03/08/2025
My Encounter with the Swahili Ladies in Deras at the Coast
There are moments in life that never quite leave you—like footprints in wet sand. My encounter with the Swahili ladies in deras at the Coast is one of them. It wasn’t planned. I hadn’t expected it to linger in my heart the way it has. But some beauty doesn’t just pass you by—it stays.
It was in Mombasa, on a lazy golden afternoon. The ocean breeze flirted with the coconut palms, and the scent of spiced tea hung in the air like a sweet promise. I was wandering aimlessly through the narrow streets of Old Town—half tourist, half dreamer. I had come in search of history, but what I found was far more timeless.
They appeared like a gentle breeze, a group of Swahili women wrapped in colorful deras, their laughter soft and full of life. They walked slowly, as if time moved differently for them. I paused. The world around me did too.
The deras flowed around their bodies like waves—loose, elegant, and full of grace. One wore turquoise, the color of the sea at high tide. Another in deep orange, glowing like the sun setting behind Fort Jesus. And then there was her—the one who would remain etched in my memory.
She wore a black dera with golden floral patterns, her headscarf tied lightly, revealing just enough to stir a poet’s pen. Her eyes, framed by delicate kohl, held the kind of mystery only the ocean and old souls carry. She smiled—not at me directly, but at something whispered between her and her friend. But that smile, even borrowed, lit something in me.
I didn’t speak to her. I didn’t follow her. I simply watched—as one might watch the tide roll in, knowing it brings something sacred, then slips away.
There was something in their walk, in the way the deras danced with each step. It wasn’t fashion—it was expression. It was culture woven with dignity. It was femininity without noise, beauty without effort.
And in that moment, I understood something I had only seen from afar: that the Swahili woman in her dera is not just dressed—she is draped in heritage. Every fold of fabric whispers of ancestors, of coastal winds, of timeless poise.
I continued my walk, but I carried them with me—the sound of their laughter, the scent of jasmine and oud trailing in their wake, the image of a dera catching the wind just right. My camera remained untouched. Some memories aren’t meant for photos. They’re meant for the heart.
Now, every time I return to the Coast, I look for them—not always the same women, but the spirit they carried. I see it in every alley, every corner café, every courtyard where women sit under frangipani trees sharing stories in Swahili.
To the world, they are simply women in flowing dresses. But to me, they are the soul of the Coast. And that one encounter—brief, silent, unforgettable—was enough to remind me that sometimes, beauty arrives softly and leaves you forever changed.
