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”.
Utopian Tales 