Once Upon a time in Kilwa, Tanzania

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I'm the last night before the sailors leave

I’m the loud greetings after the silence of lonely nights 
I’m the sailor, the trader, the Sheikh, the slave and the sultan
I’m the generous bouengvillea spraying its delicate petals with every breeze
I’m the tears of mothers and wives waiting by the shores
I’m the legendary pain of slaves from jungles far away
I’m the sweat of skinny workers stranded in lush plantations
I’m the tweaked Arabic words dancing along the African tongues
I’m the kufia whose threads hid more stories than those told
I’m the ginger, cardamom and cinnamon that tickle your tongue on every bite
I’m the boy longing for his father sailing far away
I’m the bulbous domes and the tiny minarets of small crowded mosques
I’m the communal prayers chanted immediately after Maghreb
I’m the crabs running along the sands in balmy nights
I’m the sighs of lovers whispering to the arrogant moon
I’m the thick plastered walls faithfully keeping secrets of joy and sorrow
I’m the colorful silky sarry, the lavish cotton kanga and the thin striped sarong
I’m the old sail, stitched again and again
I’m a short moment of history when everything was almost fine along this coast

I was mugged in Dar Es Salaam

I was mugged in Dar es Salaam!
While I was secretly celebrating the 20th anniversary of my first solo trip , and starting a long awaited trip to the Swahili coast, MOTHER AFRICA slapped me vigorously. May be this was her response to my procrastination or to my insistence on ignoring the whole continent and focusing only on a minute coast line along the Indian Ocean.
Keen on soaking up the local culture, I got what I asked for. I got violence, crime and misery! Frankly there is no need to deny that these are the main ingredients of Africa’s local culture. Please forget the glossy advertisements of the fancy resorts and the luxurious safari lodges.
It took me several days to understand the lesson(s) and may be I will need more time. On a personal level I realized that my journey towards “acceptance” and “surrender” didn’t even start! The idea of MY attachment to things seems embarrassing, or is it just normal that I’m not okay when someone takes MY money, MY credit card, MY phone, MY power bank, MY selfie stick, MY charger, MY tiny nail clipper and even MY mint candies. Is this attachment to things or inability to accept fate? Am I whining? Yes I’m and I think that I’ll keep whining till I pay all my debts and even after paying them for a long while.

The gang kept repeating that they are poooooooor and that this is cooperation, being poor means that you stop having children, that you go find work, that you kill yourself out of despair, the options are endless and mugging people should not be one of them.
As a Scorpio I’ll spend long nights contemplating on the idea that each one of them will have a long life full of poverty, misery and humiliation, i wish that they witness the death of all their beloved ones infront of their eyes, while their bodies turn into a swamp of disgusting incurable diseases, then at the very end they would be shot as stray dogs. In case there is reincarnation ( I really hope there is) I pray that they be kept trapped in such painful cycle. I honestly hope that they don’t get the slightest pinch of mercy nor salvation.
For those who preach about abundance, could you please clarify? And by the way come to this misfortunate continent and show us your magic. While those who preach about “ forgive your enemies” I’ll be happy to inbox you my bank account details.

It came to my mind, more than once, that this is my kind of traveling “baptism”!!! Now I experienced something genuine, and understood that traveling doesn’t only mean amazing photos and enjoyable moments but also real life experiences and lessons. I have to admit that I’m painfully embarrassed from my inability to be totally grateful to Allah’s very merciful ways of sorting our problems, a major lesson that I need to learn. Elhamdolella

As for Tanzania could you please consider changing “Dar es Salaam” name as it is slightly ironic. But it is not funny at all!

I left

I looked from the hotel terrace to find flocks of black niqabs moving everywhere, interrupted by the waitress’s poor English and fake smile, I looked at a face covered by tons of white powder under Egypt’s harsh sun, the poor girl looked like a demon in a Japanese Opera.

