Seven years. That’s how long it’s been since I last set foot on African soil. Seven years of French chaos and Swiss order. I’ve forgotten what proper heat feels like, until Zanzibar’s air wraps around me like a warm, damp towel. The humidity hits first, in a way only Africa – or the Caribbean – can welcome me back. With no hesitation, no apologies.

We’re driving east from the airport, and the island unfolds slowly before me. The road crowds us in, flanked by repair shops and clear white masjids and numerous roadside stalls where vendors sell fresh mangoes. The sun is high, mid-day heat pressing down on the buildings lining the streets. Matemwe is an hour away, but the further we drive, the quieter the world becomes. The air is different here – heavy with construction dust and a kind of timelessness that feels like I’ve stepped into a higher vibration.

The driver says little, but his music does all the talking. It’s loud, a mix of Swahili pop and Afrobeats, the rhythms strong enough to drown out my thoughts. Perhaps he can tell I’ve travelled 20 hours, and words are wasted on me. I lean back in my seat, eyes half-shut, as the music blurs into the hum of the engine and the rattling of the minibus over the uneven road. We hit traffic, then construction vehicles slow us to a crawl before the road opens up again – smooth and pristine for a stretch, before jolting me awake with fresh bumps and potholes. Zanzibar’s roads are keeping me alert.

The landscape begins to feel familiar in an odd, comforting way. The flat, open stretches of land, the red earth, the occasional patches of green – I could be anywhere, and yet I’m not. I spot my first roadside cow grazing lazily on the verge.

This is home.

The sky fades from deep blue to soft pink as I walk along the cool sand in Matemwe at sunrise. Strong waves slam the shore, the only sound in the early stillness, while a few fishing boats drift on the glowing silver sea. The air is fresh, carrying the scent of salt and seaweed, and I realise this is my first African sunrise in years. The moment feels surreal, like a long-awaited reunion with something I’ve missed but never quite forgot. There’s a quiet joy in watching the sun greet the world once again. A lone dhow sails closer, its white sail catching the first golden light. The sun rises higher, warming the beach and casting soft shadows on the powdered coral sand. The water sparkles and the island comes alive, peaceful and slow, as I walk in rhythm with the waking day.

Stone Town is waiting for me, like a man-eating lion in the tall Tsavo grass. The narrow streets buzz with humanity, history, and – of course – hustlers. “Looking is free; you don’t have to buy!” they call out to me, as I try to navigate the maze. So, I look. Then I buy. A necklace, at first. Small, innocent. Then fridge magnets. A bracelet or two. Before I know it, I have a backpack. Within minutes, I’ve added a jacket. Because winter is coming, see. And a Swiss winter is oppression manifest. And yet, for all the chaos, Stone Town has a way of slowing me down. Near the harbour, the smells of grilled fish and spices hang in the air, mixing with the sea breeze. Jahman and rastafari and fist-bumps follow me around, like a long-lost askari returned from a far-off battlefield.

I am standing in front of Freddie Mercury’s birthplace, tucked away in a quiet corner. It’s not hard to miss, as a plaque marks the spot, simple and unassuming, oddly fitting for a local lad who grew into a larger-than-life legend. I step inside, greeted by a star at my feet and the echoes of his singing voice – those impossibly stratospheric notes that have travelled far beyond these shores.

The museum is intimate, humble, much like the man in his early years. Photos and memorabilia trace Freddie’s journey from a quiet but talented boy named Farrokh Bulsara to the flamboyant frontman of Queen. There’s a reverence to the place, not just for his music, but for the boy who once played in these streets, long before the world knew his name. I navigate the small, unassuming space, and can’t help but think of the contrast – how he left this quiet island for the stage lights of London, transforming himself completely but always carrying a part of Zanzibar with him.

Leaving the museum, I pause for a moment in the street, feeling the weight of it all. It’s a strange thing to stand in the place where someone’s story begins and know how it ends. There’s a quiet pride here, a recognition of how far he travelled – both physically and spiritually. I walk away, “Under Pressure” playing in my head, and someone suddenly asks if I want to see dolphins. I decline.

I turn down one of Stone Town’s narrow streets, the kind that feels like it could swallow me whole if I’m not careful. Google Maps has gone the way of Mugabe, and a carefree laissez-faire rules. The buildings crowd close, sun-bleached walls casting long shadows as the late afternoon heat presses down.

