Little Madzeni loves the hotel at Mnarani Beach, if you can call it a hotel. It’s really just an old porch stretching out onto the sand, half swallowed by the ocean, wide open to the sky, which is the color of overripe mangoes at sunset. The sky here is enormous, endless. Little Madzeni has never seen so much sky. It makes him feel tiny, like a seashell. He notices the patterns of the sand, how each grain is different, and the repetitive sound of the waves crashing. He hums softly, a consistent low tone.

“Very beautiful!” his mother, Mbeyu, announces as a waiter, barefoot and moving with the languid grace of a man who has nowhere urgent to be, leads them to a table by the railing. Madzeni follows closely behind Mbeyu and his ‘uncle,’ Hamisi, a term he has begun to suspect is a code for something entirely different from what he learned in school.

An invisible boy, that’s what he is. Slipping between tables, unseen, unheard. Each table seems to have its own personality. Some are covered in bright cloth in African patterns, others in plain white, some in nothing at all, their wooden surfaces stained with the ghosts of past meals. The chairs don’t match. Madzeni notices these small, disparate details, cataloging them in his mind.

Some diners wobble like drunkards. Others are barefoot, their toes curling in the sand, while some are dressed like they’re attending a presidential dinner. A girl at the next table wears a bikini the size of a handkerchief. Madzeni stares. Not because he’s interested (he’s nine), but because it seems…impractical. He tilts his head, trying to understand the logic.

At the table beside them, a white man cradles an enormous dog on his lap, as if it’s a baby. The dog, a brutal-looking canine with droopy jowls,  swivels its head almost all the way around to stare at them. Madzeni freezes. The dog keeps staring. Hamisi clears his throat, his signal that a dad joke is incoming. “What are you ordering, Justo? I hope it’s not a hot dog.”

Little Madzeni winces. Justo. Again? He hates it when people shorten his first name, Justin. Makes him feel like a house cat. He shoots Hamisi a polite, long-suffering smile, then turns to his mother for rescue.

“Two coconut wines, please,” Hamisi tells the waiter, slapping the menu shut like he’s sealing a business deal. “Not a chance,” Mbeyu replies without looking up. “You’ll love it, it’s very… aphrodisiac,” Hamisi insists, leaning in like a salesman down to his last desperate pitch.

Mbeyu always wins these battles. Always. But tonight, she sighs and lets it go. Mbeyu is a Chonyi traditional dancer at the Malindi Cultural Tourism Centre. Her skin gleams like polished mahogany, her arms toned from years of spinning and stomping to ancient rhythms. She is also, as she tells anyone who will listen, a “mother by choice.” Which means Little Madzeni was entirely her decision. His father is a distant, forgotten chapter. Probably wandering through some freezing Nairobi street, collar turned up, hands stuffed in pockets, blissfully unaware that somewhere in Mombasa, his offspring exists and is currently contemplating the physics of the setting sun.

Madzeni squints at the sky. The sun, huge, red, hovers just above the ocean. But something is off. It seems to be moving faster, like someone is pulling it down with a rope. Meanwhile, the adults are locked in the what are we and where is this going discussion. He tunes them out, focusing instead on the pattern of the waves and the precise moment the sun dips below the horizon.

The waiter returns, notepad in hand. The grown-ups order complicated Swahili dishes. Madzeni keeps it simple. “Spicy chips and chicken.”

The waiter shakes his head. “No chips. How about rice?”

Madzeni eyes him suspiciously. “Spicy?” The waiter nods.

Mbeyu leans in. “Baby, how about some salad with it?” She then attacks his face with a spit-dampened finger, scrubbing at some invisible stain on his mouth.

Madzeni recoils in horror. “Mum!” He dislikes the unexpected touch.

“Okay, okay. Sorry,” she says, but her lips twitch with amusement. She turns back to the waiter. “Two more coconut wines. And a cold Coke for the kid.”

