They say when you arrive in Mombasa, it feels like a harusi – a wedding. And when you leave, it feels like a funeral.
And nowhere is that more visible than at the airport or train station where goodbyes linger a little too long, and no one is quite ready to go. I am feeling this way as I leave Mombasa today.
We arrived in Mombasa a few days ago. And almost instantly, my heart recognized something before my mind could catch up. Joy. Warmth. Home. I couldn’t wipe the smile off my face.
The heat wrapped itself around me like an old friend. The sunset – deep reds and glowing orange – looked almost unreal, like a painting someone forgot to take down from the sky.
Memories of KenSec, Tudor JK, the lighthouse, the hostel, the tiny winding roads of Mombasa Town, Bamburi Beach, Cosy Tea House, Madafu, Buya – – the images kept flooding back!
And suddenly, I was 13 again. School holidays. Trips to see my beloved maji and bapaji. Cousins filling every corner of the house. Tudor. Flat B.
Ten of us. Two bedrooms. Bunk beds. A living room that doubled as everything. One washroom. One bathroom.
And yet, it was one of the happiest places in the world from my childhood memory. We didn’t have much. But we had everything.
On each trip, my bapaji would pull out a steel bag from under his bed – filled with books. “Choose one,” he’d say. That’s where my love of reading began.
He also taught me how to play Solitaire, and very confidently cheated when the cards didn’t cooperate. I noticed but said nothing. And secretly loved him even more for it.
My maji – somewhat blind for most of her life – was our matriarch. She was our everything. Strong, brave and steady. Beloved to us all. We didn’t see her limitations. We saw her strength.
She fed us – ghos jo saak, malai, maji toast, daar-khao with steak. She took care of us. She poured us each a glass of milk before we went to sleep. And her food is still talked about, still remembered, still missed. A big memory for me is how there was always enough food on the table for home – as well as friends who would show up unannounced – at dinner time. It’s like the food magically expanded to the number of people at the table.
I also have strong recollection of my maji walking to Tudor JK every morning at 3:30 am and at 6:45 pm. I have no doubt that her faith is what gave her strength. Today,
we are all the beneficiaries of her deep and abiding faith.
Mombasa didn’t just hold memories. It shaped me. And somehow, it still does.
Two years ago, I lost my mother. She loved me in a way that only a mother can love – completely, unconditionally, without pause.
And then something unexpected happened. In Mombasa, I found that feeling again. In my family – my mom’s sisters, my cousins. A quiet, steady love. Care that asks for nothing in return.
I spend so much of my life taking care of others. But here, I am – the one being taken care of fully. fiercely and completely. And for the first time in a long time, I am not the one holding everything together. I am the one being held.