Rainy Days

Great events tend to break our lives into “before” and “after.” If they last long enough, they can disrupt our sense of time entirely. For many people, Hurricane Nyambura was such an event, as it was the most powerful storm the West African coast had experienced in their lifetimes. Angavu, in the third chapter of her life, had certainly never experienced anything like it. The hurricane itself lasted only a few hours, but the storm and its relentless rain had soaked the land for more than forty days, and the recovery effort took several months.

Angavu could hear rain showers pelting her window as she curled up in her warm, cozy blanket. Her hazy dreams faded as her small, dimly lit room took shape. She knew she needed to wake up for work. She kicked off the blanket, and the chilled air quickly brought her to her senses as she sat up in bed. “Work,” she thought sarcastically. She got up, all right, but her days were spent doing something far removed from “work.” She certainly wasn’t paid—payments, along with money, had been abolished long before her time. It might not have been as important, challenging, or glamorous as her previous role—a lifetime ago—but it was appreciated nonetheless. She wasn’t forced or coerced; she genuinely loved her work. It was a solid reason to get out of bed in the mornings. Even on a rainy morning like this.

When the first forecasts warned of the impending storm, the dining tables at the heart of Mombasa’s sadi buzzed with patrons sharing ideas and making plans. The wind howled above the buildings, and the rain tapped persistently against the thick canopy overhead. The drains gushed with water, adding a resounding backdrop to their concerns. Angavu avoided talking about her old job. In her mind, that chapter was finished. But she used to be a marine biologist, and she had helped build artificial reefs along the coastline—reefs that now served as extra defenses against stormy seas while fostering recovering biodiversity. But that felt like a lifetime ago.

All of the newer buildings in Mombasa were built with endurance in mind, and most of the older ones had been fortified decades earlier. The people at the tables took it upon themselves to fortify the remaining structures or evacuate them. Some volunteered to shelter the evacuees until the storm passed. Angavu interjected, offered suggestions, and took part in the discussions, all while moving back and forth from the kitchen, bringing out more coffee, tea, and biscuits. The conversation flowed organically, and those unaccustomed to it might have found it overwhelming—a multi-threaded cacophony of voices merging into collective decision-making, then fracturing into new topics, shifting seats, and starting again. Angavu surfed the waves of conversation, offering a tip here, asking a question there—guiding the flow of discussion while handing a young boy a bowl of porridge and patting his head. She named the buildings whose windows needed to be boarded up before they shattered. She knew them all. She knew the city. In so many ways, she was the city.

Another day, more rain. She realized the gloomy weather affected her mental health, and despite enjoying the intimate privacy of her room, she considered sharing a bed with someone that night. Maybe her sister, who would probably jump at the opportunity but occasionally snored, or maybe one of the children scared of the storm, who would appreciate the company. Walking from one canopy to the next through the nearly empty, rain-soaked streets, her broad hat shielding her from the downpour, she hopped over streams of water flowing from the rooftops and hurried to the main plaza. There were no leisurely chats or squabbles today. Most people had taken it upon themselves to help prepare the city. The coastal mangroves would help slow the rivers, but men still had to reinforce them with sandbags to keep them in place. They only stopped by to grab the lunch packs she had helped prepare and check for news before heading off to wherever they were needed. It had been a while since Angavu had felt this sense of solidarity. She had never felt alone, but this was different—she was part of something bigger, a man-made behemoth rising to face the monstrous storm looming on the horizon. And for a moment, she felt invincible.

Mombasa had always been a transport hub due to its proximity to the sea. The ceaseless rain had affected the flow of exchanged goods, and with the looming threats, the community collectively decided after ten days of rain to temporarily relocate the sadi to the open area near Chaani, where the old airport used to be. Children and other ibus who couldn’t directly contribute to the preparations were sent to higher ground. There were no “non-essentials”—everyone helped or cared for someone else. Angavu debated whether to go or stay. Help was needed in both places. She promised herself she would stay only a couple more days as she helped mobilize the kitchen, securing what couldn’t be moved and preparing meals for the various teams.

