Pemba can be elusive to many in Tanzania.

If you take one of Coastal Aviation’s little eight-seater planes, the heat inside might just lull you to sleep. But if you keep your eyes open during the thirty-minute flight, you might catch something beautiful.

Two stretches of water, one darker than the other, separated by a long line of crashing white waves. Almost as if to announce, now, now you’re in Pemba.

The first thing you notice is how green it is.

The little airport, surrounded by coconut trees, welcomes you with the familiar heat of a tropical island. But the air feels different here. Lighter somehow. And then there’s the lyrical way Wapemba speak, pulling on their words, Kaaribu Pembaa.

Driving towards Chake Chake, you might be reminded of Zanzibar fifteen or twenty years ago. A small, bustling mjini, women in buibuis and khangas, men in kanzus and kofias, and food stalls selling everything from kachori and katlesi to sambusa, chapati and Zanzibar’s beloved boflo — hard and crispy on the outside, soft and fluffy on the inside.

Beyond the town, the roads wind through lush green hills, rising and falling, with barely a traffic light in sight. A few bajajis, the occasional boda boda, old open-backed dala dalas, and groups of schoolchildren making their way home.

Life seems to move a little differently here. There is much, much less visible tourism than in Unguja, and a more visible Swahili-Muslim way of life.

One of the places I visited was a small madrasa in Micheweni, about a half-hour drive from Chake Chake, built through the Baraza Foundation. One of the Ustadhs who taught there had taken me to see it for myself.

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It was a simple, open structure, with whitewashed walls, a corrugated iron roof, and wide window openings without a pane of glass in sight. Inside, little girls in bright pink, cute little hijabs and boys in ankle-length, dust-filled kanzus sat on the floor, reciting the Qur’an at the top of their lungs, as only little children can.

Four Ustadhs, including a woman, volunteer their time to teach the village children outside regular school hours. They spoke of the gaps in education in some of Pemba’s villages, particularly outside Chake Chake, and how, with the help of donations, they were doing what they could to give the children another kind of education, one rooted in their faith.

The Ustadh’s wife was there too, dressed in her khanga, sitting on one of the wide concrete window sills.

When I mentioned that I’d come from Zanzibar, she challenged, “Kwani hapa wapi?” (And where do you think this is?)

There was a hint of humour in her question, although her face suggested otherwise.

Slightly embarrassed, I quickly corrected myself. “Nimetoka Unguja,” softening the ja and drawing out the Ungu-u-ja.

Pemba is Zanzibar. 

Across the water

At Micheweni’s little fishing port, next to a light-blue-painted Immigration building, Kenya becomes a topic of conversation.

The port itself isn’t much of what you might imagine a port to be. It’s a simple concrete landing platform jutting out into the deep blue water, with a few wavuvi out fishing in their little wooden boats. On either side, the shoreline is lined with thick green mangroves, mikoko, growing right up to the water’s edge.

READ MORE: The High Cost of Tourism: Zanzibar’s Race to Build Jeopardises Its Heritage 

But look to the right, just far enough past the little fishing boats and the mangroves, and somewhere beyond that vast stretch of dark blue lies Mombasa, Kenya.

Many of us from Unguja have family ties to Pemba. But as I met more people, I began to understand just how closely connected Pemba is to the Kenyan coast, too. WaLamu, waBajuni, waMombasa — families who have been crossing these waters, settling, trading, marrying and mixing for as long as many of them can remember.

Who is from Pemba? Who is from Mombasa? Who is from Lamu?

Sometimes, it’s difficult to tell. There are families on both sides of the water, with histories that go back generations.

Homes left behind

And while some histories connect Pemba to places across the Indian Ocean, others are tied to the very land beneath people’s feet.

Memories of the homes they grew up in, where they raised their families, planted seeds that grew into beautiful trees. Backyards filled with jackfruits, papayas, bananas, and all sorts of fruits. Farms of karafuu, the cloves for which Pemba is so well known.

Homes and land that many have now had to leave behind.

As I spoke to more people, I began to understand that some Wapemba were being relocated from homes and farms they had known for generations, making way, I was told, for new roads, government developments and potential investments.

Perhaps some of these developments have been in the government’s plans for decades, and only now are they being put into motion. Roads, infrastructure and investment are, after all, part of how places change and grow. But for the people who have lived on this land for generations, it’s not quite so simple.

“Serikali ikisema tuondoke, hamna la kusema, weh!” I was told by an old man, with a scoff and a chuckle. If the government says they should leave, there’s nothing to say!

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Compensation was a recurring topic among those who had moved. Some said they had been compensated. Others said they were still waiting. And for some, the amount received seemed to determine whether they could afford to move at all.

“One farm has been paid for, the other not yet,” one resident told me. “Once we were given the money, that’s when we moved here to Chake Chake town.”

“You see, people are only just now building here,” he said, pointing towards the surrounding houses, some still under construction, others freshly painted.

One older man explained it rather matter-of-factly. “There’s nothing to say to the government — unless you take them to court for not paying you enough.”

I suppose you could challenge the compensation, if you thought it wasn’t enough. But whether you wanted to leave in the first place? That seemed to be another matter entirely.

I couldn’t help but wonder: what right does one have to preserve an ancestral home when the government has other plans and ambitions for the land?

I remember trying to find one Mzee Abdalla, asking people along the road if they knew where he lived.

Pemba has always struck me as the kind of place where you could ask, “Wapi kwa Mzee Yusuf?” or “Kwa Abdalla Mdomo?” and someone would know exactly who you meant. Perhaps they’d ask whose son he was, what he did for a living, or mention a relative of his. Before you knew it, you’d have directions, and probably a little of his family history.

But this time, I was met with shrugs. “Simfahamu.” They didn’t know him.

Perhaps this, too, is slowly changing. People are moving. Some neighbours are no longer neighbours, and families who once lived within walking distance of one another are finding themselves starting afresh, away from their ancestral homes.

And for those who still have their land, there is uncertainty too. Some, I was told, are holding on to their land, waiting to see what the government might have planned for it.

So they wait.

For now

Pemba looks, in some ways, like it’s suspended in time. 

I wonder how much of what makes Pemba, Pemba, will remain. And how much of that change Wapemba will get to shape.

You don’t need much to enjoy Pemba, if you can take it for what it is.

You can sit somewhere, doing absolutely nothing, and just be content. Spend the evening gazing at the star-filled sky, with a gentle breeze that seems to carry all your worries away.

Quiet.

I can’t say what Pemba will look like in ten or twenty years. 

But for now, I hope we can hold on to some of this.

Author’s note: This is a personal reflection on my visit to Pemba, based on what I saw, heard and the conversations I had along the way. It is not intended to be an investigative account of the developments taking place on the island.

Husnah Mad-hy is a lawyer and writer based in Tanzania. She can be reached at husnahmadhy@gmail.com. The opinions expressed here are the writer’s own and do not necessarily reflect those of The Chanzo. If you are interested in publishing in this space, please contact our editors at editor@thechanzo.com.