Mombasa’s Old Town is packed with people and goods. Every corner is occupied, and there are entire streets where fruit and vegetable hawkers come together to create temporary markets by displaying their wares on the ground. Amongst the markets is a Somali bazaar, managed mainly by Somali women distinguished by their colourful kangas and long lack abayas. Upon entering it, one is thrust into a world of colour, as stall after stall of bright kanga cloth can be found. Many Somalis are refugees that have fled from the long-running conflict in their own country. Their presence in Kenya has not always been without tension.
Our last stop in Old Town had been the ‘Market.’ A British-era structure, made of stone, wood and iron, its slanted roof had reminded me of colonial buildings in Rawalpindi and Lahore. “John Lysaght Ltd., Bristol 1914” was embossed on one of the iron pillars upholding its structure. Protected from the hot sun, inside were stacked piles of fresh fruit and vegetables, spices and meat. Business seemed slow, with more hawkers than customers that day.
Mombasa is home to a variety of communities with distinct but shared histories
On exiting the Old Town, we walked through the bat-infested Uhuru Gardens and arrived at Moi Avenue, home to Mombasa’s iconic monument – four large tusks, built in the 1950s in honour of Princess Elizabeth. Beyond the tusks, Abu Bakr and I clambered into a matatu (minibus) and zipped along the coast to the Likoni Ferry at the southern end of Mombasa. Most of the city, including Old Town, is an island. The Likoni Ferry connects it to the mainland, which is only a few hundred metres away. By the time we arrived at the viewing spot near the Ferry, the sun was hanging low. The ferry’s decks were packed with people, most heading home after the day’s work – a unique commute.
Opposite the ferry was a busy park where people sat in groups taking a break under the shade of trees. The park contained magnificent, awe-inspiring Banyans. These wise, knotted trees, which can live for centuries, remind me inevitably of home, and of Karachi, Pakistan’s city by the sea. Karachi, where I spent several formative years, has an ample number of Banyans. The Banyans of Mombasa, vanguards of its coast, must have witnessed much. The thought of their cousins in Karachi caused me to wonder whether in some lost horizon of time there may have been a land link between these two coasts. Later, I would learn that some 400 million years ago, India was in fact attached to East Africa as part of the supercontinent of Gondwana. India itself has journeyed across the ocean that carries its name.
The Mombasan Baloch married into local coastal tribes, the Mijikenda, and blended in - likely aided by the shared Islamic faith. The proud community has tried to maintain its traditions
As the sun set, we had walked down Mama Ngina road to the Lighthouse area. Considered the “Mother of the Republic”, Mama Ngina was the wife of Kenya’s first president Jomo Kenyatta. The area has a majestic view of the harbour, and has to be visited for a taste (literally) of how Mombasans like to enjoy their city. In the late afternoon, people from all walks of life can be found at Lighthouse, taking in the ocean breeze and eating snacks from road-side kiosks. One can have a flavourful and nutritious meal of spicy cassava chips and grilled sweet potato washed down with coconut water, straight from the coconut itself. Nothing from the coconut is wasted: once the drink is complete, a spoon is carved from its body and used to scoop up the inside. After taking in the scenery, we jumped into a rickshaw for a speedy ride back to Fort Jesus.
Cassava chips served on the beach in Mombasa
Dusk brought about the end to my walk. It had been a memorable tour of the city, but also tiring. Therefore, Abu Bakr’s suggestion to stop for a coffee was most welcome. I wanted to try the Kahawa, so we pulled up a stool at a small tea stall next to the Fort’s wall and stretched our legs. Around us, in the final rush of activity, shop keepers and hawkers had been busy closing down for the day. My thoughts focused on the remarkable number of communities that I had encountered. I had not imagined Mombasa to be a point of interplay between so many cultures. The city had surprised me with its cosmopolitanism.
However, the mosaic was yet incomplete to me – and were it not for the coffee break, it might have remained so.
Mombasa's cuisine reflects the ethnic and cultural diversity of the East African coastal regions
The stall’s proprietor, a medium-sized, slightly stooped old man, had appeared to ask what we wanted. He was of dark complexion and had a short, grizzly beard. After exchanging a few words in Kiswahili with Abu Bakr, he had come over to inquire where I was from. “Pakistan,” I responded.
His eyes beamed. “Where do you think I am from?”
“You are not from here?”
“I am from your country,” he said, with a cackling laughter, followed by a pause where we just looked at each other. “I am a Baloch. I am Nasser Khan.”
