Old town Mombasa

 

By Eddy Ashioya 

Mombasa is hotter than a pack of titties in a black Gikomba bra. I don’t understand this town. It is rather small but packs quite the ego, like one of those boys who promise you fireworks in bed and end up delivering baruti. I am one of those boys.

Most of the buildings are unfinished, a ragtag gang of blocks and structures, sitting side by side like passengers in a crammed Umoinner matatu; this one here stalled because of a court order, that one the owner died, ile paleeeee vijana wa hio familia walikula pesa kwa anasa. In a way these rectangular stones, steeped in humidity, seemed to be a kind of print of their own images, reflecting the ambitions of the people, that it’s okay to fail, as long as you do so spectacularly. There are no birds, just tuktuks and Nissan notes squawking in deep openly humorous voices, and a trash can and a wall breaking into conversation. Hapa Shallo tu, the wall says, and Kazi Kwanza, the trash can beside it quickly responds. Both seem to be rejoicing in the knowledge of their own inner snugness—of all the secrets, folded or crumpled, addressed or discarded, that they had kept to themselves through the years, a bond of imponderables, a shared risk and at least a gesture toward the peaceableness of mankind, for who but a peaceable species could live in such congestion? 

I am in Old Town, Mombasa. I am here to feast my eyes, to witness the so called cats that are not really cats, to litter another place with pieces of myself, to listen to the ocean waves and squint and see if I can see the majini that we were told live in the middle of the water, to do kebab and madafu and biryani, to swear—kudadake gaddamit! The men here are walking in kamisis and kikois and kanzus, and burnt-orange died videvus. I am tempted to get one (the kanzu, not dye), mostly because I am in tight skinny pants—which is one of the reasons I will promise you fireworks but end up bringing barutis.

So far I have confirmed that Swahili men love to gossip. Kupiga gumzo. Tia chumvi. Everyone knows something. Everyone saw it happen. Gossip, they say, is like sea-water; the more we drink, the thirstier we become. I already know Baba Tule is not paying his bills, Bakari is addicted to drugs, mtoto wa Salome, yule bikra, is pregnant and wa-Mvita is responsible for it. This is a town that seems to have been whispered into existence, passed on from mouth to mouth, living on tongues of residents and lubricated by the saliva of expatriates. Huku gumzo tu.

Alhamdulillah, Mombasarians love to talk. They invite you to the conversation, greeting you like a freed political prisoner. They speak in sotto voce, voices like velvet, lulling you to say Naam and Abee!, even when they are abusing you, msenge wewe. You ask a local what time it is, and they proceed to explain how to build a watch. They talk like how Jeff Koinange applies gel on his hair. It’s not their fault to be loquacious. Design flaw. 

For some reason, that is beyond primal human understanding, I have adopted that accent. “Wasema nini wewe shehe?” “Hii shi’ngapi bamdogo?” “Sitaki mchele. Nipe wali kubabaye!”

But they can tell I am not from here. What, with my eagerness, and haggling and general impatience? I pay for a tuktuk and they don’t even check the MPesa message. The way Nairobi is set up, with palpable distrust, a matatu conductor counts the fare once, then twice then three times. Not here.

Mombasa, clearly, will never be the main mpoa. Neither the other woman. Mombasa is that lover that disgusts you; makes you hungry or sexually aroused, a mistress that stayed for breakfast after a one night stand—and however authentic the feelings of love, the dalliance was only ever meant to be a beautiful fiction. Mostly because it promises fireworks but ends up delivering baruti. 

#chinedutales