“The dust of Africa had penetrated my skin pores and entered into my soul”

Take a look at these boots. (The other items have significance, too, but we’ll talk about them another day.)

I wore those boots in Africa, mostly during Kenya Safari, our orientation course. While you read the first three chapters of Grandma’s Letters from Africa, picture me wearing those boots.

All these years later, every time—and I mean every time—I shove my feet into them and cinch up the laces, I ask myself, “Do you think there’s any African dust still on these boots?” Then I smile and answer myself, “I sure hope so!”

Nine years after returning to the States, I discovered that Shel Arensen, a man I ran into from time to time in Kenya, had published a novel, The Dust of Africa.

When I read the book’s description, I knew I had to order it, and I’m so glad I did. It brought back scores of memories—Blue Band margarine, chai, and brown-red puddles. Bata safari boots. Mosquitoes dive-bombing my ears at night.

—And nocturnal hippo noises at Lake Naivasha. Shel described their sounds as “spluttering and wheeze-honking.” In Grandma’s Letters from Africa, I described them as “ghastly bellows and snorts.” Click here to see a brief video clip of hippos and hear some of their noises. (They make other noises, too.)

Shel wrote this about his novel’s main character, Clay Andrews: 

“I slumped into a chair at the Blukat Restaurant on Muindi Mbingu Street opposite the city market. ‘Do you still make the best samosas in Nairobi?’ I asked the waiter.

“‘Ndino Bwana, Yes sir,’ he responded with a smile.

“‘Then bring me four with a cold Coke.’”

Until I read The Dust of Africa, I’d forgotten that we had to ask specifically for a cold soda pop, otherwise it arrived at our table at room temperature. We avoided ice cubes because we couldn’t know if they were made with safe water, so the next best option was refrigerated sodas. I can still hear myself placing my order, “Diet Coke. Cold, but no ice.”

In the book, Clay Andrews continues: “The waiter came back with a small clear plate with four triangular pastries oozing grease onto a white torn-in-half napkin.”

Yes, I remember the oozing grease, but I’d forgotten about the torn-in-half paper napkins. It was a cost-cutting thing. The recollection brought me a smile.

After reading Shel’s book, I felt like I’d spent a few days back in Africa. It was a rich experience.

I was delighted to learn the source of Shel’s title, The Dust of Africa. It comes from an African proverb: “You can’t wash the dust of Africa off your feet.”

I’d never heard that proverb before, but I know what it means. Shel described it well. He wrote, “The dust of Africa had penetrated my skin pores and entered into my soul.”

Yes, I’m sure I still have African dust on my safari boots.

In addition to The Dust of Africa, Shel Arensen has written a number of other books. He has also served as the editor of Old Africa Magazine.