She remembered it clearly—how she had just sat down to rest her feet when the sirens began. It was the twenty-third day of rain. Some might have argued that a woman her age shouldn’t have stayed in the city, especially since they had known for at least two days that a hurricane was inevitable. But no one who knew her would have dared question her ability to handle the situation—or any situation, for that matter. They regularly practiced various disaster scenarios, along with smaller-scale drills even more frequently. These exercises weren’t mandatory, but they were fun, positive experiences—something people enjoyed as much as sporting events in the past. Some participated for the sake of tradition, some to set a good example for children, and others simply for the big meal that usually followed. Angavu had just been joking with her friend about the meal they would have after the storm subsided when the sirens blared and the PSA announced: “Hurricane imminent.”

She had barely managed to stand when two young colleagues appeared at her side, gently rushing her toward the kitchen building. She could tell they were trying to remain calm and respectful, but stress was gnawing at their nerves. The canopy above whooshed and roared as the wind blasted it sideways, sending broken branches crashing down around them. She called out to one of them—“Kiko, potatoes!”. She watched, as if in slow motion, as puzzlement flashed across his face, followed by epiphany and laughter when he understood her. Without hesitation, he hoisted her onto his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and sprinted the remaining twenty meters to the building. She worried his roughness might hurt her, but he was as gentle as he could be under the circumstances, while the girl held her hand firmly as they rushed inside. They were only a few meters from safety when a massive gust tore the canopy away, uprooting three trees as if they were mere toothpicks. The girl shrieked, and this time, Angavu gripped her hand tightly—whether for emotional support or out of a subconscious fear that the wind might carry her away, she wasn’t sure.

The hurricane struck Mombasa just before midday, raging for several hours. The first MAF teams had arrived a week earlier to manage evacuation logistics, but as the hurricane threat grew imminent, additional teams were deployed throughout the city. Tethered by strong ropes, they combed the city for anyone in danger. Amphibious vehicles were deployed to ferry the last remaining residents to safety.

Even though the building was secure, they huddled in the basement shelter. Short-range radios, installed in every shelter, emitted a constant crackling hum of updates, instructions, and reassurances. Emergency power cast a dim glow, while the roar of the storm outside and the trickling of water in one corner gave Angavu an “end of days” feeling. She felt no fear—she was with her colleagues, her second family. They sang and made jokes to pass the time. A few young men, too anxious to join in the singing and laughter, sat quietly on the other side of the room. Angavu prepared cups of hot cacao and sat with them, listening as they voiced their worries and concerns. She knew that people handled crisis in different ways. And she knew that, for her, the best way was to be helpful.

The city lay in ruins. Angavu knew it. She heard the radio reports and the thunderous collapse of buildings that stood no chance against the 200-kilometer-per-hour winds. She sat down, taking a deep breath. The city could be rebuilt, she told herself, but it would never be the same. A small part of her withered as she absorbed the reality. The city she had stayed behind for—the one she chose over leaving with Kimani—was gone. It was a decision she had made over three decades ago. A choice she never questioned—not when Kimani asked her to come with him, not when he begged, and not even when he passed away two decades later. She loved the city and its people and could never imagine calling any other place home.

Heavy rain still poured as the MAF rescue boat navigated the flooded streets, picking them up and taking them to the evacuation camp at Chaani. Her young colleague hugged her as they gazed out the boat’s window at the devastation, tears streaming down their cheeks. They tried to comfort each other, but Angavu had already accepted this fate. At that moment, all she wanted was to return to her room, to her bed. She needed it, but all she could do was bite her lip and stay strong for Kiko, who held her tightly. They were safe, but their story was far from over.

