Over the centuries, many have sailed over these waters in search of fortune and power, leading Mombasa to change hands between Arab, Portuguese and British colonisers numerous times. Arab traders from what is now Oman and Yemen began to arrive around the tenth century. Having mastered the art of building dhows– lean, nimble sailboats – they sailed along the Horn of Africa to reach Mogadishu, Mombasa, Zanzibar and other trading posts on the coast. In the 14h century, Ibn Batuta, the great Arab explorer, visited Mombasa as part of his epic voyage through the Islamic world. By then, Mombasa was already a busy port, doing good business in spices, gold, ivory, and – more notoriously – slaves.
Between the 7th and 19th centuries, Arab and local Swahili traders captured and sold off millions of Africans to serve in households across the Middle East and North Africa. It is a shameful saga that is little talked about. The largest slave market in the region was in Zanzibar. I have visited it, and seen the chains in which slaves would be bound at the neck and ankles, before being forced to walk hundreds of miles, often carrying heavy goods and marching – only to die from exhaustion. Juan Francisco Manzano, a Cuban poet of slave origin, though speaking of another geography, has delivered a wrenching description of slavery in his poem The Slave Trade Merchant:
“What cares the merchant for that crowded hold,
The voyage pays, if half the slaves are sold! What does it matter to that proud senor, How many sick have sunk to rise no more; How many children in the waving throng, Crushed in the crowd, or trampled by the strong! What boots it, in that dungeon of despair, How many beings gasp and pant for air! How many creatures draw infected breath, And drag out life, aye, in the midst of death!”
The British eventually forced the Sultan of Zanzibar to shut down the open slave market in Zanzibar, but it would take many more years for the practice to cease. That slavery only ended in the 20th century – and that too on the insistence of European powers – is a blot on the legacy of the Arab presence in East Africa.
Cannons jut out from Fort Jesus
Thankfully, other aspects of the Arab influence on the coast were less grim. The opening of trade across the Indian Ocean led to the development of a cosmopolitan culture in coastal cities, leading to the flow of Indian, Chinese, Arab, and European goods into East Africa. Along with these came economic migrants, and the resulting intermingling with the indigenous Bantu-speaking tribes led to the formation of a new “coastal” tribe – the Swahili. The Swahili are predominantly Muslim, and heavily influenced by Arab culture, most notably in their language, Kiswahili, which is the East African lingua franca. Morbidly, some of the credit for the spread of Kiswahili is attributed to its use by slave caravans, which were known to travel as far inside the continent as Congo. Kiswahili includes many Arabic words and Swahili itself is a derivative of sawahil, which is the plural of the Arabic word for coast, sahil. Other words also give away the association. Coffee is kahawa in Swahili and qahwa in Arabic. The influence is also found in food and music. The Swahili music genre is called taraab, which comes from the Arabic tarab, meaning musical ecstasy.
In Nairobi, I asked a taxi driver which was the city’s best hospital. His response was prompt – Aga Khan Hospital
Over the previous few days, I had explored these legacies of imperialism, which are etched into Mombasa’s built heritage, and live on in its intricately woven social fabric. Accompanied by a guide named Abu Bakr, a soft-spoken, middle aged man, my walks had begun at the massive 16th century Fort Jesus. Situated adjacent to the Mombasa Club, it juts out from the coast, resolutely facing the elements of nature. The vibrant Indian Ocean trade brought prosperity to Mombasa, and for a few centuries, Arabs were the primary beneficiaries. They were to be followed by others. Towards the end of the 15th century, Vasco Da Gama landed in Mombasa in search of a trade route to India. Though he did not stay long, he was followed by a Portuguese expedition with the aim of setting up a trading post. The expedition succeeded, and stamped its presence in stone by building Fort Jesus. Built by Portuguese Catholics, the fort is shaped like a man – which some take to be a reference to the body of Jesus Christ (peace be upon him). The walls of the Fort, battered yet unbroken by the elements, give away its age of four centuries. It is a symbol of the first successful foray by a European power into the Indian Ocean trade, which until then had been dominated by Omani Arabs. However, Portuguese control over the coast remained tenuous. Eventually, the Portuguese fell out with the Sultan of Mombasa, whose forces besieged the Fort. During the 17th and 18th centuries, the Fort changed hands continuously, alternating between Portuguese and Omani control. By the end of the 19th century, both were depleted, and the Fort came under control of the British, the new power in East Africa.
