34 grandfather, our voices weaving together memories of a man whose legacy could hardly be forgotten. The next morning, I eagerly returned to the beach, expecting to see Sheikh Obaid ibn Jum‘a al-Maktoum and his group. However, the arbor stood desolate, stripped of its furniture. “They must have gone hunting,” I mused to myself. I sat on the shore, my eyes scanning the horizon. To my left stretched an empty expanse of sand, save for the industrious white crabs, known as “shanayib,” scurrying about to build their intricate towers. To my right, a ship with a billowing white sail glided smoothly, towing a small boat called a “mashwa” (a Swahili word
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