Originally published in The Friday Times.

There are names of places inscribed in your mind. Names that you would have come across in a book, a postage stamp or a film. You have not visited them, nor do you think you ever will. Until recently, Mombasa was such a place in mine. However, life’s undulating nature often surprises, and recently took me to this old port city of Kenya. This is my account.

In view of the coastline, I am seated on the lower deck of the Mombasa Club. Built in 1897, the club is a well-preserved relic from the days of the British Protectorate for East Africa. It is located on the southern edge of the city, facing the Old Town of Mombasa at one end and the waters of the Indian Ocean at the other.

The Club was originally built as a watering hole for British civil servants and officers who were building the Kenya-Uganda railway. A symbol of Britain’s bold effort to connect East Africa, the railway would go on to be nicknamed ‘The Lunatic Express,’ due to the number of lives lost in its development. Amongst the chief causes of death? Man-eating lions, immortalised in the book, ‘Man Eaters of Tsavo,’ by Lieutenant Colonel J. H. Peterson, who was in-charge of the railway’s development. Lt. Col. Peterson eventually succeeded in shooting the two lions responsible, but not before they killed scores of his workers, amongst them many Indians brought in to help lay the line. These events took place not far from where I am sitting, in the vast expanse of the Tsavo national park. The Lunatic Express served the people of Kenya for over a century. However, notorious for delays, it breathed its last a few years ago. It has been replaced by a shiny new standard-gauge Chinese train, which has cut travel time to a third. A new world power is replacing the legacy of the old.

I turn my gaze towards the Club. One could be forgiven for forgetting how much the world outside it has changed since Lt. Col. Peterson ventured out here to build his railway. Its white walls and slanting green roofs are of a distinctly colonial aesthetic. Two large verandas offer mesmerising views of the ocean, ideal for spending an afternoon reading, or in conversation, cooled by ceiling fans if not the ocean breeze. The floors and staircases are wooden, and its spacious corridors are decorated with shields belonging to various regiments of the British Army that have passed through. ‘King’s African Rifles,’ reads one. ‘Gurkha,’ proclaims another. The male restrooms are marked “Gentlemen,” a reminder of that now rare breed of human being. Everything at the Club seems to move at that somewhat more reasonable pace of the old world. Winston Churchill has stayed here, as has Queen Elizabeth.

In the Club’s library, the tales of many a colonial voyager are recorded in the dusty, time-worn books that line its shelves. I had spent the morning browsing through chronicles of the British Empire, its politics and its military history. The books on the two World Wars had reminded me of my grandfather, who fought on the Burma Front in World War 2. He had a great love for reading, and it was from him that I first learnt to speak English. I had found books on illustrious men of the Empire such as Gordon of Khartoum, and Lord Curzon, Viceroy of India, best remembered for ordering and then reversing the first partition of The Bengal. Amongst the titles I had also spotted a biography of Ava Gardner, Hollywood’s legendary seductress from the 40s, and wife of Frank Sinatra. On the back cover was Gardner, who married thrice, joyfully riding a cycle down a road on a sunny day. Beside it, a caption read “she liked jazz and driving too fast and nights that went on forever. She loved dogs and gin and four-letter words and Frank Sinatra.” The last line had reminded me of a comical episode recorded by the late Minoo P. Bhandara (former member of the National Assembly of Pakistan, author Bapsi Sidhwa’s brother, and known more commonly as MP Bhandara). 1954 had brought Ava Gardner to Lahore to shoot the film “Bhowani Junction.” One evening, her posse had gone out to watch her film, “Barefoot Contessa,” which had been playing at Regal Cinema. Regal’s owner, playing host that evening, had panicked upon realising how quickly Gardner and her friends were going through the gin he had supplied. He had called Minoo’s father, who was in the liquor business, for urgent help. Therefore, Minoo was rushed to Regal Cinema with two bottles of the stuff, and as a reward, given a seat next to Gardner to watch the film. Suddenly, she had turned to him and asked a question, which he didn’t understand. She repeated herself, but he still didn’t get it. Exasperated, she had shouted, “I want to go to the shithouse! Do you understand, shit?”[1] MP Bhandhara was then granted the privilege of escorting her to an outhouse. Some reward!

