It’s my first night in Mombasa—the opening chapter of this tour. Not my first time here, not even close. Mombasa and I go way back. We’ve done this dance before.
Dinner is out of the way. No detours, no “let me just pass by somewhere real quick.” I head straight to my room with a simple plan: read a few pages of the book I carried along, then call it a night. Calm. Intentional. Suspiciously responsible.
I’m staying at Travellers Beach Hotel & Spa. Now, this isn’t just a hotel—it’s memory. Between 2003 and 2007, this place saw me about three times a year. Returning now feels less like checking in and more like being welcomed back by an old friend who remembers your habits a little too well.
And just like that—same wing, same block.
South Wing.
After all these years, all these stays, I somehow always end up here. Not that I’m complaining. The South Wing has always understood me. My room is just a few steps from one of several swimming pools scattered across the property, and even closer to the beach—close enough to hear the ocean whispering like it has stories it’s been saving for me.
Room 510.
On my way there, I slow down. Not because I’m tired—but because memory has decided to walk beside me.
The pool comes into view. And there they are—two basketball hoops facing each other across the water. I pause. That pool… that game. Water basketball. Chaos, laughter, questionable fouls. We took it very seriously back then.
As I reminisce, my eyes drift to Kisima Bar. My spot is still there. That counter stool—perfectly placed so you sit upright like a respectable guest… while the lower half of your body is comfortably submerged in water.
Tomorrow, I’ll reclaim my spot at the counter.
But something is different this time.
Not Mombasa.
Me.
Back in the 2000s, this exact night would have unfolded differently. Dinner would have been a warm-up. Right about now, I’d be getting ready—mentally and physically—for a long night out. Mombasa nightlife—club hopping, music bleeding into sunrise… 5 a.m. would find me negotiating with an equally exhausted cabbie—this was before Uber and its cousins even existed.
Tonight?
I’m negotiating with my pillow.
And losing—willingly.
The ocean is still there. The pool is still there. Kisima Bar hasn’t moved an inch.
But the pace… the intention… the version of me walking through this place—that has changed.
And honestly?
I'm not complaining.