A visit to Enyumu-ama: the cradle of my writings

The early morning breeze came sipping into my body being ferried from the ocean over the distant horizon from where I was standing at the edge of the jetty. The smell of salt water mingled with the decaying mangrove leaves and fresh fish slime reminding me of the years at the fishing settlement where I had grown.

This nostalgic feeling would not let go. Looking across the river at the mangrove trees with their interwoven roots submerging into the glimmering waters and holding firmly to the marshy soil, where in a short while the water will ebb out to bring out a host of other aquatic creatures living in the depth of the swamp.

Snaking about the narrow creek, little wooden fishing boats bobbing about with the gentle undulating sea waves that were pushed even this far from the ocean.
This serenity of the waterfront was intermittently punctured by the sound of low horse powered engines on fiber or wooden canoes plying the creek, going about their sustenance; a daily routine, I guess.

There were schools of groupers and host of other small fishes swimming about graciously but aimlessly, or so it appears, just below the surface of the water. Oh, what a freedom these creatures manifest in the splendor of nature vastness.
The eerie hooting call of an owl came into my ears, floating through the air, over the water from the distant trees beyond the mangrove forest.
What awaits me at my pilgrim end to this ancient village? Time alone will tell as I checked down-river for the boat that is consigned for this voyage.