My grandfather loved fountain pens. He collected them, testing each potential new one carefully in the shop before he bought it and then, carrying it home wrapped in tissue paper, already anticipating which ink he would use first . He slipped out in the evenings, leaving the noise of his eight children and many grandchildren behind and making his way to the mosque. He had long since stopped practicing his faith but old habits are hard to break. He enjoyed meeting his comrades there, men who still wore suits and believed in the power of global revolutions and newspaper editorials. Dar Es Salaam nights were soft, a strange blend of warm and cool at the same time. . Everywhere there was the smell of cloves and coffee, of roasted peanuts wrapped in newspaper cones, of chai from the Indian neighbours, and baking challah bread from the Jewish family who ran the bakery behind Coca Cola Factory. African nights are deceptive: they should be quiet retreats from the business of the day, but in reality, twilight is a signal for the inhabitants to swarm across the streets in search of music, conversations and each other. My grandfather would take his newspapers and his fountain pen and head out into the evening, making his way through the vibrant, noisy streets until he reached the mosque. He would stand outside, patiently waiting for the services to end and his friends to come out through the main doors. 

I think of him often, a tall man with blue eyes and the stern expression of a school master, of the way he read newspapers with serious dedication, underlining important lines with his fountain pen, then carefully blowing on the ink until it dried. I would sit on his knee sometimes, an annoying little girl and her doll in matching dresses that my grandmother made. I was the first  girl grandchild so I did not have to wear my boy cousins’ outgrown clothes that had passed down the line. I had my own dresses sewn with ribbon ties, and small buttons. I had special notebooks for my lessons, and my grandfather would write This Book Belongs to Mariyam with blue ink and his fountain pen on the front page, carefully keeping to the lines. 

I miss the time when someone loved me enough to write my name with the ink of a fountain pen.