The night on the Kenyan coast can be silent.
On the balcony, if there is a slight breeze, I can hear the music of the ocean waves coming from who knows where, crashing against the coral reef offshore.
A few bushbabies squabble and cry in the neighbour's uncultivated land, which looks almost like a jungle, while a few nocturnal birds pierce the night with their cries.
It usually happens in an instant: I inhale the smoke from the cigarette I am enjoying at the end of the day and, before I even have time to exhale, for a few seconds the silence becomes, if possible, even deeper.
My senses immediately focus: what has changed?
The hum of the refrigerator has disappeared, the fan downstairs has stopped spinning, the soft noise of the well pump is silent, the barking of a distant dog pierces the pitch darkness that has descended all around me.
Darkness.

The electricity has gone out again, and it is only a matter of moments before the peace of the night is disturbed by the roar of diesel generators, infernal beasts. I blow out my cigarette smoke in a flash and smell it: it smells of envy, peace and anger. 
That silence, which seems to have been sent by a god or someone like him to appease my soul, is broken.
From the west, from the east, from the north and from the south: we are surrounded.
Like dragons, the generators start up, first the automatic ones, then a few minutes later the manual ones.
They cough, sputter, growl, some purr, others hiss like jealous cats.
But they all look like old, slightly battered beasts that, despite their age, still do not disdain a good hunt in the savannah.
Then all around, as if I had been catapulted into a graveyard, little lights reappear here and there in the darkness: the gravestones, which are the facades of distant houses, reflect the dim light of the dim bulbs.
We don't have a generator, so we are condemned to enjoy the silence of our garden while living with envy for those who have decided to install one, and even more so for those who have been able to afford solar panels.
And then there is the anger at yet another unjustified power cut.
I hate blackouts not for the event itself, but for the mosquitoes who, realising that the fan in my room is silent, immediately organise coaches and group trips to visit my sweaty relic lying on the now unbearably warm bed.
 
The extent of the tragedy in Diani can be gauged by observing how widespread the blackout is.
I stub out my cigarette in the ashtray and immediately grab my phone, open WhatsApp and find myself in the group dedicated to “Power in Diani”. There are two scenarios: sometimes I find dozens of messages, one after the other, from one end of the town to the other, reporting the sudden darkness, or I encounter silence, at most one or two messages from neighbours who are as tired and gloomy as I am.
In the first case, there is joy - it's like class struggle, power to the people, workers' war: there are many of us, the problem is big, the power will come back soon.
In the second case, despair overwhelms me and I immediately feel like David facing a mammoth Goliath.
Who knows how we will get the power back, we poor lost souls in some random quadrant.
Here in Kwale County, which is roughly the size of Umbria, the electricity company manages the entire territory from a single office. I send my message, reporting the blackout on the KPLC app (the national electricity company - something you have to do immediately and always, in the hope of getting a few shillings back from them if your appliances burn out when the power comes back on with the voltage spiking).
I wait, smoke, sweat - if it lasts forever, I'll light the incense sticks, which at least keep the mosquitoes at bay, and try to sleep. This is Kenya too, and I have laid down my arms in this war. It happened last year, around Christmas. The blackouts came one after another, the residents were furious, now on a war footing.
In 2024, in Diani, Jesus risked coming into the world with the flashing lights off. And out of nowhere, or perhaps thanks to all that confusion, she arrived, KJ, the new almighty and supersonic customer communications representative.
 
When I told some friends about her, they thought she was a bot or artificial intelligence.
But no, KJ is a real woman, with a telephone, patience and WhatsApp. In Diani, we are no longer alone. Whenever the power goes out, she is ready, in the group or on the phone, to listen to complaints, explain what is happening and promise that she will take care of it personally. If the electricity still hasn't come back after a few hours, just call her again and she, as surprised as you are, will marvel at such inefficiency and promise to follow up on the case herself. And then, the power comes back – because, after all, it always does. 
Writing this praise today, I realise that perhaps we have just been duped. Nothing has actually improved: KPLC's unchallenged monopoly continues to reign supreme amid negligence, bribes and controversies, the infrastructure remains inadequate, poles fall like soldiers at the front, there are few means of intervention and the staff are still unqualified and unmotivated. But KJ is there, and her mere presence has kept us in line and made us patient.
At least we feel listened to, so we no longer shout. KJ is always there, whether the power goes out at night, during the day, at Christmas or on Ferragosto, which they don't even celebrate here. He is always there, just a phone call away, ready to return and illuminate our lost lives.
Blessed and cursed positive communication that even beats electrical and infrastructure engineering! Humanism triumphs over technology: here on the South Coast, we are all a little romantic and less enlightened.
And to you, friends of Watamu and Malindi, torn apart not only by KPLC but also by Mawasco, I wish you a KJ of the North Coast! Demand it, fight for it tooth and nail, because, although the land of Africa is beautiful in its wildness, it would be even better if the WiFi stayed on and the fridge stayed cool.
And if they don't give it to you, sell your generators and install solar panels galore: they say that the feeling of seeing your neighbours in the dark while your batteries keep the lights on is priceless. An (un)healthy satisfaction that almost repays the effort and shillings spent on obtaining a visa that allows you to stay here - in this land that is sometimes dark, sometimes bright, but undoubtedly always electrifying!
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••• Michele Senici, 1993. Educator, teacher, project coordinator. I opened Casa Hera in Diani because I didn't know where to continue my life. Do I understand it now? Certainly not, but that's okay, at least I observe, think and write.