A painting hanging at the Club, showcasing the diversity of Mombasa's communities - East African, Indian and European
Inside, the Fort consists of a series of multi-level buildings, including a barracks and an armoury. There are also a few small museums. One of these, paid for by the Omani government, contained a large black-and-white wall hanging depicting a ‘Barzah.’ Its description had identified this as an “official meeting headed by the ruler or wali at the Fort.” The sketching showed a group of Arab notables, likely the city governors, sitting in a court formation. Seated next to them in elaborate official uniform was a group of British officers, holding swords and wearing that fairly comical symbol of the colonial era – the pith helmet. The Arabs wereall old men, turbaned, bearded and stern of expression. The only African was a young man wearing simple robes, timid of expression and standing in a corner with his hands folded. “Look at how they treated us,” Abu Bakr had said with thinly veiled contempt. Recounting the treatment of slaves, he had gone on, “as if we were not human beings.” He needn’t have pointed that out – the sketching said it all.
In the centre of the Fort there is a large open field, where we had stood for a while under the ample shade of a large, firmly anchored tree. It had been pleasing to see that most of the tourists there that day were Kenyan families, exploring the rich history of their country. Higher up on one of the walls, I had noticed a rectangular structure with a corrugated edge, which was a mosque added by the Omanis. As we had left the Fort, I had thought that the juxtaposition of mosque and fort symbolised in stone that long tussle between two powers which has defined the story of Fort Jesus. However, later, the Fort would unveil yet another layer of its complex history.
The popular Huseini Bakery, famous for its cookies and naan khatais
Mombasa has a gentle rhythm, which one can sense everywhere, but especially so in Old Town. You can feel it in the pace at which people walk, in the paint peeling off its buildings, in the abandon with which men can be found catching a mid-day wink on its sidewalks. Old Town can be accessed from in front of Fort Jesus, through the Sir Mbarak Ali Hinaway road, named after a former Omani governor. It consists of densely packed buildings, most of which bear the signs of time and proximity to the ocean. On entering, you first notice these buildings and their arched doorways, wooden windows and latticed awnings. Many prominent buildings are sealed by the heavy wooden doors that Mombasa is famous for. Made with quality woods, they are intricately carved and set with iron or brass knobs. The richer the woodwork, the greater the likely wealth and stature of the owner. The most prominent homes once belonged to slave and ivory traders. Many buildings are painted in pastel shades of yellow, green and blue – which mellow the effect of the mid-day heat. Old Mombasa’s streets are busy, but not overcrowded. During the daytime, there is much activity and traffic. The soundtrack is provided by colourful and noisy Indian-made rickshaws which zigzag through its alleys, interspersed by the Islamic call to prayer.
As we had started the walk, Abu Bakr had cautioned me not to venture into Old Town on my own, particularly after dark. A criminal gang operating inside had recently targeted foreigners. In recent years, a slowdown in tourism has been detrimental to the city’s economy, leading to unemployment and pockets of frustrated youth. A not unfamiliar story!