“The Decline and Fall of the British Empire, by Piers Brendon,” was another title which had attracted my attention. On the inside cover was a map showing the Empire at its apogee, and the many nations it ruled over. Browsing through it, I had stopped at a photograph that showed Muhammad Ali Jinnah and Jawaharlal Nehru, taking a garden stroll. I knew it well; it was from a summit in Simla. Jinnah, in light coloured suit, and Nehru, in an achkan and tang pyjama. The caption read “tragically, the brilliant, opulent and inspiring leaders of rival political movements, could find no means of uniting an independent India.” A more accurate description would have explained that while Jinnah had accepted a united India on condition of constitutional guarantees for fair treatment of religious minorities, Nehru had spurned the idea. In the crucial final episode prior to Partition, the Nehru-led Congress Party had rejected the Cabinet Mission Plan (after the Muslim League had accepted it) which would have secured a united Indian federation. A second photograph, captioned “On top of the world, 1938,” showed a group of British merrymakers enjoying refreshments against a backdrop of the Giza pyramids. Amongst them was a fair-skinned lady, glass in hand, looking on at a dark-skinned Arab man, who was bent over in order to serve her. It had made me wonder, what must have been going through his mind.

Like other British clubs, the Mombasa Club was not open to “natives” for many years. Today however, the Club counts an eclectic mixture of Mombasa’s well-heeled gentry amongst its ranks. One is as likely to hear Kiswahili or Gujarati as English in the hallways. My sojourn here, a welcome respite, is thanks to the generous hospitality of one of the Club’s member families.

It is my last night in Mombasa, and I have come down to the restaurant for dinner. To satisfy one’s taste buds in exile, I have ordered the spicy chicken curry and now await the twenty-five minutes that the menu says it will take. The restaurant on the lower deck is open-air, and tonight’s diners include a young Indian couple, and a group of Kenyan professionals engaged in lively conversation.

It is, what can only be termed a glorious night. A strong breeze blows through the coconut palm trees around the deck, carrying with it the warmth of the Indian ocean. As if chasing it in futility, for it is forever heavier, the ocean gently laps the Mombasa coast, not fifty yards away. Along the club’s boundary runs a long hedge of bougainvillea, which is in bloom. Every now and then, there is a whiff of jasmine from somewhere. On the horizon, like tea lights, flicker the lamps of ships that have taken leave of the port. Above all this is a starry sky. The grand vista reminds me of a passage from Karen Blixen’s “Out of Africa,” which, serendipitously, I have read just the day before. Her description did justice to the night sky. “The stellar heaven of the equator is richer than that of the north, and you see it more because you are out more at night….Here in the great room everybody comes and goes, this is the place where things are going on. To Arabia and Africa, where the sun of the midday kills you, night is the time for travelling and enterprise. The stars have been named here, they have been guides to human beings for many centuries, drawing them in long lines across the desert sands and the sea..”

Blixen, a Danish Baroness, came to settle in British East Africa at the turn of the 20th century. She bought a large farm outside Nairobi and launched a coffee plantation. From shooting “big game,” to mediating disputes amongst Kikuyu tribal elders, to driving ox-carts to supply British front lines during World War 1, she saw it all. The coffee plantation never succeeded – Nairobi’s high altitude and pest attacks getting the best of it – and eventually she had to return, disappointed, to Europe. However, Kenya never left her, and she went on to write about her exploits in an intimate memoir which has become a classic and a film of worldwide acclaim. She visited Mombasa several times, and would likely have visited the Club, perhaps even looked out onto the same view.

I look towards the ocean’s dark, endless waters and am struck by a sense of history.

Over the centuries, many have sailed over these waters in search of fortune and power, leading Mombasa to change hands between Arab, Portuguese, and British colonisers numerous times. Arab traders from what is now Oman and Yemen began to arrive around the tenth century. Having mastered the art of building dhows – lean, nimble sailboats – they sailed along the Horn of Africa to reach Mogadishu, Mombasa, Zanzibar, and other trading posts on the coast. In the 14th century, Ibn Batuta, the great Arab explorer, too visited Mombasa as part of his epic voyage through the Islamic world. By then, Mombasa was already a busy port, doing good business in spices, gold, ivory, and more notoriously, slaves.

Between the 7th and 19th centuries, Arab and local Swahili traders captured and sold off millions of Africans to serve in households across the Middle East and North Africa. It is a shameful saga that is little talked about. The largest slave market in the region was in Zanzibar. I have visited it, and seen the chains in which slaves would be bound at the neck and ankles, before being forced to walk hundreds of miles, often carrying heavy goods and marching only to die from exhaustion. Jaun Francisco Manzano, a Cuban slave-poet, though speaking of another geography, has delivered a wrenching description of slavery in his poem ‘The Slave Trade Merchant:’

“What cares the merchant for that crowded hold,
The voyage pays, if half the slaves are sold!
What does it matter to that proud senor,
How many sick have sunk to rise no more;
How many children in the waving throng,
Crushed in the crowd, or trampled by the strong!
What boots it, in that dungeon of despair,
How many beings gasp and pant for air!
How many creatures draw infected breath,
And drag out life, aye, in the midst of death!”

