AN ODE TO BEAUTY
It is one of the oldest inhabited cities in Africa, it has attracted travellers for at least 1,000 years and has accommodated every kind of change during that time. It is where Africa collided with Asia as two cultural tectonic plates smashed and created a new culture, new race, and new language. As long as 2,500 years ago, Persians, Pre-Islamic Arabs, Indians and even Chinese sailed down the shores of East Africa. The Trade winds made navigation easy as all you had to do was follow the wind, these same winds would return you after a few months of a joyous relaxation. The word got round that if you followed the winds then you would reach an enchanted place with lustful natives and true beauty.
Ibn Batutta sailed here in about 1100 and this is the oldest record of the town, nobody really knows where the name Mombasa came from, there are a number of theories but it was coined by Arab traders. The Arabs had a number of trading post dotted along the coast, from Mozambique to the Horn of Africa. These places are now legendary, Kilwa, Dar es Salaam, Zanzibar, Mombasa, Malindi, Lamu, Mogadishu, Kismayu, Berbera. Before the White man brought “civilization” this was the realm of the Arab trader. They brought Islam, Silk, pottery, jewellery, learning, muskets, cannons, and everything the locals could imagine. They took back spices, exotic foods, ivory, gold, silver, iron, and eventually slaves.
Sitting on a jetty in Mombasa, with a dhow floating in the harbour in a scene that hasn’t changed for 1,000 years, you get a timeless exotic feeling. You can still catch a dhow to any city you want on the trade-winds; Dubai, Muscat, Mecca, Karachi, Doha, Aden and all manner of places that evoke Arab exoticism. Except now it isn’t slaves and ivory being loaded now, it is now plasma screens from Dubai, cheap electronics from Taiwan and Khat goes the other way.
Mombasa is the place where I became a man, a place that shielded me from the big bad world and exposed me slowly like a big brother. Mombasa is a jewel in the sea of hope, a place where the people believe it will be better everyday; if you ask how someone is they say “Nime furahi,” I am happy, you answer “nime furahi zaidi!” I am happier. Optimism is the drug of choice and all people are high.
Mombasa is divided into three parts, North Coast, Mvita, and Likoni. Mvita is the heart of it; the rest of the city has mushroomed as the trade has boomed. The original city was Mvita, the island that has now ceased to be an island now that a causeway connects it to the main land. There are districts that are all unique and different like Makupa, Tudor Docks, Majengo, Kibokoni, Ganjoni and the business district.
As a child it was like a theme park for the imagination, we would play hide and seek in Kibokoni, the Old Town, which looks more like Arabia than Africa. The streets are narrow and close together to keep the sun out of your eyes, it can be as much a 10 degrees cooler than the rest of town. It is more like the world of Ali Baba with veiled women, dusty streets, bazaars, spice stalls, donkey carts and a cool breeze. Then you turn a corner and you are in different place as the business district is all skyscrapers and plate glass. Then you can be in India with Gudwaras, Hindu shrines.
Mombasa is small and cannot afford to give everyone his own quarter so they all live side by side. A mosque next to a church, a temple next to a cathedral, there are so many denominations it can boggle the mind and they are all intermixed. Mombasa is the only place you can see a church with a minaret, St. Johns church is built in the finest Islamic architectural style. This is where Islam and Christianity coexist perfectly; intermarriage has been the founding ethos of the city ever since Arabs and Persians arrived 2,500 years ago and took African wives, their children were called the Waswahili. The language was Swahili, a mixture of Arabic and Bantu that has blended so well that it is one of the most spoken tongues in Africa with more than 100 million speakers and expanding. It is always succinct and to the point, no room for ambiguity, that’s why it is the language of business and trade and wherever there is trade Swahili can be heard.
Mombasa has such a faded beauty and easy charm, it is so understated and calm, the white-wash on the buildings always stains due to the sea air. The iron-sheets always rust to a perfect brown, the palm trees curve and swing in the wind. Houses are never flash, modesty is the way, so poor man and rich man live cheek to cheek. There is no way to tell the wealthy from the paupers, maybe from the size of the satellite dish. Tudor docks is one of my favourite suburbs, with all races living side by side. You get Muslims called Steve and Christians called Muhammed, you never know who is who.
Everything in Mombasa is just so, the best thing about it is the sunrises, being on the East Coast there are no sunsets over the sea. I wake up at around 5 AM run to Likoni; which is about 15 minutes walk from where I stay in Ganjoni, about this time the early throngs of people are making there way to the city from the South Coast. The South Coast is the cheapest place to live so every morning about 500,000 people make their way into the city on the ferries. By 5:15 the masses are a tide of bodies, there is a park full of Matatu’s by the ferry docks but if you turn left then peace abounds.
