Colours of Africa: painting a new self

One-way Ticket to Africa

I sit on a rooftop overlooking Stone Town, the heart of Zanzibar. A white crenelated wall, about a meter high, surrounds the terrace. Through the gaps, I see the city’s rooftops – blue, gray, and rust-colored. Beyond them stretches the ocean, a shimmering strip where the gray sky melts into steely blue water. It’s a cloudy day, unusual for Zanzibar, especially in February – the height of summer.

“Allaaaaaaaah,” a voice rings out nearby. The call to prayer begins. “Allaaaaaaaah Akbar,” I hear from another mosque, then from a third, fourth, fifth… The voices intertwine in a fugue: one just beginning the first note as another finishes the phrase. This musical performance continues for several minutes as the muezzins’ voices emerge from the void in unexpected places, creating a polyphony before suddenly falling silent.

Zanzibar is a Muslim island; you can see it the locals’ attire. Men wear shirts that fall below their knees and tablet-shaped caps. Women and girls walk in long dresses with bell-shaped headscarves that frame their faces. The scarves are clearly made of synthetic fabric. I can’t imagine how they bear wearing them in 30-degree heat and high humidity.

Overlooking Stone Town from Swahili House rooftop. Zanzibar, Tanzania

I’m sitting hunched like a nervous sparrow, shoulders raised to my ears as if bracing for impact. How long have I been in this state? A day? A month? A year? It’s over now; I can finally exhale. I breathe in, filling my lungs with warm, humid air, absorbing the vibrations of prayers through my skin, gradually releasing my tension.

I pick up my phone and open a document I’ve been working on for the past couple of weeks. In it, I meticulously planned this trip: goals, success criteria, specific photography angles, and social media themes. How could I possibly come here without a structured plan? I pause, hover my finger over the icon of that beautiful plan, and… send it to the trash bin.

Another deep breath. Then three more. Then thirty more. A strange impulse rises within me – or perhaps it’s a long-suppressed desire finally breaking free. My finger keeps moving. I open the booking app and cancel all my upcoming hotel reservations. All that remains is two nights here in Stone Town at Swahili House.

The day after tomorrow, I’ll decide where to go next. I want to live differently now. Breathe, listen to myself, and plan just a day or two. I wonder where this approach will lead me.

I was supposed to be here five days ago. I had purchased a ticket well in advance. Flights were scarce during the pandemic, and prices matched those of high-end laptops. I absolutely had to reach Zanzibar for the Sauti za Busara music festival. Coincidentally, I had my second vaccine scheduled on my departure day: the shot in the morning, the flight in the evening. I couldn’t stop worrying. The first injection had knocked me out for three days with a temperature of 34.5°C. What would happen when the second dose combined with a 10-hour flight and a dramatic climate change from winter to summer? Flying without being vaccinated wasn’t an option. Anxiety got the better of me, and I canceled my ticket.

Strangely enough, my body barely reacted to the vaccine this time. I waited three days for side effects, but remained surprisingly energetic and cheerful. Maybe I could still make it to the festival? A quick search revealed a reasonably priced charter flight. The catch? It was one-way, and I needed to fly… the very next day. Everything aligned perfectly. So here I am, with a vaccination certificate that nobody here requires but that brings me peace of mind. The thought of falling ill in Tanzania isn’t appealing. Moreover, “that disease” doesn’t seem to exist here, and treatment is virtually nonexistent.

Goats and Papayas

Throughout the COVID-19 saga, Tanzania clearly stood apart. During the first few months of the pandemic, the situation in Tanzania mirrored that of neighboring Kenya. Then, in June 2020, the country abruptly stopped testing and counting cases altogether.

The attitude toward “corona” was deeply skeptical. I was told that initially, many Tanzanians rejected the very existence of such a disease (claiming it wasn’t a disease at all, but a conspiracy orchestrated by global imperialists). Their position later shifted: the disease existed, but it didn’t affect Africans. And if it did affect them, it could easily be treated with traditional remedies: medicinal herbs, steam inhalations, and a mixture of ginger and onions.

Resistance to “Western” medicine was widespread. Everything was rejected, including coronavirus tests. President Magufuli ordered them to be verified in an unusual way: samples for testing were taken not only from people but also from animals and even plants (naturally, without informing the lab technicians). When coronavirus was “detected” in a wild goat and a perfectly healthy papaya, the president openly mocked the reliability of Western tests. He urged Tanzanians to pray for deliverance from the plague, maintain their physical health, and use herbal steam inhalations. Subsequently, he declared Tanzania a “COVID-free” zone and reopened the country to tourists.

