Ramadan Nights

They came from every dark outlet. Hundreds of men in white gowns, accompanied with the roaring sound of their thousand running footsteps. The narrow streets overflowed, like blood running through veins. They sprinted toward a mosque, topped with a gold moon and star, opaque in the twilight. It was time to pray. Every single Muslim raced up to the entrance, flung their sandals off of their feet before entering. They were all driven by hunger; after prayer it was time to eat.

The prayers spilled out of the mosque, their words said so fast and loud it became a collective noise that the mosque could not contain within its walls. Those first to finish stepped out, slipped into any shoe that fitted, and galloped down the road pushing, shoving and leaping like the Kenyan wildebeest migration. They had smelt their first meal of the night. Listening to my own stomach, I abandoned my hostel balcony and joined the ravenous masses in the pursuit. We turned corners. People overtook and I overtook them. I was knocked with elbows and tread on with feet and I had lost my bearings. But that didn’t matter, because the town square suddenly opened before me.

Lit up like Christmas, were dozens of stalls selling fried beef, mutton, potato, coconuts, and fresh barbequed seafood. Others were filled with earthy knick-knacks of the tourist trade- chocolate, spices and packets of tea tied with decorative labels. Old saried women with toothless grins called me over for a ‘good price’. People were standing, sitting, chatting and eating and no one was alone. And it wasn’t just those that came from the mosque. Mothers were holding back their adolescent children from gobbling too fast; women were gossiping and cackling over pineapple, and a few of the toned, muscular Masai tribesmen were munching amongst themselves. Stray cats and dogs also came to hide under benches, licking up any sliver that was dropped. From this I learnt that food is our common ground. It is worshipped in religion; it brings families together at home, our livelihoods, our relationships. Not only were the Ramadan nights a religious event, but it was a social event, bringing the whole of Stone Town together.

I queued and was quickly served. My stomach was in anticipation with the smell of cooking Zanzibari spiced meat. I sat on a bench with my paper plate piled high with chunks of beef and chips, and I gorged. Hot oil dripped down my chin as I shovelled it in. The meat was sweet yet chewy from being cooked on too high a heat. The potatoes were soggy and dusted over with hot paprika. It was flavoursome and filling. As I ate, my mood gradually gave way to absolute satisfaction. The noise of talk and had lulled, being replaced with sounds of smacking lips. I looked around and knew everyone felt the same as they filled their mouths and patted their stomachs- the internal growling monster was tamed. We were full.