When the tide went out, the women of the village went to the creek to find oysters on the mangrove roots. They climbed into their dugout canoes and paddled to where the creek opened to the sea. It was hot, but by the ocean there was a breeze, and this was where the oysters were plentiful. Halima and Fatima pulled short knives from their belts and used them to cut the oysters off the mangroves. Coura used a machete.

“Where’s your knife?” Halima asked. “A knife is better.” The work was slower with knives than with machetes, but hacking with machetes could destroy the roots, which would mean fewer oysters next season. The Oyster Women’s Association had taught them that.

“I lost it,” Coura said.

That was a lie, but it was typical of Coura. Taking the easier way. Halima knew there was no point in pressing the issue. A woman like Coura took no responsibility. She didn’t even rinse her oysters before she steamed them. Halima believed in doing things the right way even when it didn’t profit her. She couldn’t charge more for her oysters than Coura charged for hers. The market wouldn’t bear it, except for the occasional customer who’d bought from Coura in the past and was tired of spitting out grit.

“Look at that,” said Fatima. Halima and Coura turned to see what Fatima was pointing at with her knife. Out in the open water there was a big ship. They often saw ships going to and from the city, but this one wasn’t a ferry, and it wasn’t a tanker, and it wasn’t even moving to or from the port. It was stationary, a few hundred meters out. The most notable thing: a long tube, yellow and firm, was slowly extending from its stern.

“It’s looking for a girlfriend,” said Fatima, and she started to laugh.

The long yellow tube—it was a pipe, although the women didn’t know that—dipped down from the ship and entered the water.

“It’s loving the sea,” said Fatima, who was never without a boyfriend even when she had a husband.

Coura laughed, too. “Maybe it will make more little fish, or more oysters.”

“Or baby ships,” said Fatima. “Little baby ships.” She and Coura were laughing harder. But not Halima. There was too much to do. After a quick glance at the phallic pipe, which was interesting but could bring her no profit, she went back to slicing oysters from the mangroves and tossing them into her blue plastic tub. Even working fast, there would barely be time to steam them and shuck them and set up her stand by the side of the road to sell before it got dark and the customers were gone.

Sensitive

SENSITIVE