Utopian Tales

Tag: books

  • The Seashell by the Window

    The sadi has opened, at a limited capacity. Long before sunrise, it yawned as people started preparing for the day and as the first light hit the mud-covered streets, its heart gave its first jolt and the central kitchen opened to serve the workers with a hot drink and a meal before setting off to clear the mud and debris, assess the wreckage and start rebuilding the shattered city. Some people sang or hummed to themselves. Not joyful songs, but songs of perseverance and solidarity. “It’s time to move on”, they sang. “Move on together”. Songs that gave them strength to face their wrecked homes and build a new future instead.

    Angavu stood at the center of the heart, orchestrating the cooks and the chefs and making sure it all flows in harmony. She wouldn’t yell but her loud authoritative voice thundered in the kitchen as the chefs answered her questions and orders in army-like precision. Sandwiches and pastries wrapped in banana leaves tied with a cotton string, porridges and soups in coconut husks turned into clay pots, fruits and vegetables. One can imagine her as having dozens tentacles, all working in unison in a beautiful dance to create mouth-watering meals. Nothing is eluded from her, especially not Wanjiru standing at the entrance to the kitchen. Their gaze locked with understanding. She asked her colleague to come take her place as she stepped away from the conductor’s podium and walked to the younger woman. She wiped her own hands on her apron before embracing Wanjiru.

    “It is time”, she said, holding Winjiru’s hands tight. Wanjiru just nodded and smiled, exhaustingly.

    “It will be us and his four neighbours, it shouldn’t take long”, said Wanjiru, apologetically.

    “It will take as long as it takes”.

    “It’s a small apartment, I promise you’ll be back for lunch time”.

    “We were planning to make tagine. I know it’s your favourite, we can come back together”.

    “Yes, that would be nice”.

    They walked together. A woman in her later forties and a woman well past her sixties that anyone who knows better would know it’s best not to question her age. They walked hand in hand, although it wasn’t exactly clear if one was carrying the other. They were there for each other, in every sense there is.

    If one would ask Wanjiru why she chose to be a mother she will answer that her first memory was her as a toddler getting up in the middle of the night to hug a crying baby to sleep. Perhaps it wasn’t true but the story was told so many times it rooted itself as an essential part of who she was. At least that was the story as she was told by the parent who was in charge of the nursery that night. It wasn’t her biological mother or father, as all the parents took turns looking after the children, but it was one of her parents just the same.

    Nurseries often consisted of about three to six children and double the number of parents – either the biological parents or other adults who wished to take care of toddlers. The carers sole responsibility was to take care of the children and their household. During the day, The children were looked after by some of the adults while the others rested or tended to the household chores such as cleaning or preparing food.

    Perhaps it was her motherly nature, perhaps it was her environment that nudged her in that direction but she was happy of being a mother just the same. She was proud of all the children she reared and raised or at least been a part of her life and they all loved and admired her as their mother. Her transition to the role of a pastor felt the most natural step for her.

    Otesha, on the other hand, never had the desire for children of his own. For no particular reason, he was simply not interested. In contrast to other cultures, where children are told from an early age they’re expected to go to school; find a job; find a partner; have children; mortgage; pet and continue the traditional circle of life, it is now common to encourage children to pursue their own goals, dreams and aspirations. Otesha had friends, he was loved and cherished but his true love was the sea. He worked in the communal seaweed farm and loved every moment of it.

    Eventually Angavu and Wanjiru entered a small enclosed garden surrounded by apartments. It was a fruit garden, albeit big clumps were torn off by the storm. Out of the 5 fruit trees that fed the surrounding households, only one remained standing still, the rest laid in rest, smashed against the wall while two were completely blown away. Four neighbours have already started clearing up and making small piles of debris and broken woods. When one of them, Zuri, saw Wanjiru come in she gave a short whistle to get everyone’s attention and stood up to hug Wanjiru. Wanjiru hugged her back as she felt the tears soaking on her shoulder.

    They talked a bit and shared their condolences. Eventually Wanjiru held the hands of the two people next to her and as they naturally held each other, they knew it was time to press on.

    The apartment door wasn’t locked. It wasn’t uncommon as the people of Mombasa grew without the fear of burglary or intrusion. Even child delinquency was considered merely innocent mischief. In truth, people were considered responsible adults and treated as such in both respect and responsibility sometime even before puberty. People learned to respect each other’s privacy and ownership and despite having a considerably different sense of ownership, no one ever felt their home was invaded by a malicious agent, jealous of something they might have. The only locked doors were to protect against danger such as medicine cabins or electricity boards, and even then – it was usually a simple mechanism to prevent the door from opening on its own, rather than a key that a single individual might hold.