The president also refused to vaccinate his people, arguing that Tanzanians should not serve as guinea pigs. He deemed vaccines dangerous and useless, posing a compelling question: “If white people were capable of creating effective vaccines, wouldn’t they have already developed vaccines for AIDS, cancer, and tuberculosis?” I later heard this exact argument from many Tanzanians, each claiming to have reached this conclusion independently.

Neighboring countries that had sealed their borders and imposed quarantines looked at Tanzania with bewilderment. Meanwhile, tourists flocked to Zanzibar’s beaches. Google searches for Tanzania (and Zanzibar, which belongs to it) multiplied. People worldwide were rediscovering this corner of the planet.

One can hold various opinions about the late President Magufuli’s unorthodox stance. One thing is certain: by keeping the country open to tourists, he saved his people from extreme poverty. Of course, visitors brought the virus with them – no test results were required upon entry at that time. Tanzanians began noticing that neighbors and acquaintances were falling seriously ill. Others insisted there was no pandemic. Either way, the country remained calm. After all, these resilient people faced the daily threat of malaria, with its mortality rate reaching 40%.

A Tin Can and a Green Ocean

The water was an impossible shade of green, the sand gleamed blindingly white, and the sound of traditional catamaran boats rocking on the waves filled the air. That was my first impression of Zanzibar – or rather, my second.

The first was the sweltering tin-can airport where I spent a good couple of hours. The new international terminal hadn’t been built yet. The old one was suffocating, with no air conditioning in sight.

Getting a Tanzanian visa meant standing in three consecutive lines. After that ordeal, passengers were left to locate their luggage themselves, wandering alongside rows of bags in various shapes and sizes, wondering, “Is this one mine?” Those who managed to clear this hurdle faced yet another challenge: the “security tunnel.” Yes, an additional security check at the airport’s exit. Seriously? After all the trouble on the way in? After walking in white socks through metal detectors and mourning the confiscated blueberry smoothie? The local security seemed to suspect us of something nefarious. But what exactly? Did they think we had created explosives out of duty-free cognac and peanuts in the bathroom? Or that we were attempting to smuggle “grass” into a country where it’s sold on practically every corner? The logic escaped me.

The incredible colour of the Indian Ocean. Zanzibar

The process of proving one’s innocence was excruciating. The black “truth tunnel” existed in singular form, apparently deemed sufficient for the entire airport. Hundreds of passengers snaked toward it, heaving their bags into its abyss. The more enterprising travelers used their waiting time to tackle two additional tasks: exchanging dollars for local shillings and purchasing SIM cards. For these services, at least, the efficiency was remarkable: graceful women in Muslim attire calmly distributed local SIMs to all interested parties. Twenty dollars for two weeks or thirty for three.

Finally, I stepped outside. I wearily made my way through clusters of drivers and tour agents in white shirts holding white placards. Inside me was a deep well of fatigue and irritation. After an hour’s taxi ride over bumpy roads, I arrived at the east coast of the island. I saw white frangipani flowers, endless turquoise waters, and dazzling white sand. And just like that, I forgave them everything: the chaotic airport, the punitive black tunnel at the exit, and the countless potholes in the roads.

That was a year ago. Now, I knew exactly where I was flying to, as I hadn’t been able to forget this place all year.

Zanzibar is shaped somewhat like a diving hippopotamus. To the east of the island and extending to the reefs stretches a flat sandy seabed. When the ocean water follows the moon, tides occur. The sea either rises by three meters (bringing turquoise waves right up to the palm trees and huts) or recedes far away (leaving a kilometer of white sandy bottom dotted with seaweed and starfish). This is how the ocean breathes, twice daily – six hours to inhale, six hours to exhale. I witnessed this phenomenon countless times, marveling each time. Soon I learned to predict low tide by the stillness in the air and high tide by the breeze, even without seeing the ocean. Local children taught me this.

The ocean is gone! Paje, Zanzibar, Tanzania

How Seaweed Started a Revolution

Early morning. I sit on the shore, watching my favorite low tide. I notice women walking slowly along the exposed seabed in long, colorful dresses. They carry ropes, sticks, and wicker baskets. They wade into the shallow water in these dresses and venture far out to what look like green islands. The water there barely reaches their knees. The women bend over, examine something, and begin working underwater, unbothered by their wet hems.

