Zanzibari childhood

I was talking to my mum today about her childhood on the spice island of Zanzibar. She spent the first sixteen years of her life there, before the family moved to mainland Tanzania in the upheaval following the revolution in 1964. The sultan was being overthrown in a coup and amidst all the rioting and looting, there were many deaths. To escape, one of my mum’s sisters had to dress as a man and take a boat to Dar-es-Salaam in the middle of the night. My mum, meanwhile, was being rushed to the hospital for an emergency appendectomy.

Before that though, my mum’s life on the island had been secure and stable. Mornings were spent in school and evenings having fun with family and friends. I had always assumed that most immigrants in Zanzibar had comfortable lives, but was surprised to hear some of the stories she told about islanders’ plights. Most striking was the story of a couple who owned a failing bicycle hire business. They had to keep loaning to children who they knew seemingly intentionally damaged the bikes, just to keep food on the table. I didn’t know that so many had a hand-to-mouth existence and lived in such poverty. She was crying by the end.