The seafront is a quiet walk away from the chaos; it curves with stone and concrete benches it is here that you see some homeless people that sleep along the shore and are woken by the sunrise. When I was young I used to jog with my friend Roger and in the morning we would jog through the parks with thugs still asleep with machetes lying in wait for unsuspecting victims. The place is floodlit now so there aren’t any people to rob now. I walk to near the Florida 2000 nightclub, just before it is a cove which you can walk down and my favourite beach is there. It is perfect, around 20 metres wide with sea hewn rocks that look like a dragon in profile. It is always low tide in the morning and only the crabs keep you company; at first they cower and run away but after a while they realise you aren’t a threat and become brazen, flashing their huge claws in a threatening manner.
I sit in the cove, awaiting the best view in the world; the sun is silhouetted under the horizon as a golden purple hazy light creeps into view. The first glimpse is the true magical moment; it is as if it peeps to see if it is safe to come out then pops up to illuminate the world. There is nothing like sunrise; it is worth getting up for, nothing fills you up with hope like a sunrise. A sunset has a certain tragic beauty like a lost dream fading; but a sunrise is pure optimism, anything is possible at sunrise and you conquer the world.
The little bay has the best view; with clouds it is even better, like shrouds of mystery and ribbons of enigmatic light. The low tide lets you walk into the bay like you are walking on water; the bay between the sea and port is actually a flooded creek, that is really deep but a ledge extends into the bay and you can walk along the reef unto you fall off the ledge. My favourite rapper Rakim said “Knowledge is: knowing the ledge”, this ledge invites you to walk it every day I used to go further into the sea but I never fell off.
You sit in the cove until the tide turns, which comes at different times; some people are picking for whelks and cockles and are amazed that you are just sitting there. Then I get up and walk up to the coconut sellers on the side; I get one costing about 20/= or 30 cents in dollars. It a serious process choosing the right one; just because they are big doesn’t mean they have the most juice, the smaller ones are sweeter, then the creamy pulp is wonderful and you can have that till lunch and you’ll be fine.
The walk back is not as relaxing as the masses chatter away as they go to work people strike up friendships for the walk to town; you can meet up with someone and chat away for fifteen minutes telling all your secrets only for them to disappear and never see them again. Everyone walks at the same pace; like the rhythm carries you along and soon I was back at the flats. The crows are always screaming away; one thing about Mombasa is that aren’t any seagulls, they are the usual soundtrack to the sea but this is the land of the crows. They make the most awful racket that drills inside your head but you learn to live with them. The crows cannot tolerate any competition; pigeons cluster in gangs to hold off the bullies. They have a curious existence; they are the most anti-social of social animals, they should avoid each other at all costs but they are stuck together.
Mombasa has a certain charm; most people are rude as drunken sailors but nothing is taken seriously. Sitting on a matatu I saw a young Arab girl arguing with the conductor; the conductor was red-eyed from stonking marijuana and with a mouthful of Khat as is the norm. She insulted him in a way that made all in the van cringe. “Your Daddy was a faggot who shat you out of his ass!” Ooh we all said, he tried to come back but he was as stunned as the rest of us. Trust me in Swahili it sounds much more painful. But we all laughed and no offence was taken and he just munched on his khat and giggled as he gave her a discount for wit. Apart from her wicked putdowns she also scented the van; no self-respecting Arab Girl would leave the house without dousing herself with at least half a bottle of perfume. For 15/= you can travel all over the city, that is like 10p in UK.
You can eat like a king for 100/= that is like $1.50 or 75p; you can have chapatti, omelette, shish kebab, a mahamri and all this on the street with out any risk of food poisoning because the food is scorching hot and all germs are nuked in heat. The Mahamri is a wonder of cuisine; it is a standard triangular donut but seems to taste magical when in Mombasa. You can catch the minibus to Reef hotel, for about 25/= most locals avoid swimming in the sea and prefer pools. Here you see a sad fact of life; all the hotels have cordoned off the beaches and you have to pay a toll to swim in them, this is to keep out hawkers and beach-boys that harass the tourists.
