Memories

Those who have been to Tambo beach know the enchanting beauty of the white sands stretching for miles along the blue waters of the Indian Ocean. Between the white sands lining the ocean front and the hinterland, stand arrays of palm trees with leaves flapping in the cool breeze from the sea. Just behind these palms and coconut trees, are neat lines of palm-roofed cottages. No matter how long you have lived here, you will always feel wrapped up in the bewitching spell of Tambo.

But if you come closer enough to the cottages, you'll notice something striking about them; they are too neat, and do not fit naturally into the surroundings. They are not only painted white, but they also have a long paved foot-path running in front of them. Further to the northern part of the beach is a modern five star hotel complex known as Tambo beach hotel. This long three storied complex is built in a curve, facing a large swimming pool built in a similar shape. Around its palm fringed surroundings are groups of people, mostly tourist women lying on their sun beds, soaking in the rays of the benevolent mid-morning sun.

As I stand on the edge of the cottage pavement, a few metres away from where my uncle Mpango's hut used to repose, a feeling of nostalgic sadness slowly engulfs me. I'm amazed at the structural transformation of this familiar landscape within a short span of time. Memories of old Mpango suddenly flood my mind. In my mind's eye I see him standing outside his hut, in his white flowing kanzu with a yellowing fez patched on top of his head. He is holding a chewing-stick to his mouth with his left hand, while in his right hand he holds a short metallic object, shaped like a miniature hammer. It is one of his tools of trade; he is a palm wine tapper. He stands there, looking out to the sea and then to the sky and after what seems like eternity, he suddenly dashes into his hut and comes out with a hollow container.

'Pendo', I hear him call me, 'the weather is superb today for climbing the coconut tree.'

And with these few words he comes out of the hut, bare-chested with only a cloth tied to his waist. With the agility of a monkey, he climbs one of the palm trees in front of his hut, drops a few coconuts for our consumption, and then proceed tapping' the coconut trunk for its juice which would be used for making palm wine. Old Mpango is not an ordinary palm- wine tapper; he is a poet as well as a story-teller. Patched up on the dangerously leaning tree, he croons a love song in taarab. This song is a treatise to a girl called Zawadi by a lovesick suitor.

As Mpango's trembling falsetto passionately floats towards me in the warm humidity of a mid-morning Tambo, I wonder whether Kipenzi Zawadi is not really a dirge for aunt Fatu. Aunt Fatu, Mpango's only wife had died suddenly one evening, of severe headache and fever, when I was eight years old. Fatu and Mpango were the only parents I knew,my single mother having died when I was only three . They deeply cared for one another, and their devotion to me as an only child, was shown by my nickname which means 'affection'. As he now describes Zawadi's beauty and his limited means, I think I notice tears welling up in his eyes, but these could only be my own imagination.

I stand there staring fixedly at one of the cottage doors, as these thoughts go through my mind. Suddenly the door of the cottage I'm staring at creaks open and out comes a balding man in his early sixties. Hanging onto his arm is a slim brown skinned girl who could have been his grand-daughter. They walk towards the beach stealing glances at me, apparently perplexed by the fixed look I was giving their holiday cottage.

I pull myself out of my reverie and walk towards the large Pier on the ocean front. I see no familiar faces. Most of my age-mates had either migrated to other regions or to the nearby large port city of Kibao, in search of livelihood. A large number of Tamboans who had been compensated for their land, to give room for the tourist development you now see had settled in the neighboring regions, where they had bought new plots. Others not wise enough, and thinking that they had come upon sudden bounty, had squandered away their money and either died in grief, or were living as squatters in abject poverty.

As I come near the Pier, I'm sure I see Musa my old school mate, walking towards me. I'm excited as I hurriedly walk towards him only to realize that it is not him. Disappointed and now a little irritated, I sit on this wooden bench near the Pier. I've sat on this wooden bench many times before hoping that the Steamship Kisulisuli would appear in the horizon carrying back uncle Mpango. I'm now sitting on this bench, wondering what had happened to my uncle Mpango. I recollect that he never got any compensation for his coconut trees and his hut. Heart broken at the death of his wife Fatu who was barren, and my joining a boarding school, he lost all interest in wine-tapping. He would often wander to the sea shore and with a faraway look, stare long into the sea.

It was not surprising that when a shipping company offered him a job as a cabin crew, he jumped at the chance with open arms. He would be out in the sea for weeks or months, and during holidays I came home to find exotic gifts from the Middle East that he had brought me. His stay at sea became longer, and because he never knew how to write, I was content only with his verbal account of exotic far away ports when I came back for holidays.

My final year in High School was a busy time for me, and I never went back home for holidays. A neighbor's account was that SS Kisulisuli had set sail to the Far East for a six month expedition. Another story was that SS Kisulisuli had been sunk by pirates in the high seas. Mpango never came back and no word was heard from him.

I suddenly come to my senses to realize that tides are now rising high, and the sea water is just a few feet from the wooden bench. I rise to my feet and walk quickly to the hotel car park, where my car is. As I sit in the car contemplating whether to drive to Kibao or stay overnight in Tambo, the flood gates of pent up grief bursts open, and my whole body shakes as I let myself weep for Tambo beach, aunt Fatu, and uncle Mpango.

When the grief finally subsides, I decide to drive as far away as I could, from the memories of Tambo beach.