It was a good thing that I hadn’t been drinking coffee, for I might have spat it out. One is hardly able to meet the Baloch in Pakistan, let alone in Mombasa. “My God, and what in the world are you doing here?” Expressing my surprise with laughter, I got up to slap Nasser Khan’s back and shake his hand vigorously. “We came as soldiers for the Omanis more than three hundred years ago.”
As soon as he said it, it made sense. The Sultanate of Oman once had sovereign rights over the Makran coast of Baluchistan. “They brought us here to fight for them, because we were very reliable.”
The author with Nasser Khan, a proud Baloch of Mombasa
From Nasser Khan I learned that there are tens of Baloch families living in Mombasa. During the Omani period, Baloch soldiers had played a key role in crushing local rebellions and securing the coast for their Omani overlords. He had pointed out, not far from where we sat, the grave of Jamadar Tangai bin Shambe, a Baloch, who helped the Omanis put down a rebellion in Mombasa. This led to his appointment as the commander of Fort Jesus. The Mombasan Baloch married into local coastal tribes, the Mijikenda, and blended in – likely aided by the shared Islamic faith. The proud Baloch have tried to maintain their traditions. They have their own mosque and a community hall. They give their children Baloch names, and some still speak Balochi.
“The Pakistan Navy was here recently. I met some of the sailors. They were very happy to meet me,” remarked Nasser Khan. I was pleased to see that he felt a connection to Pakistan. Nasser Khan, meanwhile, was pleased with my astonishment.
He had a unique way of speaking. He would make a declaration and then wait for you to react, with gleaming eyes and a wide smile. He couldn’t hold still, and would move to and fro. “I have visited Karachi in the ‘70s,” he declared next. I used to work on ships, and went there on an assignment.”
Mombasa Tusks, the city's iconic landmark
“How was it?”
“Not good. The ship owner deserted some of us and left. I had to work at the port until I could earn enough money to return.”
I asked for a photograph with him. Elated and agreeing immediately, he fussed about, trying to select the right spot and pose, lifting up his coffee cup and pulling out a cigarette to hold for effect – unlit – in his other hand. Abu Bakr took the shot. Nasser Khan was having a great time being the centre of attention.
“Look here, let me show you my ID” he said, pointing out his name on a plastic card. Abu Bakr, meanwhile, seemed to be sulking, and had stepped away in search of something. Nasser Khan gave another cackling laugh and motioned with his bright eyes. Lowering his voice, he said “Look, he isn’t happy now, eh, that I am talking to you and telling you about the history. He thinks he knows everything, hah! I know a lot more than he does! Did he tell you about the Baloch history in the Fort?”
I realised that the Baloch contribution to Omani military campaigns had been overlooked. The Omani-sponsored museum inside the Fort had not mentioned it either.
Nasser Khan continued: “Of course he did not. Most of these guys have come here in search of work from outside Mombasa. They don’t have much knowledge. Anyhow, I don’t mind, they can do what they want. Everyone has to earn a living. You want a coffee, eh?” He was clearly enjoying the opportunity to tease Abu Bakr, who, as it appeared, was not very good at making friends at all. Laughing it all off and moving around quickly, Nasser Khan poured me a small cup of Kahawa, which is prepared like Arabic coffee, and sometimes served with ground ginger. Abu Bakr, too, discovered his cheer and joined in, and we sat down and drank the coffee.
When we left that day, I had told Nasser Khan that I would come back to see him before I left. I did. The next time, he was more reflective, telling me about his family, sharing his regret at not being able to speak Balochi, and falling on difficult times at work. “Alhamdulillah, I was later able to get back on my feet and look after my family.” I listened, and told him how pleased I was to meet him. On parting, Nasser Khan had insisted on seeing me off at the gate of the Mombasa Club. I had wished him well, and with a heavy heart – knowing the impoverished state and injustices meted out to people in the lands of his forefathers –managed to say that Pakistan would always be his homeland. This pleased him, and with his beaming expression and grainy voice wished me in parting “Fi Aman Allah!” (May you remain in the protection of God).
My reverie was broken by Calson, who had been waiting on me that evening. Setting my notebook aside, I turned towards him. “How was your meal sir?”
“Excellent,” I responded. The chicken curry had indeed been very good. The metal plate it had arrived in was now spotless.
“And how are you doing this evening? It is such a lovely night. If you allow me to, I must say that you should have been accompanied by a beautiful lady,” he continued. Chuckling at his own audacity, he made me smile too. I responded that some journeys must be made alone.
