Introduction

When I was little, my dad, who sometimes drove the coastal train, would take me, and sometimes my brothers and sister with him on his journeys along the Kenyan coast. I would sleep on his lap at night but during the day, he would tell stories of the towns we passed. Along the Tsavo, he would tell me about the man eating lions that devoured the Indian railway construction workers in 1898 and who were ready to pounce on me if I didn’t finish my veggies. In Malindi, he told me that this was where Vasco da Gama picked up his pilot to navigate with the monsoon winds to India. In Lamu he introduced me to 'his' marine national reserve. According to dad, his great-great-grandfather discovered an unspoilt village on the mainland about 150 km east of Lamu which he named Kiunga—our family name. A few days later, he also discovered the enchanted waters close to that remote village. Those waters became the Kiunga Marine National Reserve, which is a major tourist attraction. Dad’s stories were sometimes true and sometimes not. He usually embellished them, and if anyone raised any questions, he would say that it is only boring story tellers who do not spice their tales.

My favourite city was Mombasa because I enjoyed looking at the blue sea.  I would always wish I was a bird that could fly beyond the horizon to unknown lands.

Well, I did get into one of those birds and flew beyond the horizon—to a land an ocean away where I have to take the train every day to grad school. Sometimes I read for my Economics class, sometimes I fill my crossword or Sudoku, sometimes I write a poem, but most of the times I love to close my eyes and remember dad—I remember his dark skin glowing, I remember him carrying me on his shoulders as I we walked to buy candy, I remember him holding my sister when she was born.

I remember his dancing eyes as he told me stories.

He told me once, “Soon you will be telling me your stories. And you will be retelling mine.” Time has come to fulfill this.

I write this blog on the train on the way from school. Sometime it is memories from my childhood, sometimes it is my stories that I would have told dad if he were alive. Enjoy.