Jevanjee Bakery, where a photo of the Da'i of the Bohra Ismaili community, Mr. Saifuddin, hangs in the background
Islamic cultural influence is manifest, and men wearing circular prayer caps and long thobs are a common sight. An iconic structure is the 16th century Mandhry Mosque, which is a physical representation of syncretic Swahili culture. It combines an African building aesthetic with the Islamic dome tradition through a tall, curved minaret. Beyond the mosque a series of shops sell handicrafts and antiques. We had walked into one piled to the roof with all manners of items – carved boxes, old photographs, jewellery, and art. It was like a museum, but with everything on sale. Dallying to sift through some picture frames, one had caught my eye. “Do you know who this is?” I had asked the shop assistant. He did not know. I informed him that it was a portrait of one of the great philosopher-poets of the last century, credited with conceiving the idea of Pakistan. The dusty picture frame contained an aged portrait of Alama Iqbal. Beside it was an Urdu translation of a verse from Surah Al Nur of the Holy Quran, stating that God would bestow leadership upon those who would take up faith and do good deeds. Beneath the portrait was an image of Iqbal’s tomb at Hazuri Bagh, Lahore. Its caption was a couplet from his poem “Woh meri kam naseebi, woh teri be nayazi (my ill luck, O Lord, and Your indifference),” part of his collection Bal-e-Jibril (Gabriel’s Wing)
Issi kashmakash mein guzri hein meri zindagi ki raatein
Kabhi soz-o-saaz-e-Rumi, kabhi pech-o-tab-e-Raazi
The nights of my life have been wasted in this tussle,
Sometimes the ecstasy and melody of Rumi, at others the confusion and anger of Raazi
Reflecting his concern with the dismal conditions of the Muslims of the Indian Subcontinent during those heady days at the turn of the 20th century, Iqbal wonders whether his efforts to inspire ethical, competent leadership have been for naught. He relates his state of perplexity to Rumi and Razi, two great intellects who also explored leadership and the human condition. The couplet made me think of Mombasa’s past rulers, who had ruled through force and not the consent of the governed. What was that frame doing in Mombasa, and who had it belonged to?
Beyond the antique shop was a colourful example of Mombasan architecture, the Post Office. Its wooden awning was painted teal green in contrast with the washed-out yellow plaster of the rest of the building. This was the place from where railway workers would have sent letters back to their families in the UK and India. A little further on was a fish market, amusingly named simply “Fish Market.” A few butchers had been busy processing the day’s catch, slashing through scaly fish sprawled on marble slabs. Behind the Fish Market lies Mombasa’s Old Port. Its glory days are long behind it, but it is still used by smaller boats, of which a few had been anchored there, lazily bobbing in the turquoise-blue water.
In addition to a rich mix of ethnicities, the Old Town is also home to a constellation of faiths. Within a small area, several religious communities are represented by their prayer houses and community centres. This includes the Dawoodi Bohra Mosque, the Shwetamber Jain Temple, the Ismaili Kuze Jamatkhana, the Siri Guru Singh Sabha Mombasa Sikh Temple, the Shri Cutch Satsang Swaminarayan Hindu Temple, several Mosques and the Anglican Church, amongst many others. Just about everyone seems to be here.
As Abu Bakr had led me through the lanes of Old Town, we had discussed its history and communities. Around lunch, we stopped at a small bakery called Jevanjee Bakers. Inside, an old man had been busy arranging various food items. Behind him hung a portrait of the spiritual leader or Da’i of the Bohra community, Mr. Mufaddal Saifuddin. Recognising his South Asian origins, I inquired whether he spoke any Urdu or Hindi, but he shook his head. When another customer came in, he dealt with him in Swahili. When asked what was fresh, he responded, “Samosa?” That, both of us certainly understood. We purchased some hot meat-filled samosas.
Mombasa’sSouth Asian community, drawn from the lands that now form Pakistan, India and Bangladesh, is amongst the prominent communities of the city, and indeed Kenya. Well represented in business and to an extent in politics, most South Asians (often interchangeably referred to as Asians, or Indians) are descendants of economic migrants brought in by the British to build the railway. The origins of Indian migration are much older, starting with first Arab and then Portuguese traders traversing the Indian Ocean. Amongst other locations, they would have sailed from the ports of Bombay, Goa, and later even Karachi.
