The Tides That Brought You

(And the Sea That Took You Away)

by Tess

The Indian Ocean smelled like possibility that Friday afternoon. Salt, coconut oil, and the faintest hint of grilling seafood hung in the humid air as I pushed through the crowd at Jacaranda Beach Hotel, my bare feet sinking into sand so white it hurt to look at under the midday sun. Somewhere ahead, bass throbbed like a second heartbeat. Afrobeat mingling with reggae as East Africa’s hottest DJs warmed up for what billboards had called "the ultimate beach paradise." Summer Tides 2025.

Two days of freedom. Two days that would split my life into before and after.

I’d come alone, a last-minute decision after my best friend bailed. "It’s all Gen Zs and influencers, Tess," she’d warned. "You’re twenty-nine. You’ll feel ancient." But the turquoise water stretching to infinity, the pulse of music vibrating in my ribs, the sheer aliveness of it. I needed this. I’d booked the Bella Seaview apartment, a tiny beachfront haven with Wi-Fi so weak it forced detachment. Perfection.

I found an empty patch of sand near a volleyball net strung haphazardly between palm trees. Tugging my oversized hat lower, I watched bodies glistening under the coastal sun - dancers lost in rhythm, couples tangled in laughter, groups splashing in the shallows. A pang hit me. Loneliness, sharp, and familiar. That’s when the volleyball sailed out of bounds like a misguided comet and slammed into my shoulder.

"Ow!" The hat flew off. I clutched my stinging skin.

"JAMAL! Your lethal serve strikes again!" someone yelled.

And then he was there. Kneeling in the sand beside me, his shadow blocking the sun. "Hi, stranger. Please accept my deepest apologies, and this peace offering?"

He held out a fresh coconut, straw already inserted. His voice was warm honey, low and textured. I looked up, squinting. Sunlight haloed his close-cropped hair. Sweat sheened his dark skin, highlighting sharp cheekbones and eyes the color of dark roast coffee - intense, observant, framed by laugh lines that hinted at frequent smiles. He wore only swim trunks, revealing a lean, muscular build. A thin silver chain glinted at his neck.

"I’m Tess," I said, accepting the coconut. The water inside was cool, faintly sweet. "And your peace offering is accepted… Jamal?"

"The one and only." His grin was disarming, wide and genuine. "Though my volleyball team might tell you I’m more of a menace than a man." He gestured to the net where a group of guys were heckling him good-naturedly. "Join us? We need a sacrificial lamb… I mean, a sixth player."

Something reckless, something I hadn’t felt in years, sparked in my chest. "Only if you promise not to aim any more missiles at me."

"Scout’s honor." He helped me up, his hand rough and warm around mine. A jolt, subtle but electric, passed between us. I didn’t let go immediately. Neither did he.

Day 1: High Tide Connections

We played volleyball until the sun dipped low, painting the sky in violent streaks of orange and purple. Jamal was terrible. Delightfully so. He lunged, stumbled, missed easy shots with dramatic flair, making his friends - Kito, Ben, Jose, and Mwangi - roar with laughter. I discovered a competitive streak I’d forgotten, diving for saves, my own laughter bubbling up freely.

"Sema tu ukweli, Jamal, (Admit it, Jamal)," Kito teased during a water break. "Umemleta atuchanganye (You brought her over just to distract the other team with her… skills)."

Jamal shot me a look, half-apologetic, half-amused. "Is it working?"

"Only on you," I retorted, flicking water at him. He caught my wrist, his thumb brushing my pulse point. The laughter around us faded for a heartbeat. His eyes held mine. The air crackled.

As dusk settled, transforming the festival into a neon dreamscape, the music shifted. Deeper, slower. Soulful Swahili lyrics floated over synths. Jamal bought us skewers of grilled prawns dripping with spicy tamarind sauce from a bustling stall. We ate walking along the water's edge, the waves hissing over our ankles.

"Tourist or local?" he asked.

"Nairobi born and raised. You?"

