I stand here at Fort Jesus in Mombasa, looking at the thick coral walls and the old cannons that still point toward the sea. The fort was built by the Portuguese between 1593 and 1596 to control the harbour and the rich trade that passed through it. Its high walls, deep moat, and bastions were meant to be unbreakable. Today they stand quiet, but they still speak, and what they say strikes deep.
These walls once guarded more than ships and goods. They watched over the ivory trade that brought wealth to some and the slave trade that tore families apart. People were bought and sold here, marched through this port, and shipped across the ocean. The fort changed hands many times; Portuguese, Omani Arabs, British, each leaving their mark. What remains is the scar of colonization: a reminder of power taken by force and of lives treated as cargo.
The high towers and strong walls feel like an ivory tower of the past, built to protect the flow of ivory, gold, and human beings. They rise above the ocean as symbols of ancient trade practices that mixed profit with deep cruelty. The cannons and the artifacts inside the fort all tell the same story: this was a site of struggle, and it still is. Every rusted gun, every old map, every piece of pottery recovered from the harbour floor speaks of conflict, of sieges that lasted years, of disease and starvation inside these walls, of people fighting for control of the coast and of the people who lived here.
The colonial wound runs deeper than the stones. The Portuguese came first, claiming the sea routes and forcing their presence on the Swahili coast. Then the Omani rulers turned the fort into a centre for the slave and ivory trades, making fortunes while countless lives were broken. Later the British took over, turning the fort into a prison. What began as a military outpost became a place of confinement and control. Colonization did not only take land and labour. It tried to rewrite belonging. It left behind unequal systems, divided histories, and a lingering sense that the ground itself still carries the weight of those who were never asked if they wanted to be ruled.
And here is the sharpest edge: so much of what was done in this place was carried out in the name of Christ. The fort itself was named Fort Jesus. Crosses and Christian symbols stood alongside the cannons. The language of faith was used to justify conquest, control of trade, and the buying and selling of human beings. Injustice wore the clothes of religion. That wound still cuts. When the name of Christ is placed over violence and greed, it does not make the violence holy. It only deepens the scar.
I am here watching and waiting and observing the impact of this cruel history. The walls do not hide it. They hold it. Every stone, every cannon, every view of the sea carries the weight of those who passed through this place in chains or under the shadow of foreign flags. The struggle has changed shape, but it has not ended. The economic gaps, the questions of identity, the quiet tension between memory and tourism, all of these are part of the same long wound. Standing here far from my own home, I see how the past still shapes the present. The fort is no longer a weapon. It is a witness. And I am here, listening to what it has to say.
Read more about the Author Here; Philip Kakungulu
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