The evacuation camp was an unusual sight; in all her life, Angavu had never seen anything like it. A massive complex of deployable, cheerfully colored inflatable buildings was erected within an hour. Generators inflated the buildings, and their memory-polymer frameworks clicked into shape. Once the storm passed, they could be easily dismantled by flushing the biodegradable joints with UV light. Watchtowers were set up to spot anyone approaching the camp and provide support as quickly as possible. There was no need for barriers in a place where everyone was welcome; instead, two sets of interchangeable walls shielded the camp from the wind. A dim, warm light filled every corner of the camp, creating a sense of safety that soothed the shaken refugees who had just lost their homes. It was no surprise that most people disliked feeling helpless, and many quickly sought ways to contribute to the camp’s daily operations. MAF provided guidance but aimed to give as much agency to the community as possible. People applied their everyday skills where possible—some volunteered for the watchtowers, while others joined the countless “day-after” discussions, which, whether intentional or not, often served as therapy sessions for those now facing a new reality.

Shortly after arriving at the camp, Angavu was given a medical check-up and a fresh set of clothes. She registered her attendance and was informed that her sister and the rest of her family were all accounted for. She was asked whether she preferred a private room or sleeping in the main hall. Most children preferred not to sleep alone, as did a surprising number of adults who were grateful for the emotional support. Angavu thought of her own room, likely flooded with water, and pushed the thought to the back of her mind. She will sleep in the main hall tonight.

On the first day, she stayed with the children—innocent and carefree. They sang, played games, and completely ignored the storm as it slowly faded outside. In the evening, the kids put on a show they had prepared the week before, and tears of joy filled her eyes as she laughed at their jokes.  Later on, a band played, as they did every night, and some people danced while others sang. She went to bed with a smile on her face, grateful that the worries had been pushed back, even if only for a little while.

The next day was the perfect time to get back to work. She went to the kitchens and announced her return, met with applause and warm greetings from everyone present. They were genuinely happy to have her back, though the same warmth was extended to anyone who joined the kitchens. It felt good to be appreciated and needed—something she had been longing for. She set to work, orchestrating meal packs for those on duty and serving food to those in the dining hall. At times, it felt like juggling ten balls at once, but she was grateful her memory hadn’t failed her yet. To an outsider, it might have seemed like chaos, but she had everything under control.

The wind had died down, and only a light rain tapped on the roofs of the buildings. Gradually, the electric hum of the power generators overtook the ambient sounds. Though annoying to those who noticed it, it wasn’t as ominous as the storm. Instead, it served as a reassuring reminder that this would soon be over. Just before the dinner rush, Angavu went to the supply building to fetch a bag of maize. There was nothing out of the ordinary about it—she did this almost every day, sometimes twice. But this time, she heard a strange sound that piqued her curiosity. “Anyone here?” she called. Most people respected shared resources. Though the food storage was open to anyone in need—whether from hunger or the emotional comfort of having an emergency snack—few besides the kitchen staff ever ventured inside. As she rounded a corner toward the noise, she suddenly found herself face-to-face with a leopard that did not look pleased to see her. The leopard was soaked and painfully thin, its claws struggling to pry open a tin can of preserved meat. There was no doubt it was starving, but right now, its focus had shifted—it prowled menacingly toward Angavu. She froze. Memories of a great white shark circled her mind, and instinctively, she closed her eyes.

In another lifetime, she had been in the sea with Kimani when they spotted a four-meter-long great white shark swimming nearby. Kimani, ever cautious, preferred to keep his distance, but Angavu insisted they swim closer to examine the magnificent beast. It would be a stretch to call the shark friendly, but it wasn’t aggressive either. They approached carefully, and when they reached out to touch it, the shark responded with a flick of its tail, seemingly enjoying the sensation as they rubbed its nose. That’s when Kimani noticed a hook lodged at the edge of the shark’s mouth. Fishing hooks had been abolished decades earlier, meaning this shark was old—perhaps older than they had first thought. Removing the hook was no easy task. As they worked to free it, the shark thrashed slightly, and for a moment, Angavu feared they had hurt or angered it. But once the hook came loose, its agitation turned to something else—almost as if it were expressing joy. For the rest of that season, whenever they went diving, the shark would return to greet them, a silent companion beneath the waves.