"Mombasa coast. Born with salt in my blood, my grandmother says." He gestured towards the darkening ocean. "She’s a fisherwoman. Taught me to read the tides before I could read books." He spoke of the sea with reverence, a love story woven through generations. He worked now as a marine biologist, studying coral restoration near Shimoni. "These reefs? They’re our history. Our future. Dying because we’re not listening." Passion vibrated in his voice, a counterpoint to the festival's carefree beats.

Later, we found a semi-secluded spot on a dune, away from the densest crowds. We shared a bottle of Kenyan Originals cider, the bubbles tart and sweet on my tongue. Jamal pointed out constellations drowned out by city lights back home - the Southern Cross, Scorpius. His arm brushed mine. The warmth of him was a magnet.

"I saw you earlier," he confessed, voice low. "Sitting alone. You looked… like a painting. All that fierce red hair against the blue. Untouchable."

"Not untouchable," I whispered. The admission hung between us.

He leaned closer. The world narrowed to the sea’s sigh, the distant thump of bass, the scent of his skin - salt and something earthy. His lips were soft, tentative at first, then surer. Fireworks? No. This was deeper. A tectonic shift. The kiss tasted of cider, the ocean, and something entirely new. A promise whispered against my mouth. When we pulled apart, breathless, his forehead rested against mine. The chaotic festival faded into a blissful blur.

"Stay with me tonight," he murmured, not a demand, but a question.

My answer was another kiss.

Day 2: Low Tide Revelations & Rising Storms

I woke in Jamal’s rented beachfront villa, tangled in thin sheets. Early morning light streamed through the open windows, painting golden stripes across his sleeping face. He looked younger, peaceful. Last night replayed in flashes: stumbling into his villa, laughter echoing off cool tiles; the shock of cool ocean water as we’d run into the sea under the moonlight, clothes abandoned on the sand; his body moving against mine on the wide bed, a rhythm older than time, urgent and tender.

He stirred, his eyes opening, finding me instantly. A slow, sleep-soft smile spread across his face. "Not a dream then."

We spent the morning exploring the festival beyond the music. Jamal was a tactile guide. His hand constantly finding mine, my waist, the small of my back. We browsed stalls overflowing with intricate Makonde carvings and shimmering Lamu silver. He haggled playfully for a delicate seashell bracelet and clasped it around my wrist. "To remind you," he said, "of the tide bringing treasures."

He insisted we join the sunrise yoga session. As we moved through poses on mats laid directly on the sand, the rising sun warming our skin, Jamal’s focus was intense, almost meditative. He moved with a natural grace. Afterwards, over strong Swahili coffee and fluffy mandazi doughnuts, he spoke of his work again, the frustration and hope battling in his voice.

"The corals… it’s like watching a library burn. Species vanishing before we even name them. But we found a patch near Chale Island last month… resilient. Adapting. It gives me hope. Makes the fight worth it." His gaze locked onto mine. "Like finding something unexpected and beautiful in the chaos."

The air thickened between us. Two days. It was insane. Yet, the connection felt profound, forged in sunlight and saltwater.

He booked us a jet ski adventure with the Diani Yacht Club. Jamal drove, expertly maneuvering the turquoise swells. I clung to him, shrieking with exhilaration as we bounced over waves, wind whipping my hair. He shouted over the roar of the engine, pointing out a pod of dolphins arcing gracefully nearby. Freedom tasted like salt spray.

We took a break on a quieter stretch of beach. Lying on a rented towel, bodies close, the world felt perfect. He traced patterns on my damp shoulder. "Tess," he began, his voice serious. "This… us… it feels…"

"Fast?" I supplied, my heart hammering.

"Real," he countered. "Like something you dive into, even if it’s deep water." He propped himself up on an elbow, looking down at me. His expression was open, vulnerable. "I know it’s only been a day. But I want more. After the festival. Come to Shimoni? See my reefs? Meet my formidable grandmother?"

Joy, bright and terrifying, surged through me. "Yes," I breathed. "Yes, Jamal."