The British eventually forced the Sultan of Zanzibar to shut down the open slave market in Zanzibar, but it would take many more years for the practice to cease. That slavery only ended in the 20th century, and that too on the insistence of European powers, is a blot on the legacy of the Arab presence in East Africa.

Thankfully, other aspects of the Arab influence on the coast were less grim. The opening of trade across the Indian Ocean led to the development of a cosmopolitan culture in coastal cities, leading to the flow of Indian, Chinese, Arab, and European goods into East Africa. Along with these came economic migrants, and the resulting intermingling with the indigenous Bantu-speaking tribes led to the formation of a new “coastal” tribe – the Swahili. The Swahili are predominantly Muslim, and heavily influenced by Arab culture, most notably in their language, Kiswahili, which is the East African lingua franca. Morbidly, some of the credit for the spread of Kiswahili is attributed to its use by slave caravans, which were known to travel as far inside the continent as Congo. Kiswahili includes many Arabic words and Swahili itself is a derivative of sawahil, which is the plural of the Arabic word for coast, sahil. Other words also give away the association. Coffee is kahawa in Swahili and qahwa in Arabic. The influence is also found in food and music. The Swahili music genre is called taraab, which comes from the Arabic tarab, meaning musical ecstasy.

Over the previous few days, I had explored these legacies of imperialism, which are etched into Mombasa’s built heritage, and live on in its intricately woven social fabric. Accompanied by a guide named Abu Bakr, a soft-spoken, middle aged man, my walks had begun at the massive 16th century Fort Jesus. Situated adjacent to the Club, it juts out from the coast, resolutely facing the elements of nature. The vibrant Indian Ocean trade brought prosperity to Mombasa, and for a few centuries, Arabs were the primary beneficiaries. They were to be followed by others. Towards the end of the 15th century, Vasco Da Gama landed in Mombasa in search of a trade route to India. Though he did not stay long, he was followed by a Portugese expedition with the aim of setting up a trading post. The expedition succeeded, and stamped its presence in stone by building Fort Jesus. Built by Portuguese Catholics, the fort is shaped like a man, which some take to be a reference to the body of Jesus Christ (peace be upon him). The walls of the Fort, battered yet unbroken by the elements, give away its age of four centuries. Much it has seen. It is a symbol of the first successful foray by a European power into the Indian ocean trade, which until then had been dominated by Omani Arabs. However, Portugese control over the coast remained tenuous. Eventually, the Portugese fell out with the Sultan of Mombasa, whose forces besieged the Fort. During the 17th and 18th centuries, the Fort changed hands continuously, alternating between Portugese and Omani control. By the end of the 19th century, both were depleted, and the Fort came under control of the British, the new power in East Africa.

Inside, the Fort consists of a series of multi-level buildings, including a barracks and an armoury. There are also a few small museums. One of these, paid for by the Omani government, had contained a large black and white wall hanging depicting a ‘Barzah.’ Its description had identified this as an ‘official meeting headed by the ruler or wali at the Fort.’ The sketching showed a group of Arab notables, likely the city governors, sitting in a court formation. Seated next to them in elaborate official uniform, was a group of British officers, holding swords and wearing that fairly comical symbol of the colonial era – the pith helmet. The Arabs were all old men, turbaned, bearded, and stern of expression. The only African was a young man wearing simple robes, timing of expression and standing in a corner with his hands folded. “Look at how they treated us,” Abu Bakr had said with thinly veiled contempt. Recounting the treatment of slaves, he had gone on “as if we were not human beings.” He needn’t have, the sketching said it all.

In the centre of the Fort there is a large open field, where we had stood for a while under the ample shade of a large, firmly anchored tree. It had been pleasing to see that most of the tourists there that day were Kenyan families, exploring the rich history of their country. Higher up on one of the walls, I had noticed a rectangular structure with a corrugated edge, which was a mosque added by the Omanis. As we had left the Fort, I had thought that the juxtaposition of mosque and fort symbolised in stone, the tussle between two powers which has defined the story of Fort Jesus. However, later, the Fort would unveil yet another layer of its complex history.