    The windows were closed and the only light came in through the door, dust floating in the light rays. Mud covered the floor and marks on the clay wall showed the flood water reached knee high. Several photos that were soaked and now dry rested on the floor. Angavu and another ibu went to open the window and let the light flood the small apartment. Most apartments were built in such a way that during day-time there’s no need for artificial light. Angavu picked up a small seashell from the windowsill and rubbed its rugged texture with her thumb. A small smile crept to the corner of her eyes as memories flooded her mind and flashed before her eyes.

    “Hello friend”, she whispered gently and put the seashell back.

    Wanjiru had her first child at the age of 20. It’s considered early but not unheard of. She spent the six years before that travelling and experiencing the world and two more years at the nursery mothering other children before deciding she was finally ready to have a baby herself. Finding a biological father for her child wasn’t a big issue since the children are raised by the community so there’s less pressure to find “the right one”. One of the adults in her kana that medical checks proved isn’t blood-related was happily volunteering. There was no doubt he was a wonderful father. That said, had it just been the two of them raising their child, she may have picked differently. 

    For the next twelve years, she had five more children. At its peak, the kana had twenty children. It might sound overwhelming, but there were plenty of adults around, and the children looked after one another from very early on. Being a parent isn’t a duty to be taken lightly, and parents are usually quite respected in their community—even by most childless adults. Population decline has taken a massive toll on humanity, and although many see the extinction of the human race as “sad, but not the end of the world,” most people are happy to support parents and share some of their burdens. With the exception of some hermits, everyone knows that a fulfilling social life requires other people, and they’re happy to contribute to the cause, even if not by rearing children themselves, often by becoming kamobos.

    Wanjiru put the empty cardboard boxes on the table but she needed a moment to sit down and compose herself. She knew why she was there. She knew what she was ought to do, but all of a sudden it felt too big, too impossibly big, wrong even. It felt like killing someone, like erasing them from existence.

    As a toddler Otesha loved running in the early morning, just before dawn break and seeing the sea-ferrers navigate their small boats out of the harbour. They often waved at him and he could recite the name of each boat to everyone’s delight. Soon after that he would join to see what their day looked like. This is how he met and fell in love with the woman who soon became his kamobo and mentor. She was a marine biologist and luckily, she had the time and patience to teach the young boy everything she knew about the sea.

    Angavu came and put her hand on Wanjiru who was still sitting on the chair next to the empty cardboard boxes.

    “They used to have this myth, you know, that it’s easier to rip a bandaid in a single swift.”

    Wanjiru chuckled. “Easier for the impatient doctor perhaps.”

    She rested her cheek on Angavu’s hand that was on her shoulder, then patted it and stood up. “Come, someone in the refugee camp is going to be grateful to have this place as their new home”.

    The apartment was very big, considering it served a single person. It had two rooms, separated by a thick curtain made of recycled polyester. Its colors looked faded but a simplistic washed-out illustration of a sunflower rising beyond cloudy mountains was still visible. The bottom of the curtain was still soaked and stretch-marks were subtly showing at the top as the weight was pulling at the hooks that held it to its rail. One of the men started taking it off in order to help it dry. The walls were made of terracotta clay but now suffered from dampness at their bottoms. Once everything is taken out of the apartment, someone will use a portable microwave gun to evaporate the excess water and discard any mold that might build up. Wanjiru made a mental note to get it done before the new tenant comes in.

    The entrance door led to the main room, which had a small utility kitchen and a dining table fitted for six people. Considering there were plenty of communal kitchens and dining halls, it was quite telling of a person who lived on his own but would still wish to host guests. The kitchen sink was filled to its brim with soaked dishes, which was also quite telling.

    The bedroom was very functional with a single person bed on one side and a desk on the other. A slate laid still on the desk. It had no password as people normally trusted one another and found it much easier to use devices that don’t require consistent authentication. This one had a ‘to do’ list of actions that someone else will now need to take care of. There were plenty of other small artifacts, collectibles and memorabilia – some on the desk and some on the shelves on the wall. The common theme that linked them most of them, as far as Wanjiru could tell, was their sea salt corrosion that eroded their fine details. They belonged to a past long forgotten. They were memories and stories of past lives, and now they had one more story to tell.

    Zuri started collecting the old photos, those that were still hanging on the wall and those that fell on the floor and got soaked. It was quite tedious as she looked carefully on each one and wrote the details to the best of her knowledge on each picture that wasn’t already detailed. Aside from slates, people normally didn’t have electronic devices to keep photos and document their lives. In general they took far less photos than time past as being present and drinking every little bit of detail was considered more meaningful. They also like retelling stories as a way of preserving their memories. Photos they took were more often than not printed and cherished – in albums, or hanging on the wall. They would argue – “why else would you make the effort to take the picture to begin with?”. She then found a photo that brought tears to her eyes. Trembling, she brought the photo to Wanjiru who was busy sorting out cutlery.