It turns out they’re tending to a plantation of… seaweed on the ocean floor. They cultivate a special variety – bright green and coral-like in shape. The dramatic tides make this business possible. Bunches of seaweed are tied to sticks, which are then firmly inserted into the sand of the ocean floor. Another stick is placed nearby, then another. The plantation becomes a palisade of thirty to fifty rows of sticks with attached seaweed bunches. During high tide, the garden is submerged; during low tide, it’s exposed. After about six weeks, the harvest is ready to be collected, and young seaweed bunches are planted in place of their harvested predecessors. This seaweed is edible and tastes like crisp pickles. They say it has remarkable effects on male virility and energy, though I couldn’t verify this claim. I could, however, confirm its cosmetic properties: Zanzibar has a cosmetics factory called Mwani (which means “seaweed” in Swahili). Here, the seaweed is dried under awnings until it turns purple. Then it’s crushed and mixed with soap base. Once hardened, it’s cut into pieces with a metal wire. The sharp corners are manually trimmed, each piece is stamped, wrapped in palm leaves, and left to settle in a refrigerator. This fragrant miracle is then exported or sold to local five-star hotels.

Seaweed plantation. Paje, Zanzibar

Europeans founded the project in the 1990s. What they couldn’t have anticipated was that it would spark a social revolution on the island. Traditionally, women in Zanzibar’s Muslim families didn’t work and were completely dependent on the men in their households. The seaweed enterprise needed women both on the plantations and in the factory. The occupation didn’t appeal to men – who would want to stand ankle-deep in water, securing sticks into sand? But it suited women perfectly.

The concept of this new “female” business met with hostility from men. They resented their wives leaving home and earning their own money. They liked it even less that women returned from work too tired to respond to their husbands’ romantic overtures – they even joked it was a new form of birth control.

But the women persisted. Gradually, the “seaweed” business became a symbol of women’s liberation on the island. Previously, they left home only to visit relatives or attend weddings and funerals. The isolation of women from the outside world was reflected in the architecture of traditional Muslim houses: beside each home stood large stone benches where the male owner could converse with guests without inviting them inside (thus avoiding introducing his wife to strangers). Now, imagine a woman going to work outside her village, tending to seaweed under the watchful eyes of everyone around, including passersby. Domestic tensions erupted – better than any soap opera. Many husbands threatened their wives with divorce – and divorces indeed happened!

There was more. To sell their products, women had to travel to markets in other towns themselves – something completely unheard of, as previously only men did the shopping in Zanzibar. Tourists began visiting the factory; the project attracted journalists; articles about Mwani appeared in numerous blogs and even on the BBC. These “Ocean Gardeners” became local celebrities and financially independent women. They could now afford furniture for their homes, school clothes for their children, and even motorcycles. All of this started with seaweed.

I purchased two bars of soap at the Mwani factory. They add aromatic oils to them, wrap the bars in palm leaves, and secure them with twine – the same kind that holds young seaweed bunches on the seabed. I chose cinnamon and lemongrass scents. These fragrant pieces now sit before me, reminding me of Zanzibar, once known as the Island of Spice.

What is Afro-Soul?

The craving was irresistible: I needed a guitar. I simply wanted to strum the strings and create something harmonious amid these beautiful surroundings. I asked hotel owners for help, and they made a few phone calls, which led to more calls.

The flow of information through friends, neighbors, and acquaintances in Africa is far more powerful and essential than the internet. Take local taxi drivers, for instance. Here’s how it typically works: I get into a taxi and tell the driver my destination. He nods enthusiastically, as if he knows exactly where to take me. However, upon reaching the town, something curious happens. The driver pulls up to a group of men sitting by the roadside and asks them something. Their response comes in various gestures. The driver nods and continues. About 100 meters later, the scene repeats, except this time the driver is told to turn around and go back. After yet another interaction with locals, the bewildered driver turns to me and says, “There’s no such hotel here.”

This is when my moment comes: I take out my tablet with an offline map of Tanzania. I type in the name of the place, and a red pin shows that our destination is just a couple of kilometers away. With a simple tap, I guide us along a sandy path between gray stone houses. The driver hesitates at first but eventually follows the navigator’s instructions, and we soon arrive. You might wonder why the driver doesn’t use online maps himself. He does have a smartphone for calls, messaging, and even watching videos – but curiously, not for navigation. Perhaps it’s a matter of professional pride. After several fruitless journeys circling villages, I began planning routes on my own device and insisting that drivers follow them. This saved considerable time.

But when it came to finding a guitar, Zanzibar’s human network worked flawlessly. Within two hours, I had the phone number of a musician willing to lend his instrument for 10,000 Tanzanian shillings per day (about $5). Two minutes later, we agreed on where and how I could get the guitar. He offered to deliver it personally – he must have really needed the money.