Instead the hotels employ their own beach-boys to keep the old women company; I felt awkward being a Black man swimming in their beach and whenever a pretty tourist girl approached me I ignored her. I was afraid to talk to them because they would have thought I was a gigolo and I was lucky to be with Roger and talking sign language so I pretended to be deaf. This American girl said I was “sweet” but I pretended not to hear, it was only when she heard me ordering drinks that she rebuked me for lying. When I was last here I met a beautiful Norwegian girl with stereotypical Nordic features, I spent a glorious few days with her but was stunned when she paid me a paltry sum for my kindness and I was so offended I almost cried.
These beach-boys are a wonder in themselves; with typically lithe bodies, dreadlocks, gold chains and gleaming white teeth. They prowl the beaches looking for lonely, old fat, divorced women who are stranded like beached whales. A young gorgeous model wouldn’t be worth their time as they wouldn’t pay as much. They are fluent in any number of languages; I remember when I wanted to take French lessons but the class was fully booked up with gigolos. These guys are thorough; the concierge briefs them in depth about their prospective victims. Something like “Alice Jones, 49, just divorced, six figure settlement, 220 pounds, 3 children, was left for an anorexic secretary”. If you were from Beloxi, Mississippi then they would tell you everything about the town and how they visited their brother there.
The sea is hot as a warm bath; I had gotten used to the utterly freezing seas of the UK, the last time I had been in the sea was when I jumped off Hastings pier in a drunken state however the cold water and the waves bashing me against the wooden columns instantly sobered me up. This was a more sedate affair despite the choppy waters; I had ignored numerous warnings of the rain but I was determined to see the sea, besides Mombasa weather changes so quickly that by the time I got there the rain had gone but the sea was still swirling. The tide was high and the boats that were usually near the shore were halfway to the reef. There is a strange sensation as the top waves are hot and the lower waves are cooler.
Sitting in the hotel I was stunned to see the prices they charge, a burger was about $8, a soda $2 so I reassured them that I wasn’t a dumb tourist with too much to spend and held my nerve until I could get some street food. I saw a French-speaking gigolo plying his trade on some gullible mademoiselle with the fattest legs I ever saw, rubbing sun-tan lotion on the smalls of her back before they retired to more suitable quarters. I left with a bitter sadness that nothing changed, all the waitresses were potential hookers and the waiters were also up for sale; tourism is like selling your body and soul.
The day after that I went to a rally competition and I saw a gaggle of mad dogs and expat Englishmen racing in the midday sun. It was crazy sight for myself as well as the locals who were befuddled by the scene as people smashed and destroyed their cars in the name of fun. We had woken up at 5 am. Waited for about an hour for our lift, got on the ferry around 6.30 and raced down the South Coast highway in a convoy of rally and support cars. Then there was a rough ride to the actual course as we drove through endless coconut groves, being Africa the 9 o’clock was actually 11. I was driven round the course by Ahmed Musa, an old childhood acquaintance who hadn’t changed much except he now was richer and more spoilt. He was now pushing 1,000 BHP round corners sharp as elbows, missing locals by whiskers while gulping Red Bull and pumping techno music.
It is good to hear Swahili spoken fluently, mine isn’t perfect but the Asians spoke it so proudly; the biggest shock was to hear Chris Bird who looks like a sunburnt toff lost in the Dark Continent but speaks it perfectly as any native. The winner was immaterial as the chaos lost the details, the best car won in the end and kudos to him. The most amazing scene was the Lionnet family; a group of motor-cross fanatics with the youngest being 10, they raced devilishly round the circuit as they trained for the Kenyan championship. By then I was traumatised by the music on the tannoy, Germans should be legally restricted from making music but German country music is truly awful and nobody seemed to care.
We drove back as we raced for the ferry and when we got there it was a 30 minute wait to board and I fell asleep in the cue with my hand hanging out of the passenger window and I woke just in time to see a thief creeping up my blind side in the mirror, I could see him crouched like a lion in wait to snatch my watch. By the time he came by I was awake and he was disgusted with the delay.
Being welcomed to people’s houses is the best feeling; I ate at my friend Ralph’s and got so used to playing with his kids, I wish for that kind of family contentment. He came home at lunch to play with his kids, and he just rolled around with them. His older kid Jeremiah was truly insane and utterly lovable, capable of the most random acts of randomness while being borderline normal. It made me wish I was kid, a kid again, it is a shame we have to grow up and lose that innocence but I suppose someone has to pay the bills.
I never say goodbye to Mombasa, I just say I’ll be back and I will, I want to retire there and just lie in a hammock while the ships go by and say farewell to time.