The kiss that sealed it was deep, filled with a future suddenly shimmering on the horizon.

But paradise has cracks. As we walked back towards the main festival grounds around noon, hand-in-hand, a low chant began to ripple through a section of the crowd, mostly young people gathered near a speaker tower. It started as a murmur, then grew louder, angrier:

"RUTO MUST GO! RUTO MUST GO!"

The music faltered, then stopped abruptly. An uncomfortable silence fell, broken only by the relentless waves and the rising chant. Tension crackled in the air. Jamal’s hand tightened on mine, his body tensing. His easy smile vanished, replaced by a grim alertness.

"Trouble?" I whispered.

"Politics," he muttered, his eyes scanning the crowd. "Stupid timing." He tried to steer me away, but the crowd surged. We got separated for a frantic moment. I saw him pushing back towards me, his face tight with concern, when a young man, eyes blazing, recognized him.

"Jamal! Jamal Kibet! Isn't your family bankrolling this party? While they bleed us dry?" The accusation hung heavy.

Jamal froze. A flicker of something, shame? anger? crossed his face. He pulled me close, shielding me slightly with his body. "Not here, Eli," he said, his voice low but firm. "Not now."

"Always hiding!" the young man spat before melting back into the chanting crowd.

Jamal didn’t meet my eyes immediately. He pulled me quickly through the dispersing crowd as the music tentatively restarted, a forced cheerfulness now underlying the beat. We didn’t stop until we reached the relative quiet near the Kongo River excursion sign-up booth.

"Jamal…?" I asked, confused. "What was that?"

He ran a hand over his face, the weight of the world seeming to settle on his shoulders. "My father," he began, his voice rough, "works closely with the government. Infrastructure deals. My younger brother… George… his events company, Tisap, is one of the festival sponsors." He wouldn’t look at me. "I don’t agree with them, Tess. I haven’t taken a shilling from my father since I started my PhD. I live on grants and my grandma’s fish stew. But the name… it’s a target." He finally met my gaze, his eyes raw. "I should have told you."

The revelation landed like a stone. The carefree marine biologist carried a political anchor. Yet, seeing his vulnerability, the conflict etched on his face, didn’t push me away. It deepened something. He chose his path, separate from privilege.

"I don’t care about your family, Jamal," I said, reaching up to touch his cheek. "I care about you. The man who kisses like a revelation and fights for dying corals."

Relief washed over his face, profound and sweet. He pulled me into a fierce embrace, burying his face in my hair. "Thank you," he breathed. "Tess… I…" He didn’t finish, but the unspoken words hung between us, vast and precious.

We sought solace away from the political undercurrents. He took me to the sacred Kaya Kinondo forest, a UNESCO site. Walking the shaded, silent paths beneath ancient trees, the air thick with the scent of earth and mystery, felt like stepping into a cathedral. Jamal spoke softly of the Digo community’s traditions, of spirits guarding the forest, of respect for the land. It was a different kind of passion, a deep reverence that resonated in my soul. He belonged to this coast, to its stories and its struggles, in a way I was just beginning to understand.

"Promise me something," he said as we emerged into the late afternoon light near the forest edge.

"Anything."

"If something ever happens… promise you’ll bring me back here? To the forest or the sea? Not some sterile city cemetery."

A chill, completely separate from the forest shade, touched my spine. "Don't say that."

He squeezed my hand, his smile tinged with a melancholy I hadn’t seen before. "Just promise."

"I promise," I whispered, the words tasting like sand.

The Cruelest Tide

The promised storm hit just after sunset.

The day’s oppressive humidity had finally broken. We’d been dancing near the main stage, lost in a sweaty, joyful crush, the electrifying beats of DJ Joe Mfalme pulsing through us. Jamal held me close, his hands possessive on my hips, his lips brushing my ear. The world was music, his scent, the shared heat of our bodies. The future felt bright, tangible. Shimoni. Reefs. His grandmother’s stew.