Little Madzeni beams. A cold Coke. This is big. The sun, now kissing the horizon, flattens out. Suddenly, applause ripples through the restaurant. Madzeni blinks. Oh. He wasn’t the only one watching. Then, just like that, he fades back into invisibility.

A chicken struts by on the sandy floor. A ferry floats out to sea, resembling a floating apartment building. He glances at the white man and the lady in the bikini who have abandoned all pretense of dining and are now engaged in some serious lip gymnastics. Their chairs have mysteriously migrated to the same side of the table. Mbeyu notices and gently redirects Madzeni’s curious head. Another chicken walks by, its repetitive pecking at the sand holding his attention.

Then darkness drops over the beach. Tiny twinkling lights pop on, strung around the wooden poles of the reed roof, looping along the awning above them. The whole place glows. Enchanted. That’s the word. Like Mbeyu’s cookbook, Enchanted Swahili Dishes. A beautiful title, even if he’d rather perish than eat Swahili food.

Mbeyu is always on a mission to make him eat organic whole foods. Because he is “small for his age.” Always mistaken for six. He has been to doctors about it. He weighed only one point eight seven kilograms at birth. In many ways, Little Madzeni feels, he is still premature and he knows or at least, kind of, maybe, sort of believes that he had a twin brother who didn’t make it. Right now, actually, he imagines him out there somewhere, maybe in that enormous sky, where stars are just beginning to wink into existence.

The food arrives. And, of course, the dreaded salad. Madzeni munches through his meal while Mbeyu and Hamisi continue dissecting their relationship status. He has seen this movie before. Mbeyu, being so enchanting and intense, has had a string of relationships and to be honest, all her past men tend to blur together in Madzeni’s mind. Earnest lawyers and professors, mostly wiry, with dark hair and pointy beards large enough to house small birds.

Two girls in tiny bikinis burst onto the beach, spinning glowing hoops in dizzying circles. They toss them into the air, catching them with Olympic-level precision. Little Madzeni watches, transfixed. Maybe they’re training for a reality show. Or the circus. Or war. Who knows? He focuses on the repetitive motion of the hoops.

Then, a group of massive men floods the restaurant. They clap backs, shake hands, laugh like thunder. Their voices bounce off the walls. Mbeyu and Hamisi roll their eyes, leaning in to communicate through the noise. The couple with the dog and the girl in the bikini make their exit. Little Madzeni is certain his mother and Hamisi are talking about him. He catches his name.

“Why don’t you send Justo to The Nyali Institute of Special Education, then?” Hamisi asks.

“What?” Mbeyu replies, caught off guard.

“Nyali Institute of Special Education.” Hamisi repeats. “I’m sure they have a great curriculum for autistic kids.

“I can’t afford it,” Mbeyu mutters, sipping her coconut wine. “Also, if I did that, then I’d have to pay for all the special ed, which he’s getting for free now.”

At this point, the restaurant has surrendered entirely to the large men. Regular diners have strategically retreated, leaving Mbeyu, Hamisi, and Little Madzeni marooned in an ocean of loud beer bellies. Madzeni studies them. They radiate confidence, like politicians at a fundraiser. Big men, in the prime of life. Their floral beach shirts billow over their firm, well-fed stomachs. Their dark, veiny legs like tree trunks peek out from their baggy shorts. Their shoes are brand new, the kind of sneakers you buy in high-end stores. But it’s their energy that captivates him: booming laughter, snapping eyes. They are alive.

Then, the fattest one hops up and duck-waddles to the open space where an impromptu stage has formed. He mops his glistening forehead, then tucks the towel back into his pocket. His eyes are red, large and round, like marbles; his fingers look like plump sausages. The music plays, “Coupe Bibamba” by Awilo Longomba and suddenly, he’s moving. His hips shimmy. His waist swivels. The belly bounces with hypnotic precision. A roar of approval erupts. The man waddles back to his seat, basking in applause.