In the present, Angavu felt something warm and sturdy pressed against her leg. She opened her eyes to find a dog beside her, its muscles taut as it let out a low, threatening growl. Across from them, the leopard hesitated. For a moment, Angavu thought she saw something beyond hunger in the leopard’s gaze—frustration, perhaps, or uncertainty. It was starving, yet wary of the dog, caught in a silent standoff. She wanted to say something but feared breaking the delicate balance holding the two animals in place. Her eyes flickered down to the dog’s vest, where the letters MAF stood out clearly. Below them, its name: Alhaadi. The leopard’s gaze darted—first to her, then to the dog, then to the unopened tin of meat, and finally to the exit. Its desperation was almost tangible. Then, from seemingly nowhere, came a short, imperceptible whistle. At once, Alhaadi shifted, lowering into a non-threatening pose. A strip of artificial meat landed a foot away from the leopard. It flinched, startled, but its instincts quickly took over. In a heartbeat, its teeth tore into the food, devouring it. Angavu turned her head just as another piece was tossed past her shoulder. A young MAFex—one of the specialized animal handlers—had appeared behind her. He threw another strip, watching as the leopard hungrily gnawed on it. By the third piece, the leopard was no longer just eating—it was melting into the moment. Alhaadi, sensing the change, took cautious steps forward before extending its tongue and licking the leopard’s damp fur. The leopard let out a deep purring sound, its body visibly relaxing. “My name is Kato. Are you okay?” the MAFex asked gently. Angavu blinked, suddenly aware of the white-knuckled grip she had on the bag of maize. She forced her fingers to loosen. “Yes… I’m okay,” she said slowly. “Just a little startled. I guess we’re all a bit hungry.” Kato gave a small, reassuring nod. “The meat has sedatives in it, but let me try to approach first.” His voice was steady, confident—enough that she believed him. The leopard, now sprawled lazily on the floor under Alhaadi’s attentive grooming, purred again. The moment of danger had passed.

“It’s a female,” Kato explained, crouching beside the leopard. “But she doesn’t have milk, so there are no starving kittens waiting for her to return.” Angavu exhaled a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “What will happen to her now?” she asked. A twinge of guilt nagged at her—perhaps she should’ve just let the poor creature have the tin can. “We’ll check her medical condition, register her, and when she’s strong enough, we’ll release her back,” Kato reassured her. That gave Angavu some comfort. She watched as the leopard, now drowsy, let out a deep sigh.  “Alhaadi says he knows her,” Kato added, nodding toward the dog. “She’s from Kaya Forest—not far from here.” Angavu turned to the dog, who met her gaze with calm, knowing eyes. Of course, she hadn’t heard Alhaadi say anything, but she understood. The connection between Kato and the dog was undeniable. They had likely spent years together, enough time for silent understanding to replace words. It wasn’t unheard of—this ability to communicate with animals. A relatively recent but profound achievement of humankind. Even after all these years, it still felt like a kind of quiet miracle.

It remained a mystery how the leopard had slipped into the camp unnoticed—bypassing the watchtowers, evading motion sensors, and ignoring the scent-based repellents meant to deter wildlife. Fortunately, no one had been harmed. Still, the incident prompted immediate improvements to the camp’s perimeter sensor systems. More importantly, a monitored feeding station was set up just outside the camp, ensuring that any other starving animal desperate enough to wander close would find food—without the risk of a close encounter.

A few weeks later, it was time to return home. The storm had passed. It was time to rebuild. MAF had already completed the preliminary sweep, but the streets were still littered with mud and debris. Once again, it was the community’s responsibility to rebuild its home. Within a few days, the main operations were back in motion. Angavu finally returned to her house. As expected, the floor was covered in dried mud. The window was broken, and one of the pictures had fallen off the wall. The smell of dampness lingered, unshakable. But she didn’t care. She made her way to her bed and reached underneath it, pulling out a small metal box. Inside was a shark’s tooth with a tiny heart carved into it—Kimani’s farewell gift to her when he had decided to follow his passion, migrating with his shark-friend at the end of the season. She had stayed behind, unable to leave the life she had in Mombasa. A few years after he left, Angavu had stepped away from marine biology to focus on serving the people and the city she loved. She had never regretted her decision, but that didn’t mean she didn’t miss him every time he went away.