It is one of the oldest inhabited cities in Africa, it has attracted travellers for at least 1,000 years and has accommodated every kind of change during that time. It is where Africa collided with Asia as two cultural tectonic plates smashed and created a new culture, new race, and new language. As long as 2,500 years ago, Persians, Pre-Islamic Arabs, Indians and even Chinese sailed down the shores of East Africa. The Trade winds made navigation easy as all you had to do was follow the wind, these same winds would return you after a few months of a joyous relaxation. The word got round that if you followed the winds then you would reach an enchanted place with lustful natives and true beauty.
Ibn Batutta sailed here in about 1100 and this is the oldest record of the town, nobody really knows where the name Mombasa came from, there are a number of theories but it was coined by Arab traders. The Arabs had a number of trading post dotted along the coast, from Mozambique to the Horn of Africa. These places are now legendary, Kilwa, Dar es Salaam, Zanzibar, Mombasa, Malindi, Lamu, Mogadishu, Kismayu, Berbera. Before the White man brought “civilization” this was the realm of the Arab trader. They brought Islam, Silk, pottery, jewellery, learning, muskets, cannons, and everything the locals could imagine. They took back spices, exotic foods, ivory, gold, silver, iron, and eventually slaves.
Sitting on a jetty in Mombasa, with a dhow floating in the harbour in a scene that hasn’t changed for 1,000 years, you get a timeless exotic feeling. You can still catch a dhow to any city you want on the trade-winds; Dubai, Muscat, Mecca, Karachi, Doha, Aden and all manner of places that evoke Arab exoticism. Except now it isn’t slaves and ivory being loaded now, it is now plasma screens from Dubai, cheap electronics from Taiwan and Khat goes the other way.
Mombasa is the place where I became a man, a place that shielded me from the big bad world and exposed me slowly like a big brother. Mombasa is a jewel in the sea of hope, a place where the people believe it will be better everyday; if you ask how someone is they say “Nime furahi,” I am happy, you answer “nime furahi zaidi!” I am happier. Optimism is the drug of choice and all people are high.
Mombasa is divided into three parts, North Coast, Mvita, and Likoni. Mvita is the heart of it; the rest of the city has mushroomed as the trade has boomed. The original city was Mvita, the island that has now ceased to be an island now that a causeway connects it to the main land. There are districts that are all unique and different like Makupa, Tudor Docks, Majengo, Kibokoni, Ganjoni and the business district.
As a child it was like a theme park for the imagination, we would play hide and seek in Kibokoni, the Old Town, which looks more like Arabia than Africa. The streets are narrow and close together to keep the sun out of your eyes, it can be as much a 10 degrees cooler than the rest of town. It is more like the world of Ali Baba with veiled women, dusty streets, bazaars, spice stalls, donkey carts and a cool breeze. Then you turn a corner and you are in different place as the business district is all skyscrapers and plate glass. Then you can be in India with Gudwaras, Hindu shrines.
Mombasa is small and cannot afford to give everyone his own quarter so they all live side by side. A mosque next to a church, a temple next to a cathedral, there are so many denominations it can boggle the mind and they are all intermixed. Mombasa is the only place you can see a church with a minaret, St. Johns church is built in the finest Islamic architectural style. This is where Islam and Christianity coexist perfectly; intermarriage has been the founding ethos of the city ever since Arabs and Persians arrived 2,500 years ago and took African wives, their children were called the Waswahili. The language was Swahili, a mixture of Arabic and Bantu that has blended so well that it is one of the most spoken tongues in Africa with more than 100 million speakers and expanding. It is always succinct and to the point, no room for ambiguity, that’s why it is the language of business and trade and wherever there is trade Swahili can be heard.
Mombasa has such a faded beauty and easy charm, it is so understated and calm, the white-wash on the buildings always stains due to the sea air. The iron-sheets always rust to a perfect brown, the palm trees curve and swing in the wind. Houses are never flash, modesty is the way, so poor man and rich man live cheek to cheek. There is no way to tell the wealthy from the paupers, maybe from the size of the satellite dish. Tudor docks is one of my favourite suburbs, with all races living side by side. You get Muslims called Steve and Christians called Muhammed, you never know who is who.
Everything in Mombasa is just so, the best thing about it is the sunrises, being on the East Coast there are no sunsets over the sea. I wake up at around 5 AM run to Likoni; which is about 15 minutes walk from where I stay in Ganjoni, about this time the early throngs of people are making there way to the city from the South Coast. The South Coast is the cheapest place to live so every morning about 500,000 people make their way into the city on the ferries. By 5:15 the masses are a tide of bodies, there is a park full of Matatu’s by the ferry docks but if you turn left then peace abounds.