    “What is it?”

    “It’s a namesday”

    The photo showed a crowd of a few dozen people huddled together with the birthday boy in the front holding his cake with six candles on it. They all looked happy in the photo, wearing bright colourful clothes and silly birthday hats made of woven long green weed. He was loved and cherished by so many people. Wanjiru could easily find herself in the photo. She looked brimming with joy, and Angavu looked blissfully happy.

    Otesha’s kamobos were proud of him. He was responsible for a large area of seaweed forest just off the shore of Mombasa. Spending most of his youth with the seafarers, as he became older he was content to stay close to his family and friends and started helping at the seaweed farms and at the age of sixteen he was given a small patch to cultivate on his own. Seaweeds are extremely useful for many purposes, from medicine to food and they’re quite easy to nurture. They can be used to dress wounds, to purify water, to make bioplastics and fermented seaweed can be used to make biofuel. However Otesha focused only on seaweed for human consumption. It can be eaten as-is, although despite the selective breeding process the taste is still “a work in process”, as Otesha would admit, and the texture is still off-putting. It can be dried as used as a snack or a wrap. But often it is grounded to powder that can be used as a high-protein flour substitute. It nearly surpassed wheat production, mainly because of its better land usage as it can be grown vertically up to 30 meters deep.

    He was quite modest regarding his farm and when praised about the produce he shrugged it off by saying he always feels he barely gets any work done. In reality his farm was one of the well-kept farms in the region. He gave credits to his friend, but often failed to mention the reason he doesn’t attend the farm as much as he would argue he should, was that he spent a healthy amount of the day playing with his friends. His friends, that is a family of four bottlenose dolphins, would cater the farm for him, eating pests such as urchins and snails and getting rid of algae and barnacles. All that was left for him was to harvest the daily supply of seaweed and bring it to the sadi.

    Wanjiru opened a closet and took out the small pile of clothes that were there. Besides one drawer with a fancy-looking shirt and a pair of slacks, the rest of the clothes had a faint, but undeniable scent of the ocean. She considered which box should fit these. They had boxes for practical things that other people might find useful such as pots and utensils. Or boxes for pretty things such as art pieces and books. They weren’t useful in any way, but they made the room feel special to anyone who walked into it. And lastly there were the personal items – journal and photographs. They won’t mean to a stranger, but they would mean the world to anyone who knew him. Wanjiru brought the plain, ocean-scented shirt into her face and inhaled deeply, letting the salty tears soak into fabric. In her own little ceremony she thanked each article of cloth and put it in the box for practical things that someone else would appreciate using.

    He always rushed his morning maintenance routine, his kamobo-mama would warn him to be more mindful.

    “You don’t want to find yourself in a leaking boat again”, she would naggingly remind him. It was quite an embarrassing experience, sitting in a half sunken boat five kilometres from the shore waiting for someone to come pick him, his daily harvest floating away in a big pile next to him. Fortunately for him, a dolphin bobbed his head next to him and they started playing catch with an orange he had with him, until someone came to his rescue a few hours later. The next day, he was much more diligent with the morning routine of checking his equipment, the boat and the weather. The dolphin came again and he spent some time playing with him. Over time a few other dolphins joined them and they would spend hours playing and goofing around. His kamobo-mama, who actually specialised in sharks, helped him learn how to communicate with his new friends and perhaps their meaningful interactions were more about presence rather than exchange of words, they could exchange basic instructions to one another. After some time, he noticed they started helping him in hour farm chores so he could spend more time playing with them and over time he would come to the farm only to realise they’ve done everything they could on their part and his responsibility was reduced to fixing the strings on which the seaweed grew and cropping his daily harvest. He would be one of the first farmers to return every day from the sea, utterly exhausted after spending most of the day playing instead of actually doing his chores.

    In the long ago past, people in general and women in particular, had to choose between parenthood and career. The combination was possible with the support of a community or at least a loving partner, but often required a level of sacrifice – of either of the two, or of anything else. Very few managed to juggle it altogether. As the population declined at an alarming rate, society decided that parenthood should be considered a life ambition, not any less respected than a teacher for example as both roles were trying to improve the future of mankind. But at the age of forty Wanjiru decided she wants more from life. With the support of her kana she went back to study and a couple of years later she became a pastor in her community.

    Pastors provided guidance and guards in their community. Over the years the role lost its religious meaning and instead evolved to replace the now decommissioned police patrol officers and social case workers. She was responsible for the civil order and the well being of her community. She was still a mother, she explained, just to a lot more people.

