Zanzibar, Where the Divers Are

A few days ago, my brother rang from Zanzibar. Ready at the computer in an internet cafe, he wanted to know the places my father remembered from his childhood there. Father was born in Zanzibar, the eighth child, when a strange thing occurred. An elderly couple begged my grandparents to let them keep my father for a while. They were childless themselves. Incredibly my grandfather agreed, and for three blissful years, while my grandparents returned to Bombay, my father lived the high life, treated like a prince, his every whim catered to, by his besotted adoptive parents. He still has his whims catered to now, of course, but ah! Them were the days...

Zanzibar. The name conjures magic, of sultans and slaves, of nutmeg and cloves; my father running wild in the playground of Mnazi Mmouja, devouring machunga that dripped sweet lemony tang from his lips. Say, "Machunga," and he is a child in Zanzibar, where the carvings are, where my grandfather Chief Justice Tayab Ali, held forth at the High Court; the building would perhaps be unrecognisable to him now... marked by age and ruin. But Zanzi means 'rusted iron'... perhaps the city is more beautiful now? I can only imagine the Old Stone Town, The Beit-el-Ajaib or House of Wonders where the Sultan lived, the dugouts and dhows, the sugarcane juice stands... a fleeting glimpse of the extinct Zanzibar Leopard...

My brother dives into those sparkling waters now, to retrieve memories for our father. It is not thundering with rain in England as I write. It is a deluge of African sun, and a little boy looking forward to the happy spoils of love.

Images from Lonely Planet