I approach a petite older gentleman dressed in a traditional kofia and white tunic, sitting on a low stool. On instinct, I greet him in Arabic, “Salaam alaikum.”
His face instantly brightens, the lines around his eyes crinkling into a warm smile. “Wa alaikum salaam!” he replies, clearly delighted. Before I can take another step to pass him, he waves me down, insistent, “Stop, stop!” He’s already reaching for a fresh chapati, dough still warm from the well-worn pan. In a flurry of motion, he slathers on an indistinct green sauce and presses it into my hands. Refusal is not an option. I barely have time to bid him a hasty shukran before he’s shooing me away with a gentle insistence both caring and familiar. The warmth of the gesture lingers with me, as sure as the spicy zing of whatever green sauce is in my folded chapati.

There’s a brotherhood here, an unspoken spiritual communion that I’ve forgotten exists after years abroad. It’s not about the food – though it is the best thing I’ve ever tasted – it’s about the connection. A greeting, recognition, a seeing and being seen; suddenly, I’m no longer a stranger walking through a maze of stone streets. I belong, if only for a fleeting moment.

The buildings tell stories with and within their walls – some crumbling, others standing firm against the passage of time. The architecture is a heady mélange of Swahili, Arab, Indian, and European, whispering of Zanzibar’s rich history as a crossroads for traders and explorers. Some rise tall, squeezed into narrow streets that twist and turn unpredictably, giving the town an ancient, labyrinth feel. Stone seems to form the base of many, walls weathered and pockmarked by the salty sea air. The decay has a sense of dignity, as if the town knows its worth even as pieces of it fall away. The colours of the buildings – faded whites, yellows, and blues – give Stone Town a strange, sun-worn look, the kind that feels authentic, lived-in, like the town is a living museum where the past still lingers in the present. What makes them so captivating isn’t just their history, but how alive they still are, despite the age and cracks. Voices echo down the narrow streets, families hang laundry on rooftops, and food is cooked in hidden courtyards. Stone Town’s charm lies in this duality – the buildings may be old, but the spirit of the place is as vibrant as ever, welcoming me like a part of the fabric.

Dinner is peri-peri chicken, spiced and grilled, eaten under the stars to the sounds of waves crashing against the shore and a lively three-piece band. It will taste like home, in a way Europe never can. But before I can eat, I hear it – the familiar strains of Oliver Mtukudzi. A little piece of Zimbabwe, right here in Zanzibar. The guitar sings of home, of everything I’ve missed. I sway to the beat, letting the sounds take me back.

I leave Stone Town heavier – both in luggage and heart. Not just with souvenirs, or food, or wine, or the obligatory tequila blanco. It is the rhythm, the connection, the reminder that no matter where I go, or how long I’m gone, home is always waiting for me. Even if it takes the form of a young guitarist in university blue Jordan 4s, happily playing the song I didn’t know I needed to hear. We drive away in the minibus, and Stone Town slowly fades into the darkness, the narrow streets, bustling with life, giving way to open roads. But I’m not sad to be leaving. There’s a sense of peace in knowing that Stone Town has left its mark on me as it does on everyone who passes through.

The further we go, the quieter the world becomes, but I still feel Stone Town’s rhythm pulsing. The scent of food in the park by the harbour, the ocean’s call mixing with the distant laughter of children – it’s all still there, etched in my mind. The place isn’t just a place; it’s an experience that wrapped itself around me, leaving little pieces of itself tucked into the corners of my heart. As the minibus bumps along the road, I know I’ll return one day. There’s no need to be sad because I’ve already taken Stone Town with me. Its spirit, its energy, and its stories will stay with me, long after the last glimpse of the old fort disappears in the rearview mirror. Asante sana, Tanzania.

It’s 3 am and I’m riding quietly to the airport with my Nigerian colleague, the road ahead lit only by the dim glow of passing streetlights. We’re both lost in our thoughts, exhausted from the week, too weak to talk. I wonder if she feels like I do – this strange cocktail of emotions swirling inside. Fatigue weighs heavy, but there’s also apprehension at the long journey ahead, mixed with profound gratefulness for the time spent here. Somewhere in the background, there’s a lingering sorrow at leaving, but also joy at the privilege. I am bewildered at how many feelings can collide simultaneously in the stillness of a predawn minibus ride.

Hours later, we find ourselves trapped in the sweltering heat of a Dubai airport bus, air thick and unmoving, bearing down like a shroud. I’m barely awake, quietly dreading the next leg of the journey. I’m on another plane, stretched out in a free row, watching live football at 30,000 feet. The hum of the engine fades behind the commentary as the game flickers on the screen.

I am back in Europe, and my wife is giving me the biggest hug, her warmth enveloping me. She shares the highlights of her week, voice animated and eyes sparkling. She pauses, telling me I looked different and happier on the phone. Africa looks good on me. She places a steaming plate of sadza, slow-cooked oxtail, vibrant greens, and seasoned beans before me. The rich aroma fills the room as the pitter-patter of rain hits the roof, each bite as comforting as the warmth from the heater in the corner of the living room.

This, too, is home.