I smiled sadly, touched my aging skin and remembered. At school I was called Bint el Turkiyya, because of my fair complexion. My friends loved the idea that I was different, kept repeating: el Turkiyya, el Turkiyya. My mother “ el Turkiyya” died when I was 3, left me few Turkish words, not enough to make me non- Egyptian. My father used to hide me in his hugs and murmur “tell them Egypt’s greatest Sultana was just like you, “Turkiyya””.

During the university years my complexion and Arabic tinted by a French accent were embarrassing, as these were the early years of the furious revolution. Brunettes were filling the lecture halls enthusiastically; their skin, dark eyes and wavy hair were celebrated and associated with Nefertiti and Cleopatra. My skin was a reminder of Imperialism. I was a “refused beauty”!

I touched my cheeks, still trying to wipe his first kiss. He was an opportunist, a parasite from the countryside, who knew that Cairo expelled her Pashas, and the chairs became empty. At first he could not believe that he possessed that blonde girl with her Foreign accent, he worshipped my white skin, but his touches were irritating, quick, shaken and rough as if he was stealing, as if he did not believe that could ever have the right to touch me. For him I was his share from the Revolution. All of this became disgusting; he got bored from the refined lady that he married, from his own feeling of inferiority. The pale and fair complexions left and as I had always been considered one of them I had to follow. I left.

I saw all your faces

I saw all your faces, no, no…. I needed to see all these faces. That half God, half king, modern idol, who stares at the horizon, unaware of all our weakness and despair. That arrogant, elegant, cool man, who does not really care about other miserable creatures sharing this planet with him. That workaholic, disciplined, dedicated man, who might be avoiding life with all its sweetness, bitterness and blandness. That classiest, refined and slightly snobbish man, who is stuck in his tiny bubble within a scary metropolis of hunger, filth and vulgarity. That fit, handsome, well shaven middle-aged man who is challenging time as a noble hero in a Greek myth. I saw your ego, that pure ego, that cruel, inhuman and cold ego. To my surprise it wasn’t repelling. I observed your silence, looks and slow grimaces. But your indifference wasn’t humiliating. I listened to your statements, remarks, and wise advices. Again your mellow voice wasn’t patronizing. Am I looking at the other side of the mirror…at my exact opposite? Am I looking at what I aspire to be? What I have always been afraid to be? What I didn’t even dare to be? Are you resembling a dream, or merely assuring that my life is onelong nightmare?

Run to your Gods

Run to your gods… run Tell them that their paradise is gone….gone forever The black eastern winds have been blowing for centuries, and the vicious locusts could not stand the beauty of our green fields…. Tell your gods, the lotuses are gone, the papyrus disappeared and we cant hear the hoopoe anymore. They stopped our mighty Nile’s eternal flow, and left us with a turbid soulless stream. The black eastern winds swept our villages, muted our songs and washed away the colorful laughs. Tell your gods…. To bring our colors back, the greens of the fields, the blues of the skies, and not to forget the gold of our sun. Run… and tell them to shine on their paradise again…. Beg them to return and guide the mob, the savage, and those blinded by the black wind. Ask them to bring love, wisdom and hope. Run to your gods….tell them about the silence that echoes in their paradise. Tell them about the barren women draped in black, and the impotent lame creatures sieging them. Remind them of the happiness that whirled in their paradise, remind them of our graceful dancers, our mellow melodies and our eloquent poets. Run to your gods….ask them to save us…to save what is left of us…..tell them to expel the locusts and ban the color black.

In my other life

I’m sorry, I was a loser in all my other lives, I did not continue any of them. Once I was a traveler moving from city to the other watching people, keeping a distance and enjoying being a stranger. In another life a pious young man attached to mosques, waiting for prayers and longing to meet God in Paradise. Yet in another life, I was celebrating all the sins, as if that why I was created. OK. I must admit, I’m living all these lives and it’s tiring, thank god it’s only one short life.