Then the wind came. A sudden, fierce gust that tore hats from heads and sent plastic cups skittering across the sand. A collective gasp rose from the crowd. The DJ faltered. Lightning split the sky—a jagged, terrifying tear of white light, followed almost instantly by a booming crack of thunder that vibrated in my teeth.

Rain followed, not gentle drops but a monsoon-like deluge. It fell in sheets, icy and relentless, instantly drenching everyone to the skin. The music cut out completely this time. Screams mixed with panicked shouts as the orderly festival dissolved into chaos. People bolted for cover towards the hotels and bars lining the beach.

"Tess! This way!" Jamal yelled over the roar of the wind and rain, gripping my hand tightly. He didn’t head for the crowded hotel entrances, already jammed with people. Instead, he pulled me towards the beachfront road, presumably aiming for his villa a few hundred meters down. The sand, instantly saturated, sucked at our feet. Visibility dropped to near zero in the driving rain. The wind howled like a banshee, whipping palm fronds through the air.

We stumbled past the Jacaranda hotel entrance, a frantic mass of bodies trying to push inside. The tide, I noticed with a jolt of primal fear, was incredibly high and rising fast, fueled by the storm surge. Waves that had lapped gently hours ago now crashed violently onto the beach, eating away the sand, reaching hungrily towards the road. The tidal charts I’d vaguely registered earlier flashed in my mind – high tide peaking around 2:53 PM, but the storm was pushing it higher, fiercer.

We were halfway to his villa when we heard the scream. High-pitched, desperate, cutting through the storm’s fury.

"HELP! SOMEONE! MY BOY!"

A woman stood near the water’s edge, further down the beach, silhouetted against the violent sea, pointing frantically. A small figure, no more than five or six years old, was being dragged by a receding wave into the churning darkness. His tiny head bobbed, then disappeared beneath a foaming crest.

Jamal stopped dead. His head snapped towards the child, then back to me. His eyes held a universe of conflict—terror, resolve, and a heartbreaking tenderness—all compressed into a split second. The marine biologist who knew these waters, their beauty and brutality. The man who loved fiercely.

"JAMAL, NO!" I screamed, understanding his intention, clutching his arm. "It’s too dangerous! The current!"

He turned to me. Rain streamed down his face like tears. He framed my face with his hands, his touch fierce and final. His lips crashed down on mine—a kiss filled with everything we were and everything we wouldn't be. Salt, rain, love, and a terrifying goodbye.

"Get to the villa! NOW!" he ordered, his voice raw with command. "I have to try!"

He wrenched himself away. I stumbled back, numb. He was already running, a dark streak against the rain-lashed sand, towards the boiling sea where the child had vanished. He didn’t hesitate. He dove straight into the monstrous waves, his powerful strokes cutting through the churning foam.

I stood frozen, soaked to the bone, screaming his name into the wind, my voice ripped away. Time distorted. Seconds felt like hours. I saw Jamal’s head surface near the child. He grabbed the boy, holding his small body above the water. He started fighting his way back, battling the monstrous undertow pulling them seaward. They were maybe fifteen meters out. So close. Hope, wild and fragile, flared in my chest.

Then it happened.

A colossal wave, a dark, liquid mountain fueled by the storm surge and the high tide, rose up behind them. It blotted out the already obscured sky. It hung for a horrifying second before crashing down with the sound of a thousand shattering worlds.

It swallowed them whole.

The wave receded. Debris swirled in the furious water. A single small arm flailed. The boy! He surfaced, gasping, swept closer to shore by the backwash. A man from the crowd, braver than the rest, plunged in and grabbed him, hauling him onto the sand.

But Jamal.

Where was Jamal?

I scanned the heaving, dark water, screaming until my throat shredded. Nothing. Only the relentless, hungry sea.

"JAMAL! JAMAAAAAL!"

I ran towards the water, uncaring of the danger, but strong arms grabbed me, hauling me back. "You can't! It's suicide!" a man yelled.