“I think we should leave,” Hamisi murmurs. “The noise might be too much for Justo.”

“Just a minute, Mom,” Little Madzeni says, savoring the last sip of his Coke. Ironically, he is enjoying the consistent rhythm of the music.

Then, the next act takes the stage. A wiry, gray-haired old man. He salutes his table, bows to Mbeyu and Hamisi, and winks at Little Madzeni, who waves back, grinning.

“Army,” Hamisi whispers. Sure enough.

“You know,” the old man begins, “the army gave me a shoe brush on my first day. Then they took away all my shoes. The second day, they handed me a toothbrush. Then they pulled four of my teeth. The third day, they gave me a gun… and now they’ve been looking for me for forty years!”

The room erupts. Little Madzeni laughs so hard he nearly chokes. Then, just as Hamisi reaches for his wallet, a waiter arrives with a fresh round of drinks, two coconut wines and another Coke.

“We didn’t order these,” Mbeyu says, frowning. “Actually, just bring us the bill.”

“The bill has already been covered,” the waiter replies, gesturing to the table of big men. “They send their compliments and hope they haven’t disturbed your evening.”

Mbeyu glances over. The men raise their glasses in unison.

“To love!” they boom.

Mbeyu blushes, smiles, lifts her glass. “Thank you!” she calls.

Then, without thinking, without even knowing what he’s doing, Little Madzeni is on his feet. He dodges his mother’s stretched out hand. He’s in the center of the floor. Everyone is watching him. A joke he heard in a cartoon materializes in his mind, fully formed, perfect.

“Okay! Showtime! A dyslexic dog runs into a bra!”

Silence. Madzeni scans the room. All these still, dark faces staring at him. He feels the heat creep up his neck. Was it bad? He notices the precise pattern of the wood grain in the floor.

He swallows hard. “I said, a dyslexic dog runs into a bra.”

Laughter. A roaring, freight-train explosion of laughter. The big men leap to their feet, clapping, stomping, cheering. The whole restaurant shakes. Whistles pierce the air. More jokes follow. Family jokes. Lawyer jokes. Political jokes. More drinks. More laughter. And somehow, Mbeyu and Hamisi don’t leave. Not yet. They stay until the very end, Mbeyu gently deflecting drink offers, Hamisi grinning as he loosens his tie. Later, the big men pile into their rented vans, engines revving.

“Hey!” Little Madzeni shouts as the last van pulls out. “Hey! How do I become like you guys?”

The fat man in the driver’s seat rolls down his window. “Kid, you already are one of us.”

“Men from Mombasa!” the group bellows.

“But what about my army uniform?” Madzeni calls back.

“You don’t need one! You’re a natural.”

And just like that, they’re gone. Mbeyu exhales, sinking onto the curb.

“Mom,” Madzeni tugs her hand. “What are you doing? We have to follow them.”

Mbeyu groans. “Oh, I couldn’t possibly drive.”

“Babe?” she nudges Hamisi.

Hamisi rubs his temples. “Are you kidding? I’m not even sure I can walk.”

The parking lot is empty now, except for them. Someone has switched off the neon Mnarani Beach Hotel sign. 

The little twinkle lights have been unplugged. The restaurant sits dark and quiet, the vast sea stretching endlessly behind it. A soft breeze rolls in. Little Madzeni looks up at the night sky, the stars blinking like distant memories. He notices the precise placement of each star, the way they form patterns.

“This,” he says, a slow grin spreading across his face, “is the best day of my life.”

About the Author:

Doreen Masika is a writer and filmmaker from Kilifi, Kenya. A graduate of Daystar University, she uses her knowledge to mentor children from her hometown, inspiring them to write their own stories. Her work has been featured in The Kalahari Review, Afrocritik, Culture Africa, Qwani, etc. She also co-wrote Run Mary Run (2023)

Feature image by Mohamed Hassan on Unsplash