In 2017, the Kenyan government officially recognised Kenya’s Asian community as its 44th tribe. I asked Abu Bakr what he thought of how well Asians have blended in. “Well, yes they have been here a long time, but they don’t mix with the locals.” He used the word ‘locals,’ as if the South Asian community were not. “You see, they are very successful in business and have captured all the good opportunities for themselves.” I challenged him, asking whether setting up business did not also generate jobs and incomes for other Kenyans. “Yes, but they don’t pay very well,” he retorted. It made me question the objectivity of my guide, but the surety of his views also led me to wonder what had given him cause to draw such conclusions. Realising that I was not going to change my own views, I let the matter pass, and we completed that section of the walk in silence. Along the way, we stopped to purchase some Mahamri, a type of Swahili doughnut, infused with coconut and cardamom, sold by a lady street vendor squatting on her haunches.
I knew that Abu Bakr’s views were likely not representative. Kenya does not have a track record like Uganda, where the dictator Idi Amin once expelled all Asians. The South Asians that I met on the trip enthusiastically identified themselves as patriotic Kenyans with a strong desire to promote national progress. The South Asian community has also been active in investing in social institutions, particularly healthcare and education, to help build up the country. A few days earlier in Nairobi, I asked a taxi driver which was the city’s best hospital. His response was prompt – Aga Khan Hospital. The Hospital is a leading centre of research and clinical care. It is part of a cluster of agencies and organisations that form the Aga Khan Development Network, headed by the spiritual leader of the Shia Ismaili Muslim community, Prince Karim Aga Khan. In Kenya, much of the community consists of migrants from Indian Gujarat. In Mombasa too, the most renowned schools are managed by the Aga Khan Development Network and the Gujarati Oshwal community. The Aga Khan Academy in Mombasa is a state of the art facility, recognised as a ‘World School’ by the prestigious International Baccalaureate. The students at these institutions hail from all backgrounds.
I had spent two memorable evenings with the South Asian community in Mombasa. The first was a night of classical music at the Cinemax in the Nyali neighbourhood, courtesy of my friend’s parents who had most kindly adopted me for the weekend. The gathering included several smartly-dressed older couples and their families from the Gujarati-speaking Oshwal community. All old friends. Thinking that the singing would be in Gujarati, I had wondered whether my linguistic abilities would carry me through the evening. However, when the troupe began with several popular Urdu and Hindi oldies, I breathed a sigh of relief! Rajesh Khanna, Kishore Kumar, and Mohammad Rafi numbers brought everyone together – the primarily Gujarati-speaking gathering, and myself, an Urdu-speaking Pakistani. It was undoubtedly special to, through common cultural heritage, share in the camaraderie of old friends as they sang along to their favourite numbers.
On a second occasion I joined a dinner with a notable member of the South Asian community, whose ancestors hail from Lahore. Here again, we discovered many shared ties, and even spoke some Urdu and Punjabi over a delicious meal of chicken tikka. I learnt about some of the extensive contributions of the community in business and social development, which made me appreciate the depth of the South Asian community’s roots in Kenya. In most cases their ancestors had travelled to Kenya with minimal resources, and succeeded building up enterprise and community by dint of effort. Today, a series of vibrant institutions such as community halls, places of worship, educational and healthcare organisations are in place. These not only look after the well-being of their members, but also add to society at large through social investments.
Our Pakistani-origin hosts had been as curious about Pakistan as I was about Kenya. However, in their case it was clear that their home was Kenya. When it was time to part, our host’s mother, a kind elderly lady, patted my head and said “Jeetay raho beta, ab dobara ana aur hamarey saath thairna (Be well my son, do come again and stay with us sometime)” Lands and allegiances may change, but shared values endure.
As Abu Bakr and I continued the walk, I noted shop signs which alluded to the city’s mixed heritage. Saudi Fashion, Kassim Cafe, Sonara Budha Jewellers, Baghdad shop, Arafat Maasai Sandols, Bhagwanji Hansraj and sons and Habib Bank AG Zurich – all of these we passed by. Bhagwanji, established in 1895, is one of the oldest bakeries in the city. Its trays were stacked with ladoos. I thought that if the Mombasans were enjoying ladoos, then relations were on pretty firm ground!
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