A couple of hours later, a handsome dark-skinned man appeared before me in a sky-blue shirt, a red bandana, and black sunglasses. His name was Richie, though his passport said Salum (a name given by his father, which he disliked). I took the guitar, but he didn’t seem eager to leave. I suggested we play something together, and he grinned broadly: “Of course!”

I started playing “More than Words”—the greatest song of all time (in my opinion – it was the reason I’d learned to play the guitar three years earlier). I then handed him the guitar, asking if he knew any classic rock songs.

“I don’t sing covers,” he replied.

“You don’t know any?” I asked.

“No, I don’t.”

“So what do you play?”

“My own songs. Want to hear one?”

“Absolutely.”

I was intrigued. Wasn’t African music all about frenetic drum rhythms and exuberant dancing? How did that relate to the guitar? Richie began plucking the strings, and I heard something melancholic. His voice was strong, slightly raspy – what raw terracotta earth mixed with sand might sound like if it could sing. Though I didn’t understand a word of Swahili, I could feel the song was about unrequited love.

“What a beautiful language. What does ‘moyo wangu’ mean?”

“My heart.” “Moyo” means “heart.”

“And ‘muongo’?”

“That means ‘a lie.’”

“What’s the song about?”

“Don’t lie that you love me.”

“It doesn’t sound angry, though.”

“I don’t write angry songs. Music is for healing.”

“Tell me more.”

“I want to write songs where young people like me can see themselves. So they know they’re not alone.”

“How do you compose? Do you start with lyrics or music?”

“It all begins with a feeling.” He placed his hand over his heart. “I sit by the shore, touching the strings and finding chords that resonate with what I’m feeling. Something emerges. Then the first words come, and I sing them to the melody. Sometimes it ends with just one line, and sometimes a whole verse. Sometimes I don’t compose the second verse until a month later.”

I recalled a songwriting course I’d recently taken. It described a strategic approach: formulate the main “message” of the song, consider the rhythm and rhyme scheme, and structure the verses so that meaning and emotions unfold gradually, like a crescendo. Yet here was an entirely different method – composing purely from impulse, from the heart.

Richie began playing a new melody and looked at me expectantly.

“Sing,” he said.

“What should I sing? I don’t know this song or its lyrics.”

“It doesn’t matter. Just sing whatever you feel.”

I cautiously matched a few notes with my voice, watching his left hand and trying to anticipate the melody’s direction. It was impossible; he was using unusual chord progressions, and I couldn’t determine the key. So I closed my eyes and tried to feel the melody in my body. I sensed a pure, warm resonance in the center of my chest. When my voice harmonized with the music, it created a feeling of pleasure. When it didn’t, I continued humming, searching for the right sound, and the tension gradually transformed into ease and joy. I sang freely, naturally.

After a couple of minutes of my experimentation, Richie joined with his own improvisation. Double uncertainty! It began to feel like paragliding from a mountain, where the fear of heights and awkward movements mingles with the elation of soaring, with breathtaking landscapes unfolding below and your body humming with delight.

I suddenly noticed that hotel guests and staff were watching us. “How long have you been singing together?” they asked. “A long time. At least… twenty minutes.”

When the song ended, I fell silent, trying to process what had just happened. Could this be what they call “the flow”? Giving yourself permission to sing freely? Letting go of control and the need to be correct, simply enjoying the process?

I now understand how significant that moment was for me. Something new awakened within me: fearlessness and a desire to experiment. Even though it happened within a specific melody, on a specific terrace of an East African island, it did happen. What a liberating, expansive feeling – to stop thinking about logic and meaning, to explore seemingly absurd sound combinations and discover harmony. Music connects people; I now had first-hand evidence.

Richie’s journey into music was quite remarkable. He grew up in Bagamoyo, a town on the Tanzanian mainland. When he was fifteen, his mother died of pneumonia, and his aunt raised him alongside her own four children. They lived in extreme poverty. After school, he was assigned to a medical college but left after a few months. He once asked a boatman to take him to Zanzibar – he’d heard from friends that work could be found there. He sailed to the island nestled between sacks of potatoes and tomatoes. On his very first day, he sat down to play guitar at the entrance of the local music academy. At that time, he knew only three or four chords, but the song he played was captivating. A passer-by invited him inside – he turned out to be the school’s director. The next day, he offered Richie a place at the academy… for free. That’s how he became a musician, and Zanzibar became his second home.