Sitting on his pirogue pulled onto the sand of the estuary, Kofi Agbegnenou mends a net. His fingers dance between the meshes with a precision that owes nothing to sight — his hands know this gesture by heart, having repeated it thousands of times. Behind him, the lagoon stretches to the mangroves of Guin Island. In front of him, the Atlantic Ocean rumbles dully against the sandbar. Kofi is home, exactly at the border between fresh and saltwater, that precise point where Guin fishing has invented its techniques for centuries.
Visit Aneho: How long have you been fishing here?
Kofi: Since 1984. I was seventeen. My father put a paddle in my hands and said: "The estuary will feed you if you respect it." That's all he taught me. The rest, the water told me.
Visit Aneho: How do you learn to fish on the estuary?
Kofi: You don't learn. You observe. My father never gave me a lesson. He would show me, and I would try to do the same. At first, you fail at everything. The net doesn't open. The pirogue drifts. The fish darts under the hull and looks at you, mocking. But after years, the body understands what the head cannot explain. One day, without knowing why, the net opens like a flower. And you are a fisherman.
The Xɔnu Technique
Kofi still uses the traditional xɔnu technique — a circular net thrown by hand from the pirogue — which his father passed down to him and which his grandfather practiced before him. It is a technique that takes years to master. The net, weighted with small stones or metal, must open into a perfect circle above the water before falling and trapping the fish in its meshes.
"The net must open like a flower. If you think too much, it doesn't open."
This is not a metaphor. Xɔnu fishing is a movement that engages the entire body: the feet anchor the fisherman in the pirogue, the hips pivot, the arms project the net in a helical motion that generations of Guin fishermen have perfected. Today, young people prefer sleeping nets, which are set in the evening and hauled in the morning. Less movement. Less dancing.
The Estuary Has Changed
Visit Aneho: Has the estuary changed since 1984?
Kofi: Everything has changed. The sandbar is more violent. Twenty years ago, we could go out to sea twice a day. Now, on some mornings, the waves make it impossible. And the fish... some species we used to see every day, we now see only rarely. The captain fish, the kpoto, the bonga shad — they are still there, but fewer in number.
Kofi pauses. He looks at the horizon, the blurred line where the Mono River meets the ocean. Then he continues, more slowly.
"It's not just the fish. It's the water itself. It is warmer than before. In 1984, when you dipped your hand into the lagoon in the early morning, it was cold. Now, even at dawn, it is lukewarm. The elders say the water has a fever. And water with a fever no longer gives the same fish."
What Kofi describes without knowing the scientific terms is the impact of climate change on one of the most fragile ecosystems on the West African coast. The Mono estuary, where the fresh waters of the river mix with the salt waters of the Atlantic, is a living laboratory of adaptation. The fish that live there depend on a precise balance of temperature and salinity. When this balance is disrupted, species migrate, decline, or disappear.
The Last of the Xɔnu?
Visit Aneho: Have you passed on your knowledge to anyone?
Kofi: I have three sons. None of them chose fishing.
He smiles as he says this, but there is no sadness in his voice. Just a quiet observation, the way one watches the tide go out. His eldest works in Lomé at a logistics company. His middle son is a motorcycle taxi driver. His youngest is finishing high school in Aného.
"The world has changed. They are right to look for something else. When I was their age, fishing fed a family. Today, with fewer fish and more fishermen, it's not the same anymore. I can't ask them to do what I did."
But Kofi doesn't want the gesture to disappear. Once a week, he takes young people from the neighborhood out on the lagoon. Not to teach them a trade. To show them something bigger.
"I want them to know that the estuary is alive. That it speaks. That if we listen to it, it tells us everything: where the fish are, when the rain will fall, if the sandbar will be bad tomorrow. Young people no longer know how to listen to the water. They have phones, radios. But the water hasn't changed its language."
The Memory of the Estuary
The day wears on. Kofi packs up his net, rights his pirogue. Tomorrow, at dawn, he will be on the estuary again. Just as he has done thousands of times since 1984. Just as his father did, and his father's father before him.
Before leaving, he turns to the lagoon. A tiny, almost invisible gesture: he grazes the water with his fingertips and murmurs something in Mina. A prayer? A thank you? A secret?
"I tell it I'll be back tomorrow. The estuary needs to know we haven't abandoned it."
The Mono estuary and its fishermen are accessible via our concierge service. We organize morning fishing trips with Kofi and other guardians of Aného's traditions, by reservation. A silent, respectful experience, where you learn less about how to catch fish and more about how to listen.
Further Reading
- Fishing in the Mono Estuary — ancestral trade and traditional techniques
- Lagoon, Coast, and Ecosystems of Aného — the environment that feeds the fishermen
- The Voices of Aného — portraits of all those who make up the city
Traditional Fishing Techniques
In forty years of practice, Kofi has seen the art of fishing on the estuary evolve. He distinguishes three main techniques, each adapted to a season and a type of catch.
The Xɔnu (Circular Net)
The technique Kofi masters best. The fisherman, standing in his pirogue, throws a weighted circular net that opens like a flower above the water before falling and trapping the fish. This technique demands:
- Perfect balance in the pirogue, acquired after years of practice.
- Precise knowledge of currents and sandbanks.
- Reading the sky and wind to anticipate fish behavior.
The Sleeping Net
Set in the evening, raised at dawn. Less technical but more physical, it requires traveling the estuary by pirogue to check each net. Young fishermen prefer this method, which requires less learning.
The Trolling Line
Used mainly for captain fish and sea bass, this technique involves dragging a line from the pirogue. It demands infinite patience and intimate knowledge of the seabed.
Kofi's View on the Future
Kofi holds no illusions about the future of traditional fishing in Aného. Warming waters, competition from industrial trawlers, and young people's disinterest make the trade increasingly difficult. But he refuses to give up. Each week, he takes young people from the neighborhood onto the estuary to show them the basic gestures. Not to make them fishermen, he says, but so they know what their ancestors did for centuries. For Kofi, memory is as important as the fish.