The Currency Of Presence: Lessons From The Swahili Coast Celestine Ndanu   © Copyright 2025 by Celestine Ndanu

I had planned this trip to Diani two years ago. It was our seventh wedding anniversary. My beloved husband deemed it an unsolicited expense, and he would only come with me if I paid for all the costs. Between his work and his side quests, this was ‘unnecessary’. In between seasons of loneliness, I would read Milan Kundera’s book on Slowness. I would let my eyes linger on these lines;

Why has the pleasure of slowness disappeared?

Ah, where have they gone, the amblers of yesteryear?

Where have they gone, those loafing heroes of folk song, those vagabonds who roam from one mill to another and bed down under the stars?

Have they vanished along with footpaths, with grasslands and clearings, with nature?

There is a Czech proverb that describes their easy indolence by a metaphor: “They are gazing at God’s windows.” A person gazing at God’s windows is not bored; he is happy.

I wanted to be happy.

Towards the end of last year, I booked a single, simple cottage in Mombasa. The goal was to experience something other than the maniac energy of urban life, some ancient scent of clove, coconut trees, and salt. The only expectation was to slow down and reflect.

I took the 10pm SGR train from Nairobi terminus to Voi terminus. As soon as the hot, humid coastal air hit my nostrils at 5am the following morning, I knew life was about to be clearer. The adventure began in the taxi between the terminus and Diani. I had made several stops to purchase the coastal snacks. The last time I took a bite into a Kashata, I was a teenager and touring the world with my auntie. Rashid, the taxi driver, became my official tour guide for the five days I was staying at Heavenly Gardens.

I had the impulse to check my emails later that afternoon as laid on the hammock outside my cottage; however, my phone was stripped off its power by the lack of Wi-Fi in the premises. I had to pick between data plans and digital silence. Later that evening, I took a walk along Galu beach. Something about how my hair got swayed by the wind, or the sand on my feet, and the sounds of the waves made me vibrate with frantic, misplaced energy. I felt free. All the women in me were no longer exhausted; they wanted this.

I had the best nap I’ve had in years. I woke up at 5am as usual. Made a phone call to Rashid. “I need to be on that boat by eight o’clock”, I said, projecting a sense of efficient urgency. I had emotions to unload and an island to explore. On the other side of the phone call, silence. “Hello,” I shouted. Rashid let out a yawn and cackled with laughter. He proceeded to tell me in Swahili that I’m in Mombasa Raha and people don’t wake up till ten o’clock on this side of Kenya. He said something about his sleep being disrupted and hung up. I sat there thinking, whose sleep gets disrupted at 7am?

I decided to take my journal and do some self-analysis under the big tree by the beach. The walk to the beach was astonishing; there was not a single person in sight. The sunrise looked amazing with its yellow sunbeams across the clear skies. The place mocked my sense of urgency. An hour later, I sat on the beach front hotel waiting for my breakfast, my entire body rebelled against the pole-pole coastal culture. I was used to measuring my day by the deadlines and minutes I had saved, and here I was waiting twenty minutes to get some chai. I will not even mention that I had to exchange smiles and have moments of chitchatting with every local individual I met.

Rashid showed up at noon, and in a melodic and slow voice (contrast to the abrasive chatter of Nairobi), he said, “dada, we leave when the ocean water is ready, not when your watch is ready”. Followed by a genuine and unhurried smile. The fishermen ushered me to the boat with a “karibu sana, bring your patience with you. Mambo ya kiMombasani hayana haraka”. I embraced the slowness, we swam with the dolphins at Wasini, and ate the delicious sea foods. I made a mental note to ask for the recipe to the coconut-flavored cassava.

As a woman who had developed the habit of asking “how much” whenever someone said “patience pays”, this trip pressed all my buttons. It changed my thought processes and opened me up to the harsh reality that I had been rushing through life. I was always a human-becoming and not a human-being. The more the quests I undertook, the more the excitement. The more it became clearer the woman I wanted to become. My impatience felt ineffective, rude, and a disrespect to the coast’s cadence.

On the fourth day, I had a mid-morning chat with Juma. He owned a boatyard and managed the cottages. For once, I was forced to actually describe my stay. Juma’s skin was the color and texture of a sunbaked teak. His boatyard was by the mangrove routes next to the dhows that laid leisurely like the culture. I learned that his movements were not slow due to laziness but rather due to precision. Even in the little endeavors like clearing the pool, he seemed to have an absolute faith in the process. The end did not justify the means. As I sat with him in the yard that afternoon, I noticed his work was hypnotic. Between the few Swahili words and Portuguese chats with tourists, Bwana Juma’s rhythm became the rhythm of my mind. It was there on the shores of Galu beach that I realized that pole-pole was more about presence than it was about inefficacy. It was impossible to escape the moment when one moved at a slow speed.

Slowness is proportional to memory, and speed is proportional to forgetting. I had spent the last two years of my marriage moving fast, so that I wouldn’t have to look at the cracks on which we tread on. I did not want to bask in the uncertainty of putting myself first, which would be a disgrace to my village people. So I managed the future, no one would know he was abusive if I didn’t say it. I became a workaholic, I neglected the present. Rashid knew it was time by observing the tides, Bwana Juma knew it was time to move when the wood was clearer; the coast was forcing me to learn that my heart, too, required it’s time to heal. Unlike the KPIs I would rush at the office, life’s reconstruction could not be rushed.

On my last morning, I sat on the hammock chair, sipping my Madafu with some Mahamri to the side. The sun’s slow, patient curve rose over the palm trees, the air of the Indian Ocean spread hope to the horizons. I watched Juma unhurriedly negotiate for coconuts with Mama Amani, the resident chef. My internal clock was officially synced to the external reality.

The return journey was calm, as the Jambo Jet touched down in the cold JKIA atmosphere, I felt my phone flood my thoughts with relentless demands. There were unanswered emails and an aggressive number of missed calls. I took a deep breathe, imagined the lingering scent of Biryani and clove on my scarf. The rhythm was inside me now. The emails would be there when I’m ready. I was going to choose myself. I had learned the coast’s currency of presence; it was now the most valuable thing in my possession.