An Evening at Home

27th January
Evening.
Darajani, Stone Town.

I’ve just started venturing out onto my balcony here at home. It spans the length of the house, opening from the bedrooms, just wide enough for a narrow mattress for lounging on.

I say venturing out because it feels like such a public space for lying about in, amidst all the industry; the piki-fundis below, the friendly bicycle fundis up the road and the main street in Darajani beyond, busy with street sellers, people coming and going and dala-dalas maneuvering like angry dinosaurs, reeking and dangerous.

Once ensconced on the lounge mat however, it doesn’t feel too bad. It’s possible to read, watch or even sleep here, though the latter is largely due to my increasing door-mouse like talent for snoozing in the most unlikely of places.

My favourite thing about the street is the sign that is mounted securely on the wall facing the balcony, just below eye level. It reads: “It is forbidden to conduct repair work here in this street. By order of the Zanzibar Municipal Council”. Below it bikes are cannibalized, hammered and beaten back into shape and up the road the bike men do their best with a motley selection of rickety bicycles in various stages of dis-repair. The street is a hive of repair activity. I’m not sure who was here first, the sign or the repairmen, but they seem to co-exist peaceably enough! It’s rather fitting that one of the mechanics is called Waziri, which translates into English as Minister; his own Parliament of Fundis, their own a coup d’etat.

From day one the fundis and I have greeted each other enthusiastically. I have decided to take the way they imitate the feminity of my greetings with high-pitched tones, as a sign of fond humour. However, their girlish Salimus cause me to respond with still higher responses. And so, laughing, we are locked into a falsetto battle which sits well with their oily hands and grease stained clothes.