Mombasa has a gentle rhythm, which one can sense everywhere, but especially so in Old Town. You can feel it in the pace at which people walk, in the paint peeling off its buildings, in the abandon with which men can be found catching a mid-day wink on its sidewalks. Old Town can be accessed from in front of Fort Jesus, through the Sir Mbarak Ali Hinaway road, named after a former Omani governor. It consists of densely packed buildings, most of which bear the signs of time and proximity to the ocean. On entering, you first notice these buildings and their arched doorways, wooden windows, and latticed awnings. Many prominent buildings are sealed by the heavy wooden doors Mombasa is famous for. Made with quality woods, they are intricately carved and set with iron or brass knobs. The richer the wood-work, the greater the likely wealth and stature of the owner. The most prominent homes once belonged to slave and ivory traders. Many buildings are painted in pastel shades of yellow, green, and blue, which mellow the effect of the mid-day heat. Old Mombasa’s streets are busy, but not overcrowded. During the daytime, there is much activity and traffic. The soundtrack is provided by colourful and noisy Indian-made rickshaws which zig-zag through its alleys, interspersed by the Islamic call to prayer.

As we had started the walk, Abu Bakr had cautioned me not to venture into Old Town on my own, particularly after dark. A criminal gang operating inside had recently targeted foreigners. In recent years, slowdown in tourism has been detrimental to the city’s economy, leading to unemployment and pockets of frustrated youth. A not unfamiliar story.

Islamic cultural influence is manifest, and men wearing circular prayer caps and long thobs are a common sight. An iconic structure is the 16th century Mandhry Mosque, which is a physical representation of syncretic Swahili culture. It combines an African building aesthetic with the Islamic dome tradition through a tall, curved minaret. Beyond the mosque a series of shops sell handicrafts and antiques. We had walked into one piled to the roof with all manners of items – carved boxes, old photographs, jewellery, and art. It was like a museum, but with everything on sale. Dallying to sift through some picture frames, one had caught my eye. “Do you know who this is?” I had asked the shop assistant. He had not. I had informed him that it was a portrait of one of the great philosopher-poets of the last century, credited with conceiving the idea of Pakistan. The dusty picture frame contained an aged portrait of Allama Iqbal. Beside it was an Urdu translation of a verse from Surah Al Nur of the Holy Quran, stating that God would bestow leadership upon those who would take up faith and do good deeds. Beneath the portrait was an image of Iqbal’s tomb at Hazuri Bagh, Lahore. Its caption was a couplet from his poem “Woh meri kam naseebi, woh teri be nayazi (my ill luck, O Lord, and Your indifference),” part of his collection “Bal-e-Jibril (Gabriel’s Wing)””

Issi kashmakash mein guzri hein meri zindagi ki raatein
Kabhi soz-o-saaz-e-Rumi, kabhi pech-o-tab-e-Raazi

The nights of my life have been wasted in this tussle,
Sometimes the ecstasy and melody of Rumi, at others the confusion and anger of Raazi

Reflecting his concern with the dismal conditions of the Muslims of the Indian subcontinent during those heady days at the turn of the 20th century, Iqbal wonders whether his efforts to inspire ethical, competent leadership have been for naught. He relates his state of perplexity to Rumi and Razi, two great intellects who too explored leadership and the human condition. The couplet had made me think of Mombasa’s past rulers, who had ruled through force, and not the consent of the governed. What was that frame doing in Mombasa, and who had it belonged to?

Beyond the antique shop was a colourful example of Mombasan architecture, the Post Office. Its wooden awning was painted teal green in contrast with the washed-out yellow plaster of the rest of the building. This was the place from where railway workers would have sent letters back to their families in the UK and India. A little further on was a fish market, amusingly named simply “Fish Market.” A few butchers had been busy processing the day’s catch, slashing through scaly fish sprawled on marble slabs. Behind the Fish Market lies Mombasa’s Old Port. Its glory days are behind it, but it is still used by smaller boats, of which a few had been anchored there, lazily bobbing in the turquoise-blue water.

In addition to a rich mix of ethnicities, the Old Town is also home to a constellation of faiths. Within a small area, several religious communities are represented by their prayer houses and community centres. This includes the Dawoodi Bohra Mosque, the Shwetamber Jain Temple, the Ismaili Kuze Jamatkhana, the Siri Guru Singh Sabha Mombasa Sikh Temple, the Shri Cutch Satsang Swaminarayan Hindu Temple, several Mosques, and the Anglican Church, amongst many others. Just about everyone seems to be here.