    Family dinners were always important, but in a household of twenty children it can be a bit hectic and lose its intimacy. But it was important to them and a lot of effort was made to make it work. First the toddlers were fed, often with a lot of help from their elders siblings. Then the adults would split into two groups to dine with the younger and then the older children. Each child had an opportunity to tell about their day and discuss the family matters. They learned to listen and ask questions and have a critical conversation about their passions and feelings. That was the part she missed most as a pastor, as she was invited to other family dinners so often. Her children had grown and understood the importance of her role but they still rejoiced to be with her. Sometimes they asked to tag along. They were proud of her, and were happy to share her, knowing she brings her blessing wherever she goes.

    As the last boxes were taken out, Wanjiru was suddenly struck with an overwhelming sense of loneliness. You can be surrounded with all the loving, caring people in the world but if that one person that your heart yearns for is gone, you will feel lonely. What she would’ve given to see him smile one last time, to hear his laugh or touch his face, to say her final goodbye. Wanjiru broke down crying. Before her knees collapsed under her she was hugged by a firm embrace and soothing voice. Perhaps Angavu was never a biological mother but she anticipated it and was there for her beloved friend. Wanjiru sobbed as she felt a part of her life torn away. It wasn’t the memories that haunted her, rather than her wishes. Your child will never be only his past, rather than all what he could’ve been, who he might’ve become. And this was taken away from her. All six of them huddled together and cried.

    “There, there”, soothed her Angavu. “He will always remain in our hearts”. Death is an inevitable sadness, and the passing of one’s child is even more so a tragedy. There is no solution or a fix for it beyond acceptance and cherishing the moments we have together. A tree was planted, despite having no grave, on top of a hill with a view to the sea.

    In the stormy weeks leading to the hurricane, the dolphins migrated to safe havens down south, promising Otesha they’ll be back once the storm subsides. It wasn’t so obvious as the world climate derailed and, for example, the typhoons hitting Japan for more than a year rendered the island inhabitable. They stayed long enough to help him untie the buoys that held the seaweed strings. Laying them flat on the ocean floor wasn’t ideal, but it will be much easier to recover than rebuilding the entire system from scratch. Sitting at home waiting for the storm to pass made him giddy. For a guy with constant prune fingers he sure didn’t like rain. The small underwater air-dome he constructed next to the farm so he could spend rainy days with his friends was taken ashore as it wouldn’t survive the stormy waves. He would spend his days transferring sand bags using a wheelbarrow he borrowed from a relative that already evacuated. It was a hard strenuous, job, and every night he would come back soaked with rain and sweat, only to go at it again the next day. He kept at it even after he himself moved to the refugee camp. Every morning going back to town and helping fortify it against the storm.

    And then the hurricane hit, and despite everything, he was at the wrong place at the wrong time. When the dolphins returned a few months later, it was his kamobo-mama that sobbingly shared the gracious news and the dolphins wailed as well. 

    The apartment laid empty, stripped from its humanity. The walls were bare and the cupboard was empty. Someone else would take it from here- remove the wall and prepare it for its new occupant. It is the neighbors’ responsibility to choose who will join their extended household. It would probably be a temporary tenant whose house was destroyed but oftentimes the temporary becomes permanent and when everyone makes an effort to get along, a stranger might be an interesting addition to the community. A small seashell is left on the windowsill. There’s nothing very special about it. Maybe it was left there by mistake. Maybe it was left as a welcome letter to the new tenant from the former one – “I was here once, and I loved the sea. I hope you love it too”.

  • Roots and Stones

    The sky was still gray, but the storm had passed. The river’s waterline was slowly receding to its original level, and broken debris had been washed away. The cries of seagulls echoed as they emerged from their shelters. A strong scent of rain, dampness, and mud filled the air, but weak gusts of warm wind from the east felt like gentle fingers caressing the land, offering hope. Leila touched her cheek, savoring the warmth, as she stepped down from the train at the temporary makeshift station near Chaani.

    Mombasa’s main train station remained buried in mud, as was much of the vudo. Yet, less than a week after Hurricane Nyambura had ravaged the streets, a team of MAF engineers—aided by local workers—had erected a temporary station and restored the flow of aid and supplies. Raised platforms and auxiliary tracks were hastily installed and by the next day, two cranes loomed over the site, their skeletal frames ready to unload heavy machinery. Teams of facilitators descended on each arriving train like a swarm of ants feasting on a giant’s carcass. Despite the frenzy, they moved with deliberate care to avoid accidents, working around the clock in three shifts. An unspoken friendly competition simmered among them—each crew racing to be the fastest.

