New Connections

The Mombasa-Malindi road embodies the pulse of Swahili culture. The smell of fried fish from roadside stalls mixes with the salty sea breeze. Men hop in and out of colored matatus, shouting over loud music while shoving nonchalant passengers into their bouncing vans. And women carefully balance the day’s produce on their heads, gracefully navigating their way through crowds of people, goats and motorcycles.

The cacophony of smells, sounds and colors continues up to Malindi, after which the road north to Lamu becomes nothing more than a dirt path mirrored by green fields spotted with baobab trees. Silent stretches of emptiness grow between villages, making it hard to imagine that the same road leads into the heart of Mombasa.
The bus slowed as we approached a tiny village. By the time the wheels creaked to a stop, we were surrounded by people selling everything you can imagine: Brown paper bags filled with sweet, sugary fudge, boiled eggs with sweet chili sauce, and live chickens. I surveyed the craze from the safety of my seat until finally I spotted what I had been craving the last hours of the journey: Maize.
The woman selling the golden kernels of my dreams weaved confidently in and out of the crowd, eyeing my fellow passengers. Finally, I caught her attention. I held up two fingers, and she nodded. Carefully placing her load on the ground, she pulled out two pieces and on her tiptoes, passed the steaming stalks through the window. I handed one to my travel companion and held tight to the other as I leaned out the window to pass her a 50-shilling note. There was no way I could reach the 10-shilling coin she inched back towards me, so waving; I called out “It’s okay.” She lowered her hand, keeping her steady gaze to mine. Slowly, a grin overtook her face. She threw her head back and let out a deep, soulful laugh. She began to dance around, throwing her arms in the air, while the midday sun made the patterns on her red and yellow kanga come alive.

As the bus started, I felt a knock at the window. On her toes again, the women held up a third piece of maize. In that moment, I saw the burning energy that I now understood as underpinning life on the coast: The pulse. Her gaze somehow embodied all the senses that outline the vibrant Kenyan culture. Wrapping my fingers around the warm treat I mouthed asante sana over the loud roar of the engine, our smiles meeting for a brief moment as the bus pulled away, leaving the village in a cloud of red African dust.