I grew up in an Islam-centred community where few Christian families sort of thrived. It was a place rich in diversity all the same. The Nubians, Ethiopians and Somalis were the dominating tribes. The Somalis owned shops alongside the road. They sold ready-made clothes that were imported. They also sold strongly scented perfumes that made me sneeze every time I passed by.
The Ethiopians had small Kiosks branded Coca-Cola. They were kind and friendly. The Nubians had street food kibandas along the streets. They made amazing bhajias, chips mwitu, some soft chapatis and mandazis. I learnt how to cook by observing how they did it. I also learnt how to cook from Mama Asha, she was a Kamba woman married to a Muslim Digo man. She felt the need to change her religion to Islam after the marriage. That’s how things are for most women after you marry, you embrace what your husband believes in and even take his last name, something that still bothers me.
On Fridays, we would make sure we left school early or even sneak out so we could get home early with friends. The streets were extremely crowded with men and boys in long white kanzus and an Arafat around their heads and sandals women and girls used to wear Burkas, and others wore niqabs. It is considered respectful for Islam women to fully cover themselves and be godly. I watched how they made merry together. They used to eat together in giant steel plates called Sinia. The streets were full of mouth-watering scents mixed up with the strong-scented Somali fragrance and spices from the foods prepared in homes and the streets. We all munched together. I loved their food, even though mom would stop us sometimes. My Muslim friends used to come to our place and bring us mandazi and other Nubian bites. I was lost in their world.
On Sundays, we used to go to church. Other few kids in our neighbourhood who were also Christians joined us. They weren’t that many, about six kids including my brother and I. The streets weren’t as jovial. Everything was just as normal as any other day and I never liked that. Near the mosque, there was a man who used to stand there every Sunday and preach using the Quran. He was only quoting bits of the holy book and twisting them to demonize Christianity in every sense. He would speak loudly, boldly and proudly about how Christianity was a lie. People would later gather to listen and praise his “wise” teachings which were also provoking a divide in the community. No one openly talked ill about anyone after his hours of preaching. The crowds dispersed and they all disappeared into the busy streets. People went on with their lives.
There was something with how Christian girls and Muslim girls dressed that bothered the old women and men in the community. We, the Christian girls were termed as disrespectful, careless girls who wore trousers and shorts and didn’t cover our heads and only greeted people with a handshake or sometimes a wave. The thing is, the Nubians have their type of greeting where the young kiss the back of the hand of the older person. Most of the time they rejected our handshakes and considered them unholy, haram to be specific. People would whisper when they saw a Christian girl pass by with jeans or a skirt that showed her legs or even tight tops and they’d say, you people have no respect for your body, a comment that usually made me laugh. My mother had to get me some long baggy tops that covered my butt. I used to wear a trouser. Sometimes I would wear a dress and a trouser inside. It felt safe and people would judge me less.
The constant preaching of how my belief was a lie shook my spiritual stand and it also did the same for my brother, at some point we even considered becoming Muslim like our friends. One time we were having dinner in our small sitting room. I brought up the topic of how I felt like I was an outcast and how I admired my friends for having to pray thrice a day or even more and observe all the religious stuff that we didn’t. My brother interrupted me as if he was waiting for the perfect moment to speak up, he said: “I want to be a Muslim mum”. My mum slowly placed the spoon she was holding on her plate and breathed heavily then she looked at my brother and me. She seemed half angry and half worried. You could tell that she was carefully thinking of the words to use regarding my brother’s confession and my comments on not fitting in. She said in Swahili, “hizo ni mini mnasema sasa,kukaa huku imefanya watoto wangu wangeuke,” with a firm and cold voice and then she went on and continued to eat and we all did the same. We ate in silence. Only the sounds of our spoons on our plates, chewing and someone randomly clearing their throat. After dinner, she looked at my brother and said: “mkae mkijua tunahama”. She stood up and went to bed.
The next morning, my mother told us one important thing that I still carry to date
“I hope you learn to live with people and respect them for who they are but not be changed by them in any way. I hope you never criticize anyone based on religion or anything they claim to be or be influenced by anyone to criticize them or even criticize yourself too harshly. I hope you truly grow strong enough to know who you are”
Our young minds never understood those words clearly until later in life. We learnt that Mother was brave enough to nurture us in a diverse and different society that taught us how to live in a world of diversity.
A month later we moved to a different neighbourhood, it was different to us. No good street food, no merry Fridays, no strong scented fragrance on the streets. It was what people call, Normal. No one seemed to care about what the other person was doing there. We encountered a different type of community. People were mostly locked in their houses. No one openly shared food. Then it later hit me, life is always different when flipped on the other side. We adjusted.
