I was jogging on the beach very early on a Sunday morning in Mozambique - nobody around - when she came walking towards me along the shore. She was clearly not from the town; she was wearing her “visit-to-town” clothes. Her flimsy beige skirt hung askew, the slip showing in places. What had once been an off-white jacket was buttoned over a t-shirt, and a small satchel hung from her shoulder. She was thin to the point of gauntness and looked to be about forty.

As I retraced my run, I saw her standing on a rock, facing the sea and talking to it. I stopped to listen. She spoke quickly and, it seemed, a little aggressively. Her eyes were fixed on the horizon, her expression intent. She was speaking in Portuguese rather than a local dialect, so I could catch the occasional word. I heard her mention brothers and sisters, the names of people and places, and something about making a greater effort. After ten or fifteen minutes, she began walking back the way she had come.

Then she stooped and started filling a small plastic bag with sand. Thinking this was part of some esoteric ritual, my curiosity got the better of me, and I spoke to her. No, she said, the sand was for washing plastic soft-drink bottles to resell. She came to speak to the sea because it was so vast that she could feel the presence of God there. Could I not? Had He not brought me to Mozambique? She simply spoke what was on her heart, sharing her troubles.

All her top front teeth were missing. She told me she also sometimes spoke in church—though not so loudly, of course. One of the priests in her church was from Holland. Wanting to show that she knew some English words, she waved goodbye and said, “Good night, how are you?” A few minutes later, she retraced her steps to ask whether I might have a job for her son, who spoke English.

It is quite common to find people, individuals or in groups, conversing with the sea or the Goddess of the Sea in Africa: at times it’s a matter of supplication-nobody else to turn to !