    It took a brief moment for a short, stocky person in a gray overall to rush to greet her. “Leila! So good to see you in person!”, he exclaimed. She smiled, “Desta. It’s nice to meet you as well”, she gave him a greeting hug. “Please, everyone call me ‘Pops’” he grinned at her. Seeing his outfit, she was grateful she made the decision to opt for attire slightly less formal than what her role might have required but considerably more suitable to lend a hand in some manual labour. As the Kampala’s official emissary in Mombasa’s relief effort, she was ready to provide whatever help she could offer- advice, resources or a helping hand. They chatted while walking towards the freight carriages. “How’s your day?” She asked warmly. “Keepin’ busy”, he said while patting  his pockets looking for something. “We’ve got supplies, alright. Everyone on the eastern coast has been incredibly generous and supportive.” he said mind absently. Leila gave Pops smile and tapped her ear. His eyes widened in understanding and he picked the stylus pen that was tucked above his ear. “I guess I’m eager to get back to bi-directional trading and not just receiving”, he sighed. “Of course, no one enjoys being utterly reliant on others”, she said emphatically as he took out a folded piece of paper out of his pocket. “We’re a sinkhole in the network right now”, he mumbled. With a flick of his wrist the folded paper unfurled and stiffened to the size of his palm. “Well, I’m sure Mombasa will become the major hub it used to be soon enough” she said warmly. He tried using the pen and as it didn’t work, he shook it a couple of times to recharge its batteries.

    With the exception of archival-books that are made from recycled polymers, most writings are done on “slates” that in the past were named after the “electronic-ink” technology used. These, just as thin as “static” papers, were used for any type of writing of short notes, drawing and reading. For anything more comprehensive, a terminal with a physical keyboard was often used. The more popular slate models don’t have connectivity. Slates with connectivity are usually reserved for particular roles that demand it. It’s a feature that often gets raised eyebrows, followed by silent judgement and an urge to justify why one would need such a feature. In this particular case, Pops’ slate didn’t have connectivity but merely by having his and Leila’s slate touching, they were able to copy the manifest of the cargo she brought with her.

    “Aha! I see  you brought Matooke! We’ll have a feast tonight!” He was about to mention that one of their chefs makes an amazing matooke loaf when he noticed her attention was diverted to a young MAFex walking eagerly towards her. Leila forced her attention back to Pops and apologised, “I’m sorry, if you’ll excuse me for one moment”, to which he replied “yes, of course!”. He went back to review the manifest as the young MAFex reached them and Leila and him hugged cheerfully. “Hello Pops, I see you met my sister”, The young man said to him. Pops didn’t particularly remember this MAFex, albeit always believing he has a good knack for faces. On the other hand, he was quite known in the community and figured this is how the MAFex, “Kato” according to his name tag, knew him. “Hello Kato, yes, your wonderful sister was very kind to bring us goods from Kampala.” Pops said gleefully. Kato laughed “Yes, that’s very typical of her”. The three of them laughed. “I’m guessing you have a lot to catch up on, I can take care of the cargo, Leila. Thank you for all your support” Pops suggested and Leila thanked him and promised she’ll come looking for him later.

    “You’ve bulked up since I last saw you”, admired Leila, causing Kato to smile bashfully. “Yes, well… I think it’s the first time I see you with the ear jewel”, Kato mentioned, and Leila smiled bashfully “Yes, I barely notice it’s there”. It was a recording device that public figures ceremoniously wore as part of their aspiration for complete transparency. Any dispute with delegates can be always re-examined with the use of the recording. Failure to provide a recording is extremely rare but when it does, it often leads to immediate resignation of the person.

    In truth they were quite caught up already, as they communicated quite regularly. Since Kato left Arua to join MAF five years ago, Leila chose to invest her life in the community by helping administer it. Administration consists mostly of “bureaucrats” who excel in following instructions and procedures but also have a small set of delegates who take proactive responsibility to mitigate the public’s wishes and needs. Leila’s sharp opinionated mind quickly led her to become one of Arua’s delegates. This meant that every person in her tega of several hundred people knew her enough and believed in her capability to take care of their own needs as if they were her own. After two years of faithfully working in the interest of her tega, a vote of trust from her fellow delegates has led her to represent the vudo. Following a successful six-month programme she initiated, led and delivered to introduce 4 new green corridors leading out of Arua, she was invited to join the delegates of Kampala, covering a wider region of influence. It’s been almost four years since she worked for the direct benefits of her hometown, but she would still have almost daily chats with various people of her region of influence, which helped her keep in touch with her constituents. Less than a month later, Hurricane Nyambura hit, and Leila was happy to volunteer as an emissary in the relief efforts. She knew  quite a lot about Mombasa from her brother’s correspondence and despite having no equivalent experience with crisis management of such magnitude, her colleagues trusted in her capabilities. Kato and Leila spent their time together as he showed her around the evacuation camp, the ruins of Mombasa and gave her an overview of the current discussions and challenges up ahead.

