This idyllic village was at the height of its glory between 1829 and 1857 when five mosques were built, including the famous Friday mosque built in 1829.

It’s still in use and is unique because unlike most other mosques along the coast, it supports a minaret.

It’s the crack of dawn and I am hurrying up and down the dunes to escape the sand flies that, at certain times when temperatures soar and the wind stills, come out in droves.

Their bite is nasty but I brave them for the one morning just to see the ocean open from the crest of the dune.

The sand dunes of Shela are famous; they are the water towers of the island.

Without them there would be no fresh water.

Across the channel, Manda Island slumbers while the fishermen in the dhows with the white sails take to the open ocean in search of fish.

The tide is just right and I meet up with Tasmin Keshavjee who started Wings of Grace to supply water tanks to the needy on Manda Island.

It is humbling to meet such a person – a few years ago on an island-hopping spree, she forgot her water bottle and realised that there was no fresh water on the island.

The villagers had to come to Lamu Island for it or trek miles in search of one of the few springs of fresh water.

Week-long wedding

It’s late morning by the time we walk to the far end of the beach and swim in the sea.

Hungry, we stroll back past the whitewashed Friday mosque and through the village to Fishbone house, ‘my’ private house.

It’s a little eccentric; a whale-bone makes a frame on the sand banks of the patio, and its vertebrates are propped as art deco against the coral rag walls with rudders from an ancient dhow.

There’s a Swahili wedding in the village and everyone is invited.

There’s plenty of food and fun, the floor covered with mkekas (mats) for the women to sit on.

In the late afternoon the men take to the main square to celebrate with the groom.

A musician plays the zumari, a flute from the days of old. The tempo builds up as men challenge each other at the traditional kirumbizi dance, a mock fight with staves.

“It needs a lot of practice because it’s not so much about strength but how you hold the stick and move to the beat of the drums,” Thabit Omar Mohamed whose sister is the bride, tells me.

The celebration finally comes to an end because the men have to hurry for evening prayers.

We stroll through the narrow alleys, past women clad in black veils and modern buibuis, and men in white kanzus.

As the sun sinks, a lone fisherman walks in the shallow tide under the moon and the stars.

He spears a squid in a lightening moment. He will use it as bait for the bigger fish in the open seas.

As he wades, the phosphorescence sparkles in the sea like gold glitter on black velvet.

Later, we stroll out of Fishbone House to the kupamba, where the bride, dressed in her white gown, steps out for all to see her after the nikaah, and we dance the night away.

By RUPI MANGAT