Malagasy for Teeth

Part One: Winni Masondo

I take a knife to school with me. Actually, I take a knife wherever I go. Anywhere else it may seem contrived, but here, it’s a necessity.

I’ve called Cape Flats home my whole life — all 11 years of it. My father and I live in an old apartment complex, one where broken satellite dishes and crude graffiti dress the shabby gray exterior. Crime rates here are some of the worst in the world -- and it is considered by many to be the most dangerous place in South Africa.

Sometimes the other local kids and I play basketball or soccer in the parking lot. The pavement is hot, even under our sandaled feet. Regardless, I’m not a huge fan of spending time in the neighbourhood, or with the other children who live here.

That’s why Sundays are my favourite day.

Every Sunday morning, I get out of bed, put a coverup over my swimsuit, and wait in the outside hallway for our neighbour, Akpena, an interpreter at the Wolfgat Environmental Education Centre, to leave for the day.

We spend the 10-minute drive discussing our favourite animals, and she teaches me about the importance of our local flora and fauna. She drops me off along the beach, where her mother, Theolene, waits by her small la'kana. Every day without fail, Akpena sees me off and wishes me a good time. Her mother blows her a kiss, and she catches it, holding the beautiful, captured gesture to her heart. Then she heads off to work.

My shoes fill with sand as I run to the water’s edge. Theolene welcomes me with a warm smile and wraps her arms around me.

“Miss Winni, how are you today?” she greets me in her limited Afrikaans. I try my best not to stare at the large lump on the left side of her neck. She had explained it to me before, cystic hygroma. It was something she’d had since the day she was born. It used to bother her when people stared, but not anymore.

“I’m doing great, Ouma,” I tell her, my attention now focused on the crab claw sail thrashing violently in the lawless September wind.

“It’s the perfect day for sailing,” she tells me as she pulls out a snorkel from her bag. She hands it to me, and I immediately put it on.

She then asks me if I’m ready, and I nod excitedly. She helps me into the boat and walks us into the ocean until the cool water is up to her thighs. I take her hand and help pull her into the la'kana.

 Part Two: Theolene Rajaonarivelo

I spent my childhood in the small fishing village of Mangily on the southwest coast of Madagascar. My first memories of growing up include helping my father fish in the Mozambique Channel. He was delighted to have my help, despite whispers from other locals that “the boat was no place for a girl.” At the time, I couldn’t understand why. My father coolly explained that women and children were meant to fish from shore on foot, collecting molluscs, sea cucumbers, and crabs at low tide. This didn’t make sense to me. Why should someone stay in the shallows when there was a wild blue yonder to explore?

I must admit, my intentions for joining my father at sea were purely selfish. As much as I loved spending time with him, my primary goal was to satisfy my own interest in marine life.

I couldn’t have cared less about the small-scale fish he would sling onto the boat. I was interested in the much, much more fantastical.

One day while out on the la'kana, I encountered the most magical being. A fin emerged beside our boat and my father calmly pointed to the gray triangle.

“Look, Theo. Look at this magnificent creature,” he said to me in his mother tongue of Malagasy. I remember peering over the side of the boat just as a shape, larger than I was at the time, surfaced beside us. “Do you know what this is?” he asked me. I nodded nervously.

“Antsantsa,” I replied, my mouth slightly agape. I’d never seen a shark up close before, but I knew exactly what it was. My familiarity with the beasts was resigned to their dismembered fins available for purchase at our local markets. He nodded, telling me that we must keep the pup as our little secret, for its safety. Although I was young at the time, I knew the importance of this, and the potential ramifications if we were to share our findings with the rest of the village.

My father pulled our fishing net from the water and emptied the day’s catch into the boat. A glittering collage of anchovies, sardines, shad, and menhaden littered the la'kana floor.

It was then that we noticed something different about the way she moved. It was somewhat… unsteady. My father gestured to her tail. One side was normal, smooth and flat; the other lumpy and disproportionate. I raised my hand to the sizeable growth on my neck as I watched her circle our boat. She was curious and ethereal.

My father observed, “She seems to have a broken caudal fin.”

“Won’t that set her back?” I queried. He smiled at me.

“Not if she doesn’t let it.”

