By Eric Mawira

I sat by the roadside in Changamwe wanting to crawl into a ditch and dream of my happy place. Hitchhiking on the cargo train from Nairobi to Voi, then hiking a lift on a farm truck to Changamwe was life sucking. The midday sun was scorching. I begged the good Lord for ng for a shade.

Changamwe is an industrial centre infested with careless littering of polythene paper. Chimneys rise to the skies and puff ominous black smoke.

I dreamt of Mombasa with its princely Arabic architecture graciously fused with Indian vintage. The enchanting thought of gothic architectural masterpieces, spicy cuisines, cultural relics, lyrical Swahili with aural nuances and the restless ocean rushing to hug the ever needy shores had me descending down the road on foot humming medley from slavery days.

I trudged to Mombasa at 2pm. Muslims were streaming from the mosques glowing in contrived emotionalism. It was Ramadhan so there would be charity.

A narrow driveway slithered precariously along the cliff’s edge on Mama Ngina Drive. Ancient trees stood shrouding the drive with their undulated tops arrogantly whistling against the sea breeze. The gardens were cast in lush green with silver lamps, mowed lawns and Victorian benches to lure everyone.

A beach at Watamu.

I loved the view of the habour and the exquisite Mama Ngina drive. I left full on coffee, mahamris and viazi karai. For a brief moment, I felt the guilt of using the money I got from Voi.

Later, I took a three hour nap in the gardens tightly clutching my bag. I had not had enough of the coastal town so I strolled past the Irish hilled golf course, palatial bungalows, gold-plated temples, princely Arabic castles, a familiar Elizabethan whitewashed castle, Treasury Square up to the blood drenched siege of Fort Jesus where Arabic lads played poker.

I waved a Sh200 note from Sarah’s gift and joined them. I lost the bid. I cried foul and staggered off to a prowling tuk tuk that charged Sh50 to take me to the tusks that landmark Mombasa. I paused to take photos.

A sleek Cadillac pulled by and a fat middle-aged Indian lowered the tinted windows.

"Let’s talk inside the car" he invited in Swahili.

Talk? Talk about what? I ignored him. He called me kaka (brother). It was past 7pm at this time and insecurities boiled within me. I rushed to lit areas and sat on a barbeque veranda with a street family. Touched by their plight, I opened my rucksack and shared the sandwiches inside.

Afterwards, I took a tuk tuk to the old town. It was dimly lit and deserted. Cars were parked along the narrow streets without any security guard. Ali, the tuk tuk driver informed me witchcraft took care of the town.

The night saw less work and more meaningless chatter about women, money and power. The 6am buses from Nairobi started arriving. Ali offered rest at his house. I declined. I handed him Sh500, which was all I had for the tour. He refused, I pushed it until he accepted it. He scribbled his phone number on a paper and gave me then we hugged.

At around 7am, I was woken by the sound of a ship honking its way into the habour. Fowls rushed in fright. Tiny dhows and boats lapped luxuriantly on the ocean. Traffic trickled in little buds. Ali had dropped me near Nyali bridge.

I put on a yellow T-shirt and donned sunglasses before beginning my hitchhike. My destination was Malindi.

People in Mombasa are pleasant but superstitious too so none stopped. I sat on the side rails and continued to wave motorists down.

At 8.30am, a motorist signalled left and slowed. I ran for it. The female driver was dazzling.

"Sema kaka," she lulled. I blushed and mumbled something about Lamu. She said she was heading to Watamu. My heart raced and I jumped on.

The Malindi highway bore its soul opening up like a peeling reed inked with coconuts and occasional sisal bushes. Poverty stamped its seal on numerous mud shanties thatched in grass.

Kilifi was patched with open dry country and massive tourist hotels. The driver kept smiling sheepishly and stealing glances at me. I smiled dullantly, slippery as ever. She winked. I blushed. The journey was long with uncomfortable flirting, foxhole conversations and a relentless offer to be kept. Along the way, she offered some yoghurt and cake.

Watamu veered us off the highway down past the famed ruins of Gede. It was almost 12pm and I got off near the shopping centre amid unheeded calls to be hosted.

A few metres past the main road and glittering white sand sent by the sea led me to the most idyllic yet deserted white beach. I stripped to swim suits, dug a hole on a deserted stretch and buried my bag under the sand. I marked its grave with driftwood.

I spent the rest of the day sunbathing, building sand castles and jogging along the beach. Upon sunset, I played treasure hunt. The night passed with me seated around a beach fire of driftwoods with beach boys.

For several days, I starved and slept on the beach, hotel lawns and nightclub counters. Eventually, I begged Hamisi, one of the beach boys, for help. I felt deeply sunk and needy. He agreed to feed me in exchange for my rock T-shirts and patched jeans.

He taught acrobatics and showed me how to extract tourist dollars by performing for them and seducing rich white women. We guided tours to the Gede ruins, snuggled with coloured fish at the Malindi Marine Park, watched a rare spectacle of dolphins near Penda and got free lessons on scuba diving.

sanctuary woods

The Gede ruins bore a palatial Arabian gate that led into the most desolate rubbles of ancient battles and blood bath. With archeologically detailed markings, it felt like one was walking in a graveyard, the vigilant spirits of a fallen kingdom hovering in the very air. A maze of a butterfly sanctuary woods surrounded the ruins.

One could walk into the woods alone or with a guide. I just sat by the ruined tombs and clenched off sobs.

Five days of careful learning and luck finally swung my way. One of Hamisi’s lovers wanted him to drive her to Lamu. He agreed to take me along.