The seafront is a quiet walk away from the chaos; it curves with stone and concrete benches it is here that you see some homeless people that sleep along the shore and are woken by the sunrise. When I was young I used to jog with my friend Roger and in the morning we would jog through the parks with thugs still asleep with machetes lying in wait for unsuspecting victims. The place is floodlit now so there aren’t any people to rob now. I walk to near the Florida 2000 nightclub, just before it is a cove which you can walk down and my favourite beach is there. It is perfect, around 20 metres wide with sea hewn rocks that look like a dragon in profile. It is always low tide in the morning and only the crabs keep you company; at first they cower and run away but after a while they realise you aren’t a threat and become brazen, flashing their huge claws in a threatening manner.
I sit in the cove, awaiting the best view in the world; the sun is silhouetted under the horizon as a golden purple hazy light creeps into view. The first glimpse is the true magical moment; it is as if it peeps to see if it is safe to come out then pops up to illuminate the world. There is nothing like sunrise; it is worth getting up for, nothing fills you up with hope like a sunrise. A sunset has a certain tragic beauty like a lost dream fading; but a sunrise is pure optimism, anything is possible at sunrise and you conquer the world.
The little bay has the best view; with clouds it is even better, like shrouds of mystery and ribbons of enigmatic light. The low tide lets you walk into the bay like you are walking on water; the bay between the sea and port is actually a flooded creek, that is really deep but a ledge extends into the bay and you can walk along the reef unto you fall off the ledge. My favourite rapper Rakim said “Knowledge is: knowing the ledge”, this ledge invites you to walk it every day I used to go further into the sea but I never fell off.
You sit in the cove until the tide turns, which comes at different times; some people are picking for whelks and cockles and are amazed that you are just sitting there. Then I get up and walk up to the coconut sellers on the side; I get one costing about 20/= or 30 cents in dollars. It a serious process choosing the right one; just because they are big doesn’t mean they have the most juice, the smaller ones are sweeter, then the creamy pulp is wonderful and you can have that till lunch and you’ll be fine.
The walk back is not as relaxing as the masses chatter away as they go to work people strike up friendships for the walk to town; you can meet up with someone and chat away for fifteen minutes telling all your secrets only for them to disappear and never see them again. Everyone walks at the same pace; like the rhythm carries you along and soon I was back at the flats. The crows are always screaming away; one thing about Mombasa is that aren’t any seagulls, they are the usual soundtrack to the sea but this is the land of the crows. They make the most awful racket that drills inside your head but you learn to live with them. The crows cannot tolerate any competition; pigeons cluster in gangs to hold off the bullies. They have a curious existence; they are the most anti-social of social animals, they should avoid each other at all costs but they are stuck together.
Mombasa has a certain charm; most people are rude as drunken sailors but nothing is taken seriously. Sitting on a matatu I saw a young Arab girl arguing with the conductor; the conductor was red-eyed from stonking marijuana and with a mouthful of Khat as is the norm. She insulted him in a way that made all in the van cringe. “Your Daddy was a faggot who shat you out of his ass!” Ooh we all said, he tried to come back but he was as stunned as the rest of us. Trust me in Swahili it sounds much more painful. But we all laughed and no offence was taken and he just munched on his khat and giggled as he gave her a discount for wit. Apart from her wicked putdowns she also scented the van; no self-respecting Arab Girl would leave the house without dousing herself with at least half a bottle of perfume. For 15/= you can travel all over the city, that is like 10p in UK.
You can eat like a king for 100/= that is like $1.50 or 75p; you can have chapatti, omelette, shish kebab, a mahamri and all this on the street with out any risk of food poisoning because the food is scorching hot and all germs are nuked in heat. The Mahamri is a wonder of cuisine; it is a standard triangular donut but seems to taste magical when in Mombasa. You can catch the minibus to Reef hotel, for about 25/= most locals avoid swimming in the sea and prefer pools. Here you see a sad fact of life; all the hotels have cordoned off the beaches and you have to pay a toll to swim in them, this is to keep out hawkers and beach-boys that harass the tourists.
Instead the hotels employ their own beach-boys to keep the old women company; I felt awkward being a Black man swimming in their beach and whenever a pretty tourist girl approached me I ignored her. I was afraid to talk to them because they would have thought I was a gigolo and I was lucky to be with Roger and talking sign language so I pretended to be deaf. This American girl said I was “sweet” but I pretended not to hear, it was only when she heard me ordering drinks that she rebuked me for lying. When I was last here I met a beautiful Norwegian girl with stereotypical Nordic features, I spent a glorious few days with her but was stunned when she paid me a paltry sum for my kindness and I was so offended I almost cried.