“Ah yes, that is true. So how has your stay in Mombasa been?”
I told him about my impressions of the city, its life, and its people.
“It used to be even better, nowadays there are problems,” he said, before going on to mention an increase in corruption and crime.
The colonial setting for the conversation tempted me to ask him whether he thought things had been any better under the British era. “I think so. There was more order.” In his words he echoed the sentiments of a soft-spoken man called Inimba, in whose dimly-lit handicraft shop I had been the day before. “It is unfortunate that after independence we have not been able to develop good administration. We had to make a start somewhere, but it will take time to find the right balance,” he had said. I shared Inimba’s conclusion with Calson, who nodded in agreement. This sense of disillusionment was not unfamiliar to me, as I have encountered it in several post-colonial societies in West Africa, the Levant, and of course, Pakistan. Ordinary people feel disconnected with ruling elites – frustrated by corruption and incompetent governance. Exploited by insincere leaders, they are forced to wonder whether present-day rulers are any better than their colonial precursors. As a result, citizens are underinvested in the national project, which suffers from the loss of their vital energy. Not wanting to dampen Calson’s spirits, I reassured him that my own trip had been a memorable one. This pleased him “I hope you will go back and tell everyone that you found Mombasa to be a second home. Please do come back and see us again.”
It was now last call. The other diners had departed. I informed Calson that I would not be ordering anything else, but would stay a bit longer.
I looked at the coastline below me. Each time the waves washed up against the shore, they would take back a bit of sand with them. I thought of all the powers that had come to conquer Mombasa to control its people and resources. They succeeded, for a while, but none lasted. Like the cleansing waves, the tides of time eventually washed them all away.
Hubris leads imperialists to forget that while a human’s body can be enslaved and their mind obfuscated, the heart cannot be won but by willing consent. In the long run, it always yearns to be free. The centuries prior to the two great wars of the 20th century saw ceaseless power struggle, with one nation seeking to subjugate another. In the century since, the world has been in flux. The vast majority of its population no longer lives under imperial control, but in independent nation-states. However, the search for just leadership and the struggle to reconcile relations between populations with diverse cultural and religious traditions remain the greatest challenges faced by these states.
What cosmopolitan Mombasa reminds us of is that while the clashes between nations have shown us the worst of each other, they have also forced us to get to know one another. These encounters have also enriched our languages, cuisines, music, and often without realising it, even our sense of identity. As the world shrinks, the future will belong to states which will be able to recognise the strength in their diversity to build truly pluralistic societies. Those that succeed will make the fastest progress in improving the quality of human life by attaining internal stability and attracting economic investment. The question before young states in Africa and Asia, then, becomes one of how to overcome legacies of division to foster a true sense of collective purpose. How can they get citizens such as Abu Bakr to see the bigger picture, where interaction between communities is not seen as a zero-sum equation, but a dialectic that seeks to maximise the contribution of each constituent part?
This change of perspective will not come about on its own. It requires the emergence of a new form of ethical leadership which will seek to rule not through coercion or divisive tactics, but by cultivating shared values. One that will discard noxious legacies of corruption and exploitation to regain the trust of the citizenry, and by enshrining integrity and pluralism in the national value set, allowing society to realise its full potential.
Iqbal, in his wisdom, had realised this need for ethical, visionary leadership nearly a century ago. At the end of the same poem captured in that dusty old frame that I had found on sale on a Mombasa street, he would counsel:
Koi karwan se toota, koi bad-ghuman haram se
Ke ameer-e-karwan mein nahin khuay dil nawazi
And many left the caravan, or lost faith in its destination
For the guide was unable to appeal to the hearts of the travellers
Just then, I heard someone singing in Urdu and looked for the source. Below the Club, three Mombasan girls were taking a stroll. Arms locked together, abayas fluttering in the breeze, they were enjoying the evening.“Tum hi mera pyaar ho/You are my love,” one of them crooned. African by birth, Muslim by faith, and having a taste for South Asian music. I thought it captured the essence of Mombasa.
I looked up towards the horizon. It was dark. The ships, with their amber lights, had moved on. Everything must in this world. It was time, for me, too, to say goodbye.
The author is an economic development specialist working to enable emerging economies to tackle poverty through private sector development. Raised in Rawalpindi and educated at IBA Karachi and Brown University, he has worked in North America, Europe, the Middle East, East and West Africa, and South Asia. He is fond of exploring the cosmopolitan fabric of African and Asian societies. He tweets at @arsalanalif
