Bi. Kidude's ashes left in her saucer after a morning chai & cigarette, State University of Zanzibar, 2011.
I WAKE UP, but I don’t join myself until much later in the morning, when I’ve had a bit of coffee and can come down off the ladder of my dreams.
The farther I travel away from Zanzibar, the less I recall about any of it that feels real and verifiable. Imagine: a decade lived as a dream in a borrowed body—a willing mind—an anxious heart.
Much of how I moved through the city depended on a withholding—though I didn’t quite name it as such at the time. I shudder at the ways my speech and cadence changed whenever I tried to diminish the differences between me and the world around me.
I learned to barter—not beg. I learned to discern—not demand. I learned to linger—not flee. I learned to wait—not expect. I learned to stay quiet—when all I wanted was to scream.
I used to work on a compound at the local university comprised of three rooms—a small library and lounge on one side, a computer room on the other, and the office I shared with my colleague in the middle.
One morning, I opened the drawer looking for my digital camera—I needed to send some photos to the folks back in Washington who funded our program.
As I was sifting through the photos, I stumbled upon several selfies of a face I didn’t recognize—and then it dawned on me: it was the face of the man hired to clean our offices at night.
Apparently, he had explored the drawers and found the camera and had a bit of fun taking selfies—but never deleted them. I stared at his face.
It felt a little strange that he’d gone through a drawer not meant for him. But it also made me happy to know that he’d had a bit of fun, it seemed, in the middle of the night, while sweeping and cleaning up after us.
That office became a second home to me for the three years I lived there—an icebox with good air conditioning and a little fridge to store cold drinks in the tropical heat.
My students would come and go—complaining about their host families, their fleeting love affairs with local men, their frustrations with the pace of their courses.
It always amazes me to think about how I used to sit for hours with local legends like Bi. Kidude and Haji Gora, who both made regular visits to my office to greet me. I’d make them a terrible version of chai and offer them the simple ginger biscuits I bought in bulk at the market.
I always liked those biscuits better stale—they turned soft like cake.
Both of these icons of culture are gone now, to the stars.
Bi. Kidude would walk in barefoot in her signature black buibui, with a kanga tucked under her chin, too. She chain-smoked with her chai in the office, and I let her—who would stop a legendary songbird from enjoying a smoke?
Haji Gora Haji also walked in wearing traditional garb—a long robe and kofia—on Fridays, to say hello. He used to carry around a tattered photo album full of pictures of people he loved and admired—it’s through this photo album that I first heard about other writers like Nathalie Arnold Koening, who writes about mysticism on the Swahili Coast.
Of course, I was slightly jealous that I was not Haji Gora’s only or favorite foreigner with whom he’d struck up a friendship! But I accepted our connection as a one-of-a-kind treasure beyond measure, and I miss him now that he’s gone from this realm.
To what did I owe this honor? Why had life landed me there, in this office painted lavender to my liking, where I would hold court with Zanzibar’s legends of music and poetry?
I will never know. But I accepted the invitation without a hint of hesitation.
I still feel myself sitting there now, as if looking into a camera full of selfies of a face I barely recognize—yet, when I look at her, I know she’s having the best days of her life.
