his knuckle, a sharp ring the fish have long since learned to answer, and the surface begins to move. The moment he flings the first handful of pellets, the calm water erupts into a violent, boiling frenzy as hundreds of heavy catfish thrash and fight for the feed.
He scoops and throws. The water breaks where the feed
...
This post was originally published on this site.