As Abu Baker had led me through the lanes of Old Town, we had discussed its history and communities. Around lunch, we had stopped at a small bakery called Jevanjee bakers. Inside, an old man and his assistant had been busy arranging various food items. Behind them had hung a portrait of the spiritual leader or Da’i of the Bohra community, Mr. Mufaddal Saifuddin. Recognising the proprietor’s South Asian origins, I had inquired whether he spoke any Urdu or Hindi, but he had shaken his head. He had been dealing with other customers in Swahili. When asked what was fresh he had responded, “samosa?” That both of us certainly understood. We had purchased some hot meat-filled samosas.

Mombasa’s South Asian community, drawn from the lands that now form Pakistan, India, and Bangladesh, is amongst the prominent communities of the city, and indeed Kenya. Well represented in business and to an extent in politics, most South Asians (often interchangeably referred to as Asians, or Indians) are descendants of economic migrants brought in by the British build the railway. The origins of Indian migration are much older, starting with first Arab and then Portugese traders traversing the Indian ocean. From amongst other locations, they would have sailed from the ports of Bombay, Goa, and later even Karachi.

In 2017, the Kenyan government officially recognised Kenya’s Asian community as its 44th tribe. I had asked Abu Baker what he thought of how well Asians have blended in. “Well, yes they have been here a long time, but they don’t mix with the locals.” He had used the word ‘locals,’ as if the South Asian community were not. “You see, they are very successful in business and have captured all the good opportunities for themselves.” I had challenged him, asking whether setting up business did not also generate jobs and incomes for other Kenyans. “Yes, but they don’t pay very well,” he had retorted. It had made me question the objectivity of my guide, but the surety of his views had also led me to wonder what had given him cause to draw such conclusions. Realising that I was not going to change any views, I had let the matter pass, and we had completed that section of the walk in silence. Along the way, we had stopped to purchase some Mahamri, a type of Swahili doughnut, infused with coconut and cardamom, sold by a lady street vendor squatting on her haunches.

I knew that Abu Baker’s views were likely not representative. Kenya does not have a track record like Uganda, where the dictator Idi Amin once expelled all Asians. The South Asians I met on the trip enthusiastically identified themselves as patriotic Kenyans with strong desire to promote national progress. The South Asian community has also been active in investing in social institutions, particularly healthcare and education, to help build up this young country. A few days earlier in Nairobi, I had asked a taxi driver which was the city’s best hospital. His response had been prompt – Aga Khan Hospital. The Hospital is a leading centre of research and clinical care. It is part of a cluster of agencies and organisations that form the Aga Khan Development Network, headed by the spiritual leader of the Shia Ismaili Muslim community, His Highness the Aga Khan. In Kenya, much of the community consists of migrants from Indian Gujarat. In Mombasa too, the most renown schools are managed by the Aga Khan Development Network and the Gujarati Oshwal community. The Aga Khan Academy in Mombasa is a state of the art facility, recognised as a ‘World School’ by the prestigious International Baccalaureate. The students at these institutions hail from all backgrounds.

I had spent two memorable evenings with the South Asian community in Mombasa. The first was a night of classical music at the Cinemax in the Nyali neighbourhood, courtesy of my friend’s parents who had most kindly adopted me for the weekend. The gathering had included several smartly-dressed older couples and their families from the Gujarati-speaking Oshwal community. All old friends. Thinking that the singing would be in Gujarati, I had wondered whether my linguistic abilities would carry me through the evening. However, when the troupe began with several popular Urdu and Hindi oldies, I had breathed a sigh of relief! Rajesh Khanna, Kishore Kumar, and Mohammad Rafi numbers brought everyone together – the primarily Gujarati-speaking gathering, and myself, an Urdu-speaking Pakistani. It had been undoubtedly special to, through common cultural heritage, share in the camaraderie of old friends as they sang along to their favourite numbers.

On a second occasion I had joined a dinner with a notable member of the South Asian community, whose ancestors hail from Lahore. Here again, we discovered many shared ties, and even spoke some Urdu and Punjabi over a delicious meal of chicken tikka. I learnt about some of the extensive contributions of the community in business and social development, which made me appreciate the depth of the South Asian community’s roots in Kenya. In most cases their ancestors had travelled to Kenya with minimal resources, and succeeded building up enterprise and community by dint of effort. Today, a series of vibrant institutions such as community halls, places of worship, educational and healthcare organisations are in place. These not only look after the well-being of their members, but also add to society at large through social investments. Our Pakistani-origin hosts had been as curious about Pakistan as I was about Kenya. However, in their case it was clear that their home was Kenya. When it was time to part, our host’s mother, a kind elderly lady, had patted my head and said “Jeetay raho beta, ab dobara ana aur hamarey saath thairna.” Be well my son, now come again and stay with us sometime.” Lands and allegiances may change, but shared values endure.

