Earlier on this unforgettable day, I visited two other historic sites in Bagamoyo. Click here to read about my visit to Kaole Ruins and here to read about my exploration of Old Town.
After lunch at Traveler’s Lodge, I stepped outside, flagged down a boda boda, and set off for my final stop of the day.
If you’re reading this from South Dakota, a boda boda is a motorcycle taxi. The name is believed to have originated from “border border,” a reference to the bicycle taxis that carried passengers across the Uganda-Kenya border. The bicycles eventually gave way to motorcycles, but the name stuck. The boda boda culture later spread across East Africa, with Kenya and Tanzania embracing the two-wheeled phenomenon.
Today, boda bodas carry passengers, luggage, groceries, furniture, and just about anything else that can somehow be persuaded to fit on a motorcycle. On this continent, seeing an entire household squeezed onto a 100cc boda boda is hardly headline news.
I climbed onto mine and headed toward the Catholic complex, home to the Holy Ghost Fathers.
By then, I had already spent several hours walking through history. But this final stop felt different.
Upon arrival, I stood in silent awe, marveling at what is described as the oldest church in East Africa. Its sun-bleached walls seemed to have stories of their own. They had been standing there long before I showed up with a camera and a curious mind, and they looked perfectly capable of keeping a few secrets.
I strolled down to the beach, where the calm lapping of the tide was interrupted by the sight of a cross erected in 1868 to mark the establishment of the mission.
There was something about standing there that made the passage of time feel almost tangible. The ocean kept doing what oceans do, waves rolling in and out, seemingly unconcerned about the centuries of human drama that had unfolded along its shores.
Before entering the museum, I stopped by Dr. David Livingstone’s temporary tomb. It was here, beneath the towering monument, that the body of the famed Scottish explorer and missionary rested briefly in 1874 after its long journey from the heart of Africa.
Livingstone had died deep inland near Lake Bangweulu in present-day Zambia. His loyal followers carried his body more than a thousand miles toward the coast, determined that his remains would not be swallowed by the wilderness. Eventually, his body was shipped to England, where he was buried at Westminster Abbey.
I found myself thinking about the strange journeys people make in the name of faith, exploration, commerce, freedom, and power. Some leave home voluntarily. Others are forced from theirs. Some arrive as missionaries. Others arrive as traders, colonizers, or conquerors.
And that is where the story becomes complicated.
At the outset, Christianity was not simply a religion arriving in an empty space. The mission was influenced by both humanitarian and colonial ambitions. Bagamoyo’s Catholic mission, once a haven for freed slaves, became part of a much larger and more complicated story involving faith, freedom, conquest, and identity.
In the span of about six hours, I had moved through centuries of history, encountered the legacies of two major religions, and confronted the ghosts of slave traders and colonialists.
By the time I left the mission, I was no longer simply sightseeing. I was pondering the collision between faith and a dark history.