An invitation to my world and guidelines

We need more inspiring stories, where normal people deal with real problems but in a reasonable, sensible and compassionate way. There are very few books that I know of that describe utopian egalitarian societies. One example for such society is described in “News from Nowhere” by William Morris, published 1890. It’s an extreme pro-marxist book written at the time of the industrial revolution so clearly it has changed significantly since, but it was fascinating nonetheless. Another example is the 1976 novel “Woman at the edge of time” by Marge Piercy. It’s a feminist book in which the future is split between a dystopian society and an utopian one. Despite finding some of the ideas more difficult to embrace than others, it was refreshing and inspiring.

I therefore invite you, dear readers and listeners, to tell your own story and imagine how things would’ve been different if we lived in a perfect society. I would have loved to say “perfect world” but that would be too fantastic and childish. In a perfect world we wouldn’t need to face the sadness of death. But both death and that sadness are a natural part of life and they help grow and evolve and become better. Accidents are tragic but it’s incredibly naive to imagine a world where accidents don’t happen or people don’t make mistakes. Mistakes happen and the sooner we acknowledge them, the quicker we’ll be able to learn from them and take measures to protect ourselves from other mistakes. A “perfect society”, however, is something I personally believe to be achievable – a society where everyone cares for one another, where no man is worse off than their fellow men. Some people will still be naturally more talented than others and some will be more hot-tempered, but envy will not lead to resentment and anger will be channeled constructively.

Personally I don’t drink alcohol as I can easily see how it can badly affect people but in my utopian world other people will still drink, only they’ll do it sensibly and moderately. They will still drink to enjoy and have a nice time, but the community won’t let them drink to cope with traumas or to tolerate life-hardships. This brings me to the first house-rule of my utopian world – People can do whatever they want as long as they are mindful not to hurt anyone else in the process. Homosexuality exists, whatever other people fancy is none of anyone’s business but their own. Religion exists, at least in theory. However it shouldn’t prevent people from sensible critical thinking. In practice, I believe that having solid community values will take most of the need for religion.

I would be more than honored if you’d choose to expand the world that I write about in my stories. My stories take place roughly 100 years in the future. I intentionally don’t provide a specific date to give a little bit of hope that maybe one day we will get there, as opposed to setting a deadline. The world population is about tenth of today’s current population. I intentionally don’t explain how this came to be as I’m aware that it’s a necessary painful and worrying step we will need to go through somehow and at the time of writing, I’m not sure we’re ready to discuss this. “Climate Change” will still affect our lives but I would like to think that a major portion of the population will focus their attention to tackle it (by helping restore nature) and worry less about paying next month’s rent.

My society doesn’t have money, not as fiat money that requires trust in institutions that are susceptible for corruption, nor as trade-economy. It was replaced with fairness and mutual respect has replaced greed. I have addressed this in my story, but I welcome further exploration of how such society, with its limited resources can function. Personally I’m a strong believer in universal income and the human basic right for food and shelter. I also support heavy progressive taxation and as I believe that money can unbalance and destroy egalitarian societies, I think taxation should cap the richests’ wealth in proportion to the poorest in society. However all this is irrelevant as in my utopian world there is no money.

In my utopian world, natural resources and particularly land cannot have ownership. It doesn’t make sense to me that an arbitrary right over a natural resource grants someone wealth without any work or contribution to society.

One day mankind will learn to treat animals by their intelligent level and with respect. I’m hoping we will learn to communicate with most of them in one way or another and find a humane way to integrate them into our lives white allowing them to maintain their animalistic nature.