    “As you probably know”, explained Kato, “The hurricane took the lives of a dozen ibus, seven of which were MAFexi in daring rescue operations and the rest were civilians who fought to protect their homes to their last breath”. “Yes, that’s a horrible tragedy”, said Leila sincerely, “but praise it wasn’t more as only a few generations ago these numbers would have reached the thousands”. “Yes, that’s unfathomable”, concurred Kato as they returned to the evacuation camp and headed to the main hall, “We were lucky MAF got involved as soon as it did and we evacuated as many as we could”. “And most buildings were properly built or at least fortified”, Leila said as they entered the room. She didn’t mean to dismiss the massive role MAF had in reducing the number of casualties but felt it would give a false picture to think it was a last minute bravery that saved the day. She learned from the history books that usually “last minute heroism” is an indication for a failure in the preparation stage. “If it wasn’t for the fortification, Mombasa would have been wiped clean”, admitted Kato, “but the truth is that the hurricane was ten times stronger than expected and now most of the vudo is covered with mud and about half of the buildings are now decommissioned or unsuitable for use”. “I see“, said Leila as she began to realise the challenge that was thrusted at the folk of Mombasa.

    Most of the people at the evacuation camp worked during the day, helping out in the camp’s upkeep and gradually more and more ventured out to rebuild and fix the broken infrastructures. The vudo delegates would work as well, at their respective fields but they talked to as many people as they could to gather thoughts and opinions and would meet amongst themselves to devise a strategy on going forward. The plans and suggestions would be reassessed and discussed the following day. Everyone knew the sense of urgency was real, but they were extremely cautious not to make regrettable decisions. As Leila walked into the room, the big question that was on everyone’s mind was if and when they should move back to Mombasa.

    The room was dim but people could still see each other from the other side of the room. A warm glowing yellow light illuminated the space. The tables were pushed aside and piled up, the chairs were set in rings and a big 3d model of the vudo and its surroundings was placed in the center. It was a massive three square meter panel of five millimetre “pixels” that could be elevated up to fifty centimetres while multiple light projectors provided additional information on the model. It gave an excellent overview and Leila could easily identify the extent of the damage the vudo has suffered. Speakers took their turn standing up and addressing the entire room. Anyone could join the conversation but as the space was limited, it was a known courtesy to let the delegates sit in the inner rings. Everyone was allowed to participate but in order to keep the discussion productive, the audience in the back seats would pass on their comments and questions up the chain and if relevant to everyone, they were answered publicly.

    “…can’t do it on their own, especially if they still need to worry about day-to-day maintenance”, a woman said as Leila entered the room. Leila saw Pops sitting in the front row nodding at her. She nodded back and quietly sat in the back next to the wall. The woman sat down, concluding her remarks.

    Pops stood up. “Yes, as Wanjiru mentioned, there’s a lot of work ahead of us and I would like to think that no one here expects to simply throw the responsibility on one bolo or another, that’s not gonna work. However, I would like to remind us that the vital services that Mombasa normally provides – namely, our medicine industry and our cultured meat, let alone the sadi, are temporarily on hold.” he explained. Leila noticed concerned glances being exchanged across the room. “We have reserves for the time being and we can set up temporary facilities, but it’s an issue. These are vital services to other communities, communities that came to our aid in our time of need.” Murmurs floated in the room again. Leila spotted a few glances in her direction. “Moving workforce from these industries in favour of housing”, concluded Wanjiru, “means that other communities would be strained as well”.

    Another woman, sitting across the room from Pops stood up and everyone quieted down. “I understand the sense of urgency all too well that isn’t affecting just us but other communities that rely on us”, she started saying. It was a good practice they kept whereas each speaker acknowledged the previous one, to confirm they were understood and heard. The woman, who later Leila learned was called Amani, continued “But we should also take into account the unexpected magnitude of the hurricane. There’s no point for us rushing for a quick solution only to be wiped away in the next hurricane”.

    Wanjiru stood up again, “Yes, another hurricane is a real concern. One hurricane was traumatising enough and understandably many are still recovering and require patience and care. Going through yet another hurricane might be a bit too much for some”.

    A person stood up a few chairs away from pops. He was wearing blue work overall and had grease smeared across his forehead. His hair was smooshed as if he recently took off a hat he wore all day. Later on, Leila learned his name is Eliud Mwamba and he’s an engineer. “Yes, no one wants to go through another hurricane. My heart aches at the thought of my home, with all the memories it held, is no more. I’m not sure I’m ready to face that. That’s why I would suggest that we won’t go back to Mombasa island, rather than build a new vudo on the mainland”.

    A ruckus thundered through the room as everyone was surprised by the suggestion. The sentiments were mixed. The idea of not returning to Mombasa astounded most of people in the room and Eliud had to explain the advantages: “Mombasa was originally built centuries ago and although we slowly upgraded most of the building over time, now a chance to widen the streets and move sadi east as we wanted for years”. The last comment evoked some murmurs as this was an unsettled issue that lingered for years. Despite having a majority of people who agreed that shifting the sadi eastward would be more efficient, it was clear to all that the effort of doing so renders the idea unfeasible. “Additionally”, Eliud continued, “We can build a more durable weather-resistant infrastructure with the latest growstone technology”. This caused some eyebrows to raise as the latest version of growstone was quite new and not yet widely accepted. Mainly it meant it would be more challenging to obtain the yeast.

