08.2 Dhekunu Mala

By now they dropped a Styrofoam box into the brook and attached a rope to pull it up and down so they could cross without getting wet. Habib carried a bag to Etherevari. A breezy and sunny Sunday morning. “The lady will be here at any moment. I will introduce you and go to fetch the boat,” he said.

“Who is this lady?” asked Shakir.

“Nurse Deeni.”

She turned into the stone path on her bike. Mala wore a dark blue faskuri-hedun – a top-tight gown. Those cuffs did not reach the wrists and the hem did not touch her ankles. That dress did not belong to her. She carried a thick folder.

Habib introduced Shakir though Mala heard about a new assistant, “This is Deeni. When she joined as interpreter, we brought you for an additional hand. We had no time to go through training like she did.”

Shakir stood a couple of inches taller than Mala. They sat down on the patio to have breakfast. Footloose Habib left to fetch one of Manikfan’s little fishing boats.

“Here’s the glossary terms explanation. No need to study this. Note down what you hear. If you need to know a specific word, refer to the glossary,” Mala picked another sheet, “And this is important. Words you cannot use and codes we use. Study them.”

She unfurled a map, “The blueprint of Maranga House,” and another large map, “The blueprint of RAF radio installations building when construction completed in 1944. There are other minor units around but we have no idea what they are. Power units, transformers, guardrooms. We are after the lost boys’ files and they are discarded in this shelter, here…”

“How do you know?” enquired Shakir.

“A previous official posted here learnt from folks who carried the files from Gan to Hittadu a year ago. Heki Futha was supervising the shift. He said they carried the cabinets and files on boats and dumped here. This shelter was built then.”

“How are you going to get in?”

“I’m going in there,” she said, “but first I have to look for them. Nobody has seen these quarters.”

“Isn’t that a risk?”

Mala continued, “Saturday evening and through Sunday, this place is almost vacated. There will be some armed guards and dogs on tethers by the front gate. Security is extremely relaxed.

“Duty offices upfront, communication room in the middle, fully staffed. A secretariat rather staffed, CO’s office and other offices. Bunk rooms to the south. They sleep there, eat there and go nowhere. Storage on the east and these corridors empty. Parking on both sides and garages by the west…”

“Those rooms will be locked.”

“One way to find out,” said Mala, “We don’t think they lock anything. We don’t know. That’s why I’m going to take a look.”

Samara and her mother came with food packets, “Enjoy fishing! Call us if you will have a barbecue.”

“Take them to the brook,” she guided, “Let’s wrap up and catch the boat!”

They reached the brook in time to see the sailing doni turn up from the bend poled by Habib.

“This is the wrong idea,” uttered Habib, “it’s a long way to pole. Shakir, go on your bike to Shrine Road where I moor the boat when we return.”

Shakir helped to load the gear and food packets. Mala climbed the boat and they began to pole out the way he came. By the hamlet on Mulekedé coast, Mala hid under a tarp. Shakir thought she was not on the sailing boat when he climbed from the Shrine Road moorage.

Eventually, they came out of the interlocked lagoon enclosed by a miniature atoll. Raised the sail and surfed into the open sea. Habib, Shakir and Mala enjoyed a day catching fish.

One moment, they saw an RAF speedboat from a great distance and Mala dived under the canvas to hide. They knew it was the new addition, Pinnace 63 feet, Target Towing Launch 1374. If they watched on binoculars, they could see. Though not likely they would watch.

At that point Shakir was holding tight for a pee. In a little boat three could hardly sit together. Suddenly, Mala tucked her gown and lowered over the brim holding to a rope. She urinated into the sea. He urged, “My turn.”

A mile away from the atoll, Footloose Habib unzipped his bag and pulled out a pair of ear muffins. Passed them to Shakir and asked him to wear. He produced two pistols. Mala took the Ceska and sat on the thwart with her legs straddled to the sides, her gown hung on the knees. Habib picked the Colt.

First, both of them disassembled and assembled the machines. She could handle a pistol as fast as Habib. Filled the cartridges and began to fire into the sea. Those weapons were in perfect working order.

They had lunch. “If weather looks fine and Deeni is off, we make an attempt on RAF next Saturday. Shakir will carry Deeni to Kibili Point,” Habib explained the drill. Shakir could hardly hear a word since the gunshots deafened him over the muffins.

They rolled back. The sailing boat took course towards the inlet through Kuda Kandu Channel and turned to Hittadu. They entered the blue lagoon – the vast turquoise lagoon.

It was five in the afternoon. A beautiful day and a nice breeze brushed them. The sea stirred slightly. The lagoon was densely saline. Shakir had a unique experience. He glanced down at the aquamarine water.

Quite impossible to see the bottom. It was not sea blue but an intense blue, vibrant, and planktons in disturbed water; often if you cannot see the bottom, you will not be scared. If you see the rocks in the seabed, you feel the depth.

“There’s a huge fish!” cried Shakir, “It’s huge!”

Mariam Mala who was getting ready to go under the tarp, grabbed a rope and leaned over. Habib as well looked below. Like he said, a huge whale was right under the little boat.

And then they realised what it was.

“It’s a sub!” cried Habib, “It’s a sub! Get the camera!”

“A submarine!” Shakir felt hair-raising.

A sizzling image of a blue whale with a cylinder-shaped hull as wide as the little boat below them. Then the sail planes appeared and they could see some details on the top of the conning tower, a red signal light as well. A submarine that entered the lagoon immensely magnified and for a while Shakir thought they were going to wreck. Mariam Mala began to take photos. Slowly the submarine faded out as it dived deeper. This lagoon couldn’t be that deep however a submarine could enter and dive. Only a British sub could be roving inside the atoll waters. Shakir was never so scared in his life.

They touched Mulekedé beach. Mala remained hidden under the canvas until the coast was clear to step out. Shakir carried her on his bike. Mala climbed on its rear fairing seat tucking her gown, carrying the fish they caught. Shakir returned to pick Habib and his bag of instruments.

That night they had no barbecue. They left the catch with the Samaras. Mariam Mala went to Feydu with Habib biking to Maradu.