I fought like a wild thing, but they held me fast. Rescue boats arrived quickly, cutting through the chaotic swell with searchlights. Divers plunged into the churning darkness. The storm raged on, indifferent.

Hours passed. Or maybe minutes. Time had lost meaning. I sat huddled under a makeshift awning near the Jacaranda entrance, wrapped in a coarse blanket someone had thrust upon me, shaking violently. Not from cold. From a void opening inside me. The rescued boy, wrapped in towels, cried softly nearby. His mother sobbed, clutching him, her eyes darting constantly to the unforgiving sea.

Finally, a diver emerged near the shore, his posture heavy. He spoke to the rescue coordinator. The coordinator’s shoulders slumped. He shook his head slowly, his gaze sweeping the beach before landing on me. He walked over, his boots crunching on the wet sand. His face was etched with exhaustion and pity.

"Miss…?"

"Tess," I whispered, my voice a ruin.

"Tess…" He knelt before me. "We… we found him. Caught in the reef further out. The current… it was too strong. I’m so sorry. He’s gone."

The words didn’t compute. Gone. Gone? Not Jamal. Not the man who kissed me under the stars and promised me reefs and stew. Not the man who dove into hell to save a child.

A sound escaped me, not a scream, not a sob, but a raw, animal keening of pure agony that seemed to rip from the very core of my being. It drowned out the storm, the waves, the world. The void inside yawned wide, swallowing everything, the music, the salt, the promise, the future. All that remained was the cruel, crashing sea and the echo of his final, desperate kiss.

Epilogue: Scattering Ashes, Holding Tides

They held a memorial service in Mombasa. A grand affair. Politicians spoke. His father, stoic and imposing, thanked everyone for their condolences. His brother George looked shattered. I stood at the back, anonymous in borrowed black, a ghost haunting the edges of Jamal’s other life. The marine biologist, the coastal son, was barely mentioned. They mourned Jamal Kibet, the dutiful son of privilege. Not my Jamal.

I kept my promise.

A week later, under a sky scrubbed clean and heartbreakingly blue, I stood at the edge of the sacred Kaya Kinondo forest 1, overlooking the Indian Ocean. The sea was calm now, deceptively gentle, glittering like a million scattered diamonds. In my hands, a simple wooden urn held what remained of the man who loved the tide.

The Digo elder who’d guided me here, a friend of Jamal’s grandmother, chanted softly in a language I didn’t understand, words of return, of peace, of spirits joining the ancestors and the sea. The scent of earth and ancient trees surrounded us.

I stepped forward onto the warm rock overlooking the water. The tide was coming in, gentle waves kissing the shore below. Just a regular rise and fall. No fury. No hunger. Just the eternal rhythm.

"Salt in your blood," I whispered, my voice trembling but clear. "Back to the sea."

I opened the urn. The wind, warm and insistent, caught the fine grey ash immediately, carrying it out over the turquoise water. It swirled, danced, and finally settled, becoming one with the vast, beautiful, terrible blue that had given him life and claimed him back.

A single tear escaped, tracing a hot path down my cheek. But it wasn’t just grief. As I watched the last traces of him disappear into the elements he loved, a fragile peace settled over the raw edges of my soul. The sea had taken him, yes. But it had also given him to me, whole and blazing, for two perfect days. It had shown me a love as deep and powerful as the ocean itself, a love that could ignite in a heartbeat and alter the landscape of a life forever.

I touched the seashell bracelet on my wrist, the one he’d clasped there only days ago, a lifetime ago. A tiny treasure brought by the tide.

The tide receded, whispering secrets on the sand. Somewhere, deep beneath the shimmering surface, the resilient corals he fought for continued their silent, stubborn dance of survival. And Jamal? Jamal was part of the current now, part of the rhythm, part of the endless, beautiful, heartbreaking song of the sea.

I turned away from the water, the shell cool against my skin. The tide would rise again. And so, somehow, would I. Carrying the salt, the memory, and the impossible, enduring weight of a love that began and ended with Summer Tides.