    Growstone worked like baking bread, but instead of using flour, crushed stones dust was used in a mixture of water, organic material (usually refuse) and special yeast that would turn it into a dough. After a couple days of sun-baking in a mold, the newly formed stone would be taken out of the mold and was ready to use. “Molded” stone was the most popular building material for the past few decades as it was re-usable, cheap to make and extremely eco-friendly. A new version of growstone came out a few years earlier that cracks could easily be fixed by applying  some dough on it and letting it dry as it merged to the existing stone. The latest version, the one that Eliud suggested switching to, had self-healing properties, making maintenance even cheaper and easier. It’s been less than a year and therefore less common and moreover – the new type yeast, nicknamed “”, wasn’t as readily available as the old version yeast.

    It might have sounded sensible but Amani was shaken. She stood up as the commotion quieted down and asked in an alarming voice, hoping she simply misunderstood or misheard “Do you wish to reclaim a piece of land the size of Mombasa island from somewhere else?”. Eliud answered calmly but reassuringly, “Yes, Chaani is my favourite option as nature hasn’t fully reclaimed the old airport area so moving wild flora and fauna shouldn’t be too difficult. Acknowledging nature’s primal right over the land wasn’t new and Eliud has considered it, but he argued his idea was still feasible. “In fact”, he argued, “displacing all the wild animals should take roughly as much as it would take to dig away all the mud from the old vudo”. He glanced at Pops who had his mouth open and then shut it. It was clear he was about the object to the idea arguing about time frames but Eliud has answered that preemptively.

    Pops noticed Eliud’s glance, smiled at him but then asked “What about our sea port?”. Eliud looked agitated. He had considered that but didn’t think it to be a critical concern. “We can build a new port at Chaani”. Pops fixed his robe, as if about to sit down, symbolising he has the winning argument, “Not only will it be more costly to the boat to navigate around the island to reach Chaani, we should also consider that Chaani is much higher than the island. Have you considered how to lift up all the cargo?”

    Eliud was about to answer. A moment of hesitation gave Leila the impression that he didn’t factor that concern. It was sensible, no one is expected to think of everything, and this is why they solved complex problems through communal conversations. He argued that the numbers need to be validated but he believes that the overall efficiency of Chaani will be better than what can be established on the island.

    “Moving to Chaani will remove their people from their homes”, said Wanjiru in a calm voice. “Indeed”, she continued, “some of us might be petrified to go back and see our homes ruined, but this doesn’t mean we’re ready to turn our back on them”. Leila noticed Pops moves with uneasiness in his chair. He had something to say about that. Wanjiru concluded by saying that “Healing takes time, and rebuilding one’s home is detrimental to the healing process”.

    Pops churned his thoughts and chose his words carefully before finally standing up, “I have a suggestion, that is probably even more controversial than Eliud’s new vudo idea”. Eliud chuckled at this. He may not have thought of it first but in hindsight he admitted his idea was indeed challenging to swallow. “I believe we should consider mass-production”. The room was stunned into silence. This was unheard of. Pops explained, “I’m aware of the disadvantages, but I’m also acutely aware it means everyone will have a home in fifth of the time”. “You mean a house”, Wanjiru said. It looked like it took all her might to stop the rage that was boiling inside of her by the mere suggestion.

    Just before the hurricane hit, every person in Mombasa had a home. As the population size was mostly stable, most of the folk inherited their homes from someone dear and the home served as a living memory. But homes were also extremely modular so it was incredibly easy to make adjustments, disassemble and build something new to fit one’s purpose. Tenements were built by the bolo and each kana would fashion their own home to their needs. Home was an incredibly personal concept and the idea of mass-produced identical houses felt almost like sacrilege. 

    Wanjiru was struggling to stomach that idea. “Pops, I understand your need for urgency and I appreciate your intention but this is not a good idea”, she said. She inhaled deeply and exhaled between gritted teeth. “Yes, people lost their homes but we are in an evacuation camp. No one here is forced to sleep without a roof over their head”, she continued. “Moving from a temporary housing to a more permanent solution will only drive the hopes of ever having a home again further away. This doesn’t expedite the solution, it only delays it”.

    “We’re not forcing anyone to do anything”, Pops tried to protest. “People who aren’t ready to go back to Mombasa can stay in the camp for the time being, they can also help re-securing the riverbanks and flood gates. They can move to the vudo when they’re ready or we can figure out an alternative solution when we figure out everything else”.