These beach-boys are a wonder in themselves; with typically lithe bodies, dreadlocks, gold chains and gleaming white teeth. They prowl the beaches looking for lonely, old fat, divorced women who are stranded like beached whales. A young gorgeous model wouldn’t be worth their time as they wouldn’t pay as much. They are fluent in any number of languages; I remember when I wanted to take French lessons but the class was fully booked up with gigolos. These guys are thorough; the concierge briefs them in depth about their prospective victims. Something like “Alice Jones, 49, just divorced, six figure settlement, 220 pounds, 3 children, was left for an anorexic secretary”. If you were from Beloxi, Mississippi then they would tell you everything about the town and how they visited their brother there.
The sea is hot as a warm bath; I had gotten used to the utterly freezing seas of the UK, the last time I had been in the sea was when I jumped off Hastings pier in a drunken state however the cold water and the waves bashing me against the wooden columns instantly sobered me up. This was a more sedate affair despite the choppy waters; I had ignored numerous warnings of the rain but I was determined to see the sea, besides Mombasa weather changes so quickly that by the time I got there the rain had gone but the sea was still swirling. The tide was high and the boats that were usually near the shore were halfway to the reef. There is a strange sensation as the top waves are hot and the lower waves are cooler.
Sitting in the hotel I was stunned to see the prices they charge, a burger was about $8, a soda $2 so I reassured them that I wasn’t a dumb tourist with too much to spend and held my nerve until I could get some street food. I saw a French-speaking gigolo plying his trade on some gullible mademoiselle with the fattest legs I ever saw, rubbing sun-tan lotion on the smalls of her back before they retired to more suitable quarters. I left with a bitter sadness that nothing changed, all the waitresses were potential hookers and the waiters were also up for sale; tourism is like selling your body and soul.
The day after that I went to a rally competition and I saw a gaggle of mad dogs and expat Englishmen racing in the midday sun. It was crazy sight for myself as well as the locals who were befuddled by the scene as people smashed and destroyed their cars in the name of fun. We had woken up at 5 am. Waited for about an hour for our lift, got on the ferry around 6.30 and raced down the South Coast highway in a convoy of rally and support cars. Then there was a rough ride to the actual course as we drove through endless coconut groves, being Africa the 9 o’clock was actually 11. I was driven round the course by Ahmed Musa, an old childhood acquaintance who hadn’t changed much except he now was richer and more spoilt. He was now pushing 1,000 BHP round corners sharp as elbows, missing locals by whiskers while gulping Red Bull and pumping techno music.
It is good to hear Swahili spoken fluently, mine isn’t perfect but the Asians spoke it so proudly; the biggest shock was to hear Chris Bird who looks like a sunburnt toff lost in the Dark Continent but speaks it perfectly as any native. The winner was immaterial as the chaos lost the details, the best car won in the end and kudos to him. The most amazing scene was the Lionnet family; a group of motor-cross fanatics with the youngest being 10, they raced devilishly round the circuit as they trained for the Kenyan championship. By then I was traumatised by the music on the tannoy, Germans should be legally restricted from making music but German country music is truly awful and nobody seemed to care.
We drove back as we raced for the ferry and when we got there it was a 30 minute wait to board and I fell asleep in the cue with my hand hanging out of the passenger window and I woke just in time to see a thief creeping up my blind side in the mirror, I could see him crouched like a lion in wait to snatch my watch. By the time he came by I was awake and he was disgusted with the delay.
Being welcomed to people’s houses is the best feeling; I ate at my friend Ralph’s and got so used to playing with his kids, I wish for that kind of family contentment. He came home at lunch to play with his kids, and he just rolled around with them. His older kid Jeremiah was truly insane and utterly lovable, capable of the most random acts of randomness while being borderline normal. It made me wish I was kid, a kid again, it is a shame we have to grow up and lose that innocence but I suppose someone has to pay the bills.
I never say goodbye to Mombasa, I just say I’ll be back and I will, I want to retire there and just lie in a hammock while the ships go by and say farewell to time.
1 comment:
Rama Isibo is utterly one of the finest Rwandans writers of our time.This a piece that makes you go through it over and again.The diction is something immense.
Thank you,
Ahmed Ayub
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