A Taste of Coast.

The only thing better than a hot shower after a break-up is this. Sitting on my toilet after a long day of holding back my bladder because my mother taught me not to trust two things; strangers and toilets outside my house. Emptying a full bladder has to be the true definition of bliss. I love it here, in this silence. My heart is not breaking, and the smell of my poop is the only despicable thing. I would sit here longer, were it not for my sister’s annoying complaints, “you’ve been there for thirty minutes. Get out! And use the goddamn freshener. Good Lord, when was the last time you hydrated? Smells like shit in here.” I think if she tried this therapy, she would be less bitter.

Darling reader, this has no relation to today’s story, but I would appreciate it if you considered it a reward after your hectic day.

I’m early enough to catch the burnt orange sunrise. The sea fish have probably feasted on all the worms by this time. Anyway, who cares about worms? I’m holding my denim jacket in my hands and holding back the urge to rip off the rest of my clothes.

Coasterians are not used to rushing. They would never survive a day in the Nairobi CBD. You could be choking, and Halima will model her way to your neighbor’s house (pinching the side of her dera to her chest with two fingers) and speak like you have five more years to live. “Amina, njoo umwone huyu dadake…yuafa huyu maskini,” she would say. By the time they make it back to your house, dear reader, your reference has changed to mwendazake.

The only time I notice urgency is at the Likoni ferry. I am waiting for the ferry to cross over to this side.
At this point, it is necessary to mention that I don’t see why you would have so much faith in me to know any other place on the coast except for Mombasa and Diani. Therefore, you will notice a lot of; this side, that side, here and there.

The gates are still closed, and the soldiers guard them like a palace. Their white shirts have long turned brown. I’ve already judged them when I remember the salty water here. These Swahili women sit on the ground, chins on their knees and legs hiding in the long black buibuis. I surrender to losing my legs because the last thing I want on my polka jumpsuit is a brown patch of dust. The 5:30 am girl in me is getting impatient and keeps checking her watch. A lady is advertising on a large municipal city screen, and her slow Swahili is irritating. It is the third time she has promoted a lotion I’ve never heard of. “Shut up, Halima; let people and their dry skins be,” I sigh. I swear I would have crossed sooner, but they do not allow private ships; I’d still have to wait for this old red, rusted ferry.

When it finally touches the shore from the Msambweni side, the vast mass of people forces their way out shortly after the vehicles. You would be surprised at how many people a ferry can carry. I fear a stampede. It’s on a Tuesday morning, around 6:00 am; 90% of the population are women, and 10% have babies on their backs, others on their chests. The other population is men, some pushing their bicycles and others hurrying with patches of sweat forming on their armpits. Out of all this population, only 1% is dressed officially.

On my side, there is a lesser population of people waiting with me. One of the guards opens the gate for us once the ferry is cleared. I can feel the earth shaking from the stamping of feet behind me. Though I was at the frontline at the gate, I am among the last people to board. I wonder where people are suddenly rushing. There is zero chance that the ferry will leave without everyone on board. Coasterians are weirdos!

People assume different positions, and most women take the floor. I decide to move with the wave and settle for the downstairs. Not many people are going upstairs; I don’t want to find out whatever they are afraid of. If this ship sinks, I want to be where most people are. This thought makes me notice the orange floating jackets hanging on the vessel’s roof. They are tied together in nets, whose strings are now dusty black. One can tell that they were once white. The amount of dust on these floaters is enough to make you sink. How easily would we access them anyway? A baby sitting on her mother’s lap across me steals my attention with her loud cries. The heat from her hijab is probably making her uncomfortable.

Soon we are on the other side of the ocean, and I take out my phone to call my best friend.

“I thought you said I’d find Ali waiting for me at the shore,” the heat at the coast will melt off your patience.
“He should have been there twenty minutes ago. I’m sending you his number ASAP.”

After around thirty minutes of waiting and brushing off the matatu touts, my designated driver arrives. Ali is a lightskin, beardless guy. He is roughly in his early twenties. His hair is locked, and his cheeks are wearing off from the muguka he’s constantly chewing. His day won’t start if his right cheek isn’t filled with these leaves. Ali is hospitable, “Karibu Msambweni,” he says as he loads my bag onto the truck of his tuk-tuk. My next thirty-minute ride is bumpy, noisy, and extremely cheap. I pay thirty shillings for a distance that would cost me two hundred or so in our rocky city. I wonder how much Ali makes in a day. Is it enough to meet his saving goals? Suppose he has goals. Is there something big that he dreams of? Does he ever think of leaving this town someday? Does he plan to return to school, or is he content with where he is? We get lost a couple of times, but if there was a rating App, Ali would get five stars for his silence.

I am not here for a vacation. Adulthood just did its thing and my best friend had to move (well, I’d love to say move houses, but it’s not just houses, it’s cities, dammit!) This day alone makes me worry that the sun might melt her off. How do I explain that I lost my best friend to the sun?
As we walk in the tranquillity of the beach in the evening, I know for sure that I’m going to miss running to Kiambu at the slightest life inconvenience!

Also, this is none of your business, but; the coast people baptized tererehe mchicha! Guys!