““Jeetay raho beta, ab dobara ana aur hamarey saath thairna.” Be well my son, now come again and stay with us sometime.””

As we had continued the walk, I had noted shop signs which alluded to the city’s mixed heritage. Saudi Fashion, Kassim Café, Sonara Budha Jewellers, Baghdad shop, Arafat Maasai Sandols, Bhagwanji Hansraj and sons, and Habib Bank AG Zurich all passed by. Bhagwanji, established in 1895, is one of the oldest bakeries in the city. Its trays had been stacked with Ladoos. I had thought that if the Mombasans were enjoying ladoos, then relations were on pretty firm ground.

Old Town is packed with people and goods. Every corner is occupied, and there are entire streets where fruit and vegetable hawkers come together to create temporary markets by displaying their wares on the ground. Amongst the markets is a Somali bazaar, managed mainly by Somali women distinguished by their colourful kangas and long lack abayas. Upon entering it, one is thrust into a world of colour, as stall after stall of bright kanga cloth goes by. Many Somalis are refugees that have fled from the long-running conflict in their own country. Their presence in Kenya has not always been without tension.

Our last stop in Old Town had been the ‘Market.’ A British-era structure, made of stone, wood, and iron, its slanted roof had reminded me of colonial buildings in Rawalpindi and Lahore. “John Lysaght Ltd., Bristol 1914,” was embossed on one of the iron pillars upholding its structure. Protected from the hot sun, inside were stacked piles of fresh fruit and vegetables, spices, and meat. Business had seemed slow, with more hawkers than customers that day.

On exiting the Old Town, we had walked through the bat-infested Uhuru Gardens and arrived at Moi Avenue, home to Mombasa’s iconic monument – four large tusks, built in the 50s in honour of Princess Elizabeth. Beyond the tusks, Abu Bakr and I had clambered into a matatu and zipped along the coast to the Likoni Ferry at the southern end of Mombasa. Most of the city, including Old Town, is an island. The Likoni Ferry connects it to the mainland, which is only a few hundred metres away. By the time we had arrived at the viewing spot near the Ferry, the sun had been hanging low. The ferry’s decks had been packed with people, most heading home after the day’s work – a unique commute.

Opposite the ferry was a busy park where people were sat in groups taking a break under the shade of trees. The park contained magnificent, awe-inspiring Banyans. These wise, knotted trees, which can live for centuries, remind me inevitably of home, and of Karachi, Pakistan’s city by the sea. Karachi, where I spent several formative years, has an ample number of Banyans. The Banyans of Mombasa, vanguards of its coast, must have witnessed much. The thought of their cousins in Karachi had caused me to wonder whether in some lost horizon of time there may have been a land link between these two coasts. Later, I would learn that some 400 million years ago, India was in fact attached to East Africa as part of the supercontinent of Gondwana. India itself has journeyed across the ocean that carries its name.

As the sun had set, we had walked down Mama Ngina road to the Lighthouse area. Considered the “Mother of the Republic,” Mama Ngina was the wife of Kenya’s first president Jomo Kenyatta. The area has a majestic view of the harbour, and has to be visited for a taste (literally) of how Mombasans like to enjoy their city. In the late afternoon, people from all walks of life can be found at Lighthouse, taking in the ocean-breeze and eating snacks from road-side kiosks. One can have a flavourful and nutritious meal of spicy cassava chips and grilled sweet potato washed down with coconut water, straight from the coconut. Nothing from the coconut is wasted, and once the drink is complete, a spoon is carved from its body and used to scoop up the inside. After taking in the scenery, we had jumped into a rickshaw for a speedy ride back to Fort Jesus.

Dusk had brought about the end to my walk. It had been a memorable canvassing of the city, but also tiring. Therefore, Abu Bakr’s suggestion to stop for a coffee had been welcome. I wanted to try Kahawa, so we had pulled up a stool at a small tea stall next to the Fort’s wall and stretched our legs. Around us, in the final rush of activity, shop keepers and hawkers had been busy closing down for the day. My thoughts had focused on the remarkable number of communities that I had encountered. I had not imagined Mombasa to be a point of interplay between so many cultures. The city had surprised me with its cosmopolitanism.

