My favourite time of day is the hour just after sunset, roughly between half past six and half past seven in the evening. I'm a fifty-five-year-old fisherman's wife who runs a small food stall in a coastal town near Mombasa, so my days are long and start very early.
At that time I'm usually at home, sitting on the low wall outside our house, which faces the sea. By then I've closed my stall, washed the pots and handed over any leftover food to neighbours.
What I do is quite simple. I make a pot of spiced tea with ginger and cardamom, and my husband joins me once he's mended his nets. Neighbours often stop to chat as they walk home, and my grandchildren run around on the sand until it's too dark to see. Sometimes I just sit quietly and listen to the waves and the call to prayer drifting from the mosque down the road.
I love this time because it's the only part of the day that belongs to me. Mornings are rushed, and the middle of the day is hot and busy with customers. But once the sun goes down, the heat breaks, a cool breeze comes off the water, and the whole town seems to slow down and breathe out. There's also a feeling of satisfaction, because the day's work is finished, whether it went well or not, and there's nothing more I can do about it. It's when my family is all together, and we talk about the small things, like who caught what and who's getting married. Those conversations are what hold us together.