    “I’m also concerned that mass-production methods are very often not environment-friendly”, added Amani solemnly. She felt bad for being a naysayer in the discussion.

    People were shaking their heads in disagreement. Pops’ suggestion would not pass. Leile could see the concern and frustration in his eye. They all knew it wasn’t a good idea but those were scarce at the moment. Eliud stood up, “Perhaps it would be a good time to take a little break and gather our thoughts. I understand the objections against building in a new site or using mass-production but I worry that the timescale required to rebuild our vudo one home after the other is simply not feasible”. It was a harsh truth, but they knew it to be true.

    “May I interject”, Leila spoke from the back of the room. She presented herself as the emissary from Kampla and from the encouraging smile on Pops’ face, she felt more confident to slowly walk towards the center of the room, gently touching people’s shoulders to show her empathy, looking into their eyes understandingly and smiling back at them. “It is indeed a hardship you’re dealing with but you don’t have to do it alone. Just like Mombasa supported Arusha at their big fires a decade ago and just like you support the entire African eastern coast with the medicine you provide, Kampala can come to your aid. We will send you teams to help clear the debris and fix the infrastructure so you can focus on building your homes and industries. We can also send you growstone-yeast to accelerate your brick product”. A few other emissaries from neighboring Vudos also volunteered their support. 

    Everyone cheered, clapped their hands and hugged one another. Wanjiru came to shake Leila’s hands in gratitude. Leila could see the tears of joy in her eyes and felt moved herself. She still had the tasks to ask her Vudo to approve the  offering she made on her own initiative, but she felt self-assured they would understand the severity of the situation and would be more than willing to give their support. Not only helping others may return in kind later down the line, but it’s also the right thing to do. Everyone knows that.

    Pops quickly did the math in head and after a moment of hesitation announced disheartedly that even with the additional support, they won’t be able to completely evacuate the emergency camp before its buildings start  to decompose. “I’m afraid”, he said, “that if there’s an ultimate solution, we haven’t figured it out yet. This means that we need to find a compromise”.

    Amani took a deep breath and stood up. “Building a new vudo or mass-producing the houses are actually good ideas”, she said to everyone’s surprise, “they’re just not good for us”. Pops and Eliud looked intently at her, trying to figure out where she was heading with this, “at least not for the long-term solution”. In an instance, the faces of both men shined and they smiled at each other and at Amani. “We can use mass-production to temporarily build a new industrial zone in Chaani…”, Eliud suggested. “…A high-rise, to reduce the ecological footprint”, continued Pops, visibly getting excited. “All while the outside support focuses on clearing debris, restoring the riverbanks, floodgates and other infrastructure”, interjected Leila, getting hyped at the build-up of energy in the room. “And the people of Mombasa can focus on rebuilding their homes”.

    The conversation wasn’t easy. There was no miracle waiting to happen or a happy path for everyone to agree upon, except a few steps forwards that required some sacrifices. Over the next few days they agreed that the first step was to revitalise the parts that were not damaged in the hurricane, clear debris and restore infrastructure. With heavy hearts it was agreed that the cultured-meat farm will be deprioritised for the time being and more food will be imported while their efforts will be placed towards restoring, rebuilding and constructing new homes.

    On the train back to Kampala, Leila wrote her report. She reflected on the conversations she witnessed in the past few days. She knew she was unfairly judgemental but in her mind the process was too slow. There were too many aspects to consider, she admitted to herself. Too many interests and conflicting views but at least those never stop the perpetual motion of what had to be done. The infrastructure restoration had to be done and clearing of the debris – these were relevant regardless of the final outcome so whilst the discussion continued these tasks were prioritised and she was happy to hear that significant advancements were made in the mere few days she was there. She shared the frustration of those who might argue that a single olori could’ve reached a decision much faster, but she knew it would’ve been most likely an ill-conceived and ill-informed decision. “Too many cooks spoil the broth” and “designed by committee” myths are simple mismanagement follies that are much easier to resolve than having the wrong person make the decisions. Everyone knew that.

    As the train moved further away from the hurricane-stricken area, the landscape brightened in lush green colors and broken stumps made way for tall sturdy trees. From scarred earth and puddles of rainwater having nowhere to go in the drenched soil, to dry mud filled with debris, unrooted trees and broken stones and rocks. Single trees  stood erect, having survived nature’s blow and around them small bushes taking shelter under the  beaten canopies.  More and more trees came together and the small patches grew and connected to one another, strengthening each other, becoming more and more. Animals, first small and then bigger, coming out of their hideaways, licking each other’s wounds, elated to see one another, grateful their story hasn’t ended. Meadows turned to woods and to forest, which grew thicker only to be parted by dirt trails and then paved roads and buildings and a train station, telling Leila she got back home.

  • 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.