However, the mosaic was yet incomplete, and were it not for the coffee break, it might have remained so.

The stall’s proprietor, a medium-sized, slightly stooped old man, had appeared to ask what we wanted. He was of dark complexion, and had a short, grizzly beard. After exchanging a few words in Kiswahili with Abu Baker, he had come over to inquire where I was from. “Pakistan,” I responded. His eyes beamed. “Where do you think I am from?” “You are not from here?” “I am from your country,” he said, with a cackling laughter, followed by a pause where we just looked at each other. “I am a Baluch. I am Nasser Khan.” It was a good thing that I hadn’t been drinking coffee, for I might have spat it out. One is hardly able to meet the Baluch in Pakistan, let alone in Mombasa. “My God, and what in the world are you doing here?” Expressing my surprise with laughter, I got up to slap Nasser Khan’s back and shake his hand vigorously. “We came as soldiers for the Omanis more than three-hundred years ago.” As soon as he said it, it made sense. The Sultanate of Oman once had sovereign rights over the Makran coast of Baluchistan. “They brought us here to fight for them, because we were very reliable.”

From Nasser Khan I learned that there are tens of Baluch families living in Mombasa. During the Omani period, Baluch soldiers had played a key role in crushing local rebellions and securing the coast for their Omani overlords. He had pointed out, not far from where we sat, the grave of Jamadar Tangai bin Shambe, a Baluch, who helped the Omanis put down a rebellion in Mombasa. This led to his appointment as the commander of Fort Jesus. The Mombasan Baluch married into local coastal tribes, the Mijikenda and blended in, likely aided by the shared Islamic faith. The proud Baluch have tried to maintain their traditions. They have their own mosque, a community hall, give their children Baluch names, and some still speak Baluchi.

“The Pakistan Navy was here recently. I met some of the sailors, they were very happy to meet me,” remarked Nasser Khan. I was pleased to see that he felt a connection to Pakistan. Nasser Khan was pleased with my astonished state. He had a unique way of speaking. He would make a declaration and then wait for you to react, with gleaming eyes and a wide smile. He couldn’t hold still, and would move to and fro. “I have visited Karachi in the 70s,” he declared next. I used to work on ships, and went there on an assignment.” “How was it?” “Not good, the ship owner deserted some of us and left. I had to work at the port until I could earn enough money to return.” I asked for a photograph. Elated and agreeing immediately, he fussed about trying to select the right spot and pose, lifting up his coffee cup and pulling out a cigarette to hold for effect, unlit, in his other hand. Abu Bakr took the shot. Nasser Khan was having a great time being the centre of attention. “Look here, let me show you my ID” he said, pointing out his name on a plastic card. Abu Bakr, meanwhile, seemed to be sulking, and had stepped away in search of something. Nasser Khan gave another cackling laugh and motioned with his bright eyes. Lowering his voice, he said “Look, he isn’t happy now eh, that I am talking to you, and telling you about the history. He thinks he knows everything, hah! I know a lot more than he does! Did he tell you about the Baluch history in the Fort?” I realised that the Baluch contribution to Omani military campaigns had been overlooked. The Omani-sponsored museum inside the Fort had not mentioned it either. “Of course he did not. Most of these guys have come here in search for work from outside Mombasa. They don’t have much knowledge. Anyhow, I don’t mind, they can do what they want, everyone has to earn a living. You want a coffee eh?” He was clearly enjoying the opportunity to tease Abu Bakr, who, as it appeared, was not very good at making friends at all. Laughing it all off and moving around quickly, Nasser Khan poured me a small cup of Kahawa, which is prepared like Arabic coffee, and sometimes served with ground ginger. Abu Baker too discovered his cheer and joined in, and we sat down and drank the coffee.

When we left that day, I had told Nasser Khan that I would come back to see him before I left. I did. The next time, he was more reflective, telling me about his family, sharing his regret at not being able to speak Baluchi, and falling on difficult times at work. “Alhamdulillah, I was later able to get back on my feet and look after my family.” I listened, and told him how pleased I was to meet him. On parting, Nasser Khan had insisted on seeing me off at the gate of the Mombasa Club. I had wished him well, and with a heavy heart knowing the impoverished state and injustices meted out to people in the lands of his forefathers, still managed to say that Pakistan would always be his homeland. This had pleased him, and with his beaming expression and grainy voice wished me in parting “Fi Iman Allah,” (May you remain in the protection of God).

“This had pleased him, and with his beaming expression and grainy voice wished me in parting “Fi Iman Allah,” (May you remain in the protection of God).”

