Page 46 - Demo

TourismWWW.MSINGIAFRIKAMAGAZINE.COM | we tell the true afrikan story 46recalled my childhood in the village when I dived into a river and was bitten by a black snake. I also remember escaping the cruel jaws of a crocodile. I still carry the wounds on my neck and hands from deadly experiences in the waters. I came to learn that diving shenanigans were part of the Lamu festival competition. The diving competition was packaged with heavy monetary rewards. l also observed young boys playfully speeding boats with children laughing on board. Other race boats approached the beach at high speed, dropping off passengers and leaving splashes on the water. In one instance, the other boy lost control and his boat capsized in the deep sea. No one ran to rescue the drowning boy. Within a minute, the boy resurfaced skillfully from the sea, turned the boat, and sped off. The sky was filled with the noises of aircraft above the sky. The aircraft were seen frequently taking off from a nearby airstrip. Passengers were carrying luggage disembarked from docking ships at the Lamu port. A few dhows were floating on the calm sea with people scrolling and checking messages on their phones. Some visitors answered their buzzing calls while others were escorted to their hotels. There was a heavy presence of the navy military patrolling the sea. Troops of the navy armed with guns were speeding their boats towards the vanishing forest of mangrove trees. I bumped into another hijab lady in a reflector jacket written %u201cUsalama%u201d (security). She created a soprano noise broadcasting, %u201cChunga Usalama Wako%u201d (mind your safety). She was accompanied by a group of young boys, rumbling drumbeats. The sounds of drumbeats were so loud to the point they scared donkeys carrying crates of sodas. The donkeys stampeded in different directions, leaving broken crates of sodas and coconut brew. I followed the lady to the open field of Mkunguni. Indeed, whenever the drum rumbles, it must be accompanied by the dancer. The drumbeat persisted loudly until there was an electric crowd of people rushing to Mkunguni. A multitude of white and black people dressed in vibrant kanzus, kikoi, leso buibuis walking up and down, talking in high tones. Some were quarreling along vichochoro reclaiming their spaces. Some stood upstairs in the nearby buildings to catch a glimpse of persistent drumbeats. The women at Mkunguni displayed several tables of appetizing burnt cakes, acharis (cookies), donuts, samosas, homemade chocolates, mkate wa sinia, and roasted goat meat. A crowd of visitors stood at the tents to enjoy kahawa tungu, and chai ya mwarabu. Everyone was sweating heavily and fanning themselves with newspapers. They simply grabbed barafu ya mkwaju (cold baobao fruit juice) to cool their body temperatures. Unexpectedly, a ball from nowhere knocked the table full of mkate wa sinia (burnt cake). It all scattered on the ground. The Swahili lady quickly picked pieces of mkate wa sinia from the ground. Then her son picked them from the plate and dropped them in his mouth. The boy caught my eye and offered a piece of mkate wa sinia. I smiled back and dropped a piece into my mouth too. Suddenly, his mother sprang up furiously holding a plate of mkate wa sinia, and she knocked my head.