Every possible morning thereafter, until we moved to South Africa in the late 1960s, I would join my father on the boat to visit whom we began to affectionately refer to as “Nify” — our native word for “teeth”. I was thrilled to see that she also enjoyed the flavours of our coastal fish. Food connects people, and as a child, I felt it connected us too.

I was devastated when she would disappear for migration, not grasping the concept until I was much older. My father explained to me that this wasn’t a permanent home for her. She was a nomad, and the entire ocean was hers to explore.

In South Africa, I missed seeing Nify terribly. I was teased at school for my deformity, which led me into a deep depression. I spent my days at the library, reading as many books on sharks as I could. My father took note of this and began saving his pennies with the intention of building us a brand-new boat. It took a few years, but eventually, we had a new la'kana. I’d always noticed boats in the harbour had names, proudly displayed on their outer walls. I asked my father for his pocketknife and proceeded to etch “The Nify” into the wooden side of our la'kana. We shared a smile.

At first, we didn’t see her. My father took me by the shoulders and sat me down. He explained to me that it was possible something had happened to her, that perhaps her mangled fin had caused her to succumb to further injuries.

“It could have been other sharks,” he eventually conceded. “They can be ruthless.”

I felt like all hope was lost. Then, when I was 17, my father died suddenly. This awakened something in me and every single day I would get into our la'kana and look for Nify. I refused to give up, and my resilience paid off.

One June day, I witnessed a most magnificent sight. A great white shark propelled itself from the ocean with a seal between its jaws. I was so wonderstruck that I almost didn’t notice the most unmistakable tail. It was her. All 16 glorious feet of her. The colossal ripples from her emergence and disappearance back into the water caused the la'kana to rise and fall with the waves. I could barely breathe. Once she was back in the water, she swam beneath me. I took in the now-adult version of my childhood obsession, catching sight of the numerous scars sweeping the areas surrounding her gills, and the families of pilot fish glued to her side. She was incredible. She was resilient.

Part Three: Winni Masondo

Our la'kana drifts in the bay and my eyes eagerly penetrate the water. Last weekend had been a bust. Nify had decided not to make an appearance. I silently pray she shows herself today. As I sit in the center hull, I put my flippers on one at a time. When I’m ready, I give Theolene a thumbs up. She smiles and helps me over the edge of the boat.

Anyone who spends any time in the water will tell you that it’s like entering a totally different world. The kelp forests beneath me, their holdfasts anchored to rocks of every shape and size, sway back and forth. I can feel Theolene’s eyes watching me from the la'kana. She’s looking for her too. I’m in the water for several minutes before I resurface.

“Nothing?” I ask her. She shakes her head.

“We have to be patient.”

I submerge my face back in the water, beginning to feel a scintilla of doubt. I can see many incredible things, rock lobsters, Blue Hottentot, and even what I suspect is the tail end of a skate. Then something out of the corner of my eye catches my attention. At first, I think it is a large mako but as it approaches, I see that it’s anything but. My heart begins to palpitate. The moment becomes a state of felicity. I can hear Theolene speaking excitedly above me.

I remember what I’ve been taught: never let the excitement cloud your common sense.

I remain calm and turn cautiously towards the creature. By the marked movements, I know exactly who this is. She pays no mind to me as she makes her way through the clusters of kelp. I watch in awe from above as she comes into full view. Her distinctive tail moves rhythmically from side to side. She’s just as mesmerizing as the first time I laid eyes on her a year ago.

I imagine myself swimming alongside her, learning everything there is to know about her mystifying and solitary life. Sharks chill the blood of some, but to me, they are pure magic. Personally, I'm more afraid of my journey to school.

As much as I want to stay in the water and watch, I know that she’s likely in the forest to hunt. When she disappears from view, I reach my hand up to indicate to Theolene that I’m ready to come back out. I do one more safety scan before popping my head up and allowing Theolene to help me back into the la'kana. I’m barely in the boat for a second when a large dorsal fin appears alongside us.

The two of us watch in silence as Nify comes and goes. Leaving for moments at a time before returning to just below the surface. When we finally think she’s gone, we spot her one last time -- and a most distinct tail appears. It’s as if she’s showing us. I reach out to touch it, but Theolene gently pulls my hand back.

“Just admire,” she whispers. Her ardent emotions manifest as clear salty droplets that trickle down her weathered cheeks. When I look up at her, I see her fingertips lightly brush against the mass on her neck. I smile. That’s the moment I understood.