My reverie was broken by Calson, who had been waiting on me that evening. Setting my notebook aside, I turned towards him. “How was your meal sir?” “Excellent,” I responded. The chicken curry had indeed been very good. The metal plate it had arrived in was now spotless. “And how are you doing this evening? It is such a lovely night. If you allow me to, I must say that you should have been accompanied by a beautiful lady,” he continued. Chuckling at his own audacity, he made me smile too. I responded that some journeys must be made alone. “Ah yes, that is true. So how has your stay in Mombasa been?” I told him about impressions of the city, its life, and its people. “It used to be even better, nowadays there are problems,” he said, before going on to mention an increase in corruption and crime. The colonial setting for the conversation tempted me to ask him whether he thought things had been any better under the British era. “I think so. There was more order.” In his words echoed the sentiments of a soft-spoken man called Inimba, in whose dimly-lit handicraft shop I had been the day before. “It is unfortunate that after independence we have not been able to develop good administration. We had to make a start somewhere, but it will take time to find the right balance,” he had said. I shared Inimba’s conclusion with Calson, who nodded in agreement. This sense of disillusionment was not unfamiliar to me, as I have encountered it in several post-colonial societies in West Africa, the Levant, and of course Pakistan. Ordinary people feel disconnected with ruling elites, frustrated by corruption and incompetent governance. Exploited by insincere leaders, they are forced to wonder whether present day rulers are any better than their colonial precursors. As a result, citizens are underinvested in the national project, which suffers from the loss of their vital energy. Not wanting to dampen Calson’s spirits, I reassured him that my own trip had been a memorable one. This pleased him “I hope you will go back and tell everyone that you found Mombasa to be a second home. Please do come back and see us again.”

It was now last call. The other diners had departed. I informed Calson that I would not be ordering anything else, but would stay a bit longer.

I looked at the coastline below me. Each time the waves washed up against the shore, they would take back a bit of sand with them. I thought of all the powers that had come to conquer Mombasa to control its people and resources. They succeeded, for a while, but none lasted. Like the cleansing waves, the tides of time eventually washed them all away.

Hubris leads imperialists to forget that while man’s body can be enslaved and his mind obfuscated, his heart cannot be won but by willing consent. In the long run, it always yearns to be free. The centuries prior to the two great wars saw ceaseless power struggle, with one nation seeking to subjugate another. In the century since, the world has been in flux. The vast majority of its population no longer lives under imperial control, but in independent nation-states. However, the search for just leadership and the struggle to reconcile relations between populations with diverse cultural and religious traditions remain the greatest challenges faced by these states.

What cosmopolitan Mombasa reminds us is that while the clashes between nations have shown us the worst of each other, they have also forced us to get to know one another. These encounters have also enriched our languages, cuisines, music, and often without realising it, even our sense of identity. As the world shrinks, the future will belong to states which will be able to recognise the strength in their diversity to build truly pluralistic societies. Those that succeed will make the fastest progress in improving the quality of human life by attaining internal stability and attracting economic investment. The question before young states in Africa and Asia then becomes one of how to overcome legacies of division to foster a true sense of collective purpose. How can they get citizens such as Abu Bakr to see the bigger picture, where interaction between communities is not seen as a zero-sum equation, but a dialectic that seeks to maximise the contribution of each constituent part?

This change of perspective will not come about on its own. It requires the emergence of a new form of ethical leadership which will seek not to rule through coercion or divisive tactics, but by cultivating shared values. One that will discard noxious legacies of corruption and exploitation to regain the trust of the citizenry, and by enshrining integrity and pluralism in the national value set, focus society on realising its full potential.

Iqbal, in his wisdom, had realised this need for ethical, visionary leadership nearly a century ago. At the end of the same poem captured in that dusty old frame, he would counsel:

Koi karwan se toota, koi bad-ghuman haram se
Ke ameer-e-karwan mein nahin khuay dil nawazi

And many left the caravan, or lost faith in its destination
For the guide was unable to appeal to the hearts of the travellers

Just then, I heard someone singing in Urdu and looked for the source. Below the Club, three Mombasan girls were taking a stroll. Arms locked together, abayas fluttering in the breeze, they were enjoying the evening. “Tum hi mera pyaar ho/You are my love,” one of them crooned. African by birth, Muslim by faith, and having a taste for South Asian music. I thought it captured the essence of Mombasa. I looked up towards the horizon. It was dark. The ships, with their amber lights, had moved on. Everything must in this world. It was time, for me too, to say goodbye.