AGAINST THE CLASH AND WAIL of God-summoning voices in the sky comes the hee-haw of a lone donkey in anguish. It rises in the swirling island winds that sway the palm trees as if in a restless dream.
An electric moon is beaming violently onto the island of Lamu tonight. It has us by the throat as it zaps straight and low into our eyeballs, hitting the back wall of our skulls and lighting us all up as we float out across the Indian Ocean. “God is great”, the tannoys clamour, firing up one by one from the roofs of all the mosques across the village of Shela. The braying donkey yearns noisily for its mother, protesting bitterly in hunger, crying out that, like the rest of us: it is desperately alone.
For centuries, these working animals have built this East African island and acted as public transport in the continued absence of cars and trucks. They are everywhere, carrying the back-breaking loads of mangrove wood and coral stone in long trains across dunes, white sand beaches and into the maze of narrow alleys.
Mouths make kissing sounds through pursed lips to urge on these sullen-eyed creatures; palms slap their rears to guide the way.
