"Musa, man. I am Musa.
I am a Rasta man, man.
How are you man!?"

"Nice to meet you, Musa. Do you play music?"
I am a little perplexed by the fresh way Musa moves over to my table. He is a skinny sixteen year-old with braided long hair, dressed in khakis and baggy CK-jeans, and speaks with a heavy California accent. We are outside the dilapidated palace of Zanzibar’s Sultan having a coffee at the Palace park kiosk. Zanzibar is known for thieves, con-men and beggars and I am alert!

"All right, man. Cool! Would you like a coffee?" I mumble.

"A Coke will be alright. Don’t worry, I’ll get it myself."

Musa served himself at the counter, then drank most of his Coke in two large gulps directly from the can before he returned and sat down at my table.
I wondered what he was going to sell me next. . . . ..

"You make movies, man? You look like one of those guys who makes movies around here. You need a little music. You need me, man. I am a Reggae singer.
Da----da, da, da----da….," Musa said and hummed one of Bob Markey’s songs.

"Is that so, Musa. Now, what exactly is it you sing?" I asked with suspicion.

Musa pulled a knife from his pocket and started playing drum with its blade on the table.
"We play Reggae man. You know, Reggae from Jamaica. Can’t you tell. I am a Rasta man."

"Well, Musa, I always thought that Rasta man come from Ethiopia. You know, Ras Tafari, Haile Selassie, the last emperor of Ethiopia?" I said and followed Musa’s example, pulled my large camping knife and drummed the blade on the table.

Musa smiled with a big smile.
"Are you kidding, man? Rasta is Jamaican, man. In Ethiopia are only dead people, man. No Reggae. Are you crazy man?"
Musa flips his braided hair locks rebelliously.

In his face I can see all his ancestors, Hindi, Arab, Negroid and even blue-gray European eyes. Musa’s right hand is shriveled up from polio. The fingers bent over all the way outside the hand. I wonder whether he can hold anything with it. The long cuff of his groovy khaki shirt hides the problem for curious eyes.

"Nice shirt you have, Musa. All American? Let me read the label. Ah!, L.L.Bean, all cotton khaki, oversized! The right stuff man, cool!" I check out his collar label and at the same time his back and sides searching for other blades.
He is clean as far as I can tell, but he may still have something up his sleeve.

"Got the shirt from a friend of L.A., man! Cool, Doode, real cool!"

At the end of all his American slang English, Musa dropped out of his act. As he guides me through the maze of alleyways of Zanzibar’s 400 year-old Stone Town. We are on
our way to visit the former slave market.

"My father has 15 wives, not all at the same time. He marries one, separates and takes another. We are Muslims, you know. Muslim men are allowed two women at the same time. Divorce is so easy. You just tell the woman: ‘I divorce you’ and that is it. You are free to go have the next one.

My father keeps women for 2 months only. If she was not pregnant of his baby boy after two months, he divorces and takes another one. Women are very expensive, but secondhand ones are sheep. You can buy a secondhand woman for just one dress, or
a pair of shoes. My father always bought secondhand ones after my mother."

I can tell that Musa is really not very proud of his father. He looks a little sad when he tells the story. Then he changed his voice and with a lot of macho asked: "You want a woman, man? I can get you one, in one hour. Anything you want. Cheap too!"

"No, thank you, Musa. Where are the cells for the slave prisoners?"

One minute later, we crawl into deep underground dungeons. At first, I can hardly see anything, then my eyes get used to the darkness. There are no other visitors.

What a perfect place for a robbery, I think, and before my thoughts are up, there are suddenly two more boys, scruffy beggars!

Musa screamed something in Swahili. He gave me a push and I fell against the wall.
I saw his knife flicker in the dark and in one second I pulled mine. My heart beat wildly, but nothing happened to me. Musa rolled over the floor on top of one of the muggers. The second one disappeared into the dark.

Musa held a knife in his deformed hand, right onto the mugger’s throat, and hisses:
"I cut you off your ‘kichwa’ man, your head, you bastard!"

"Let him go, Musa. Let him go!" I ordered. Then the mugger slips away as fast as he could.

Back in the street, we sit down and have another Coke.
Musa gives me a big smile. "You know, I have one hand like yours and one magic hand. The music that comes from my magic hand is magic.
You better make a movie with me man.
When I become famous, I will be too expensive for you!"