Zanzibar Was Supposed to Be Healing… Until the Engine Died

I’ve been travelling for years — solo travel, budget travel, weekend getaways, random road trips, you name it.

I’ve had my fair share of flight delays, lost luggage, overbooked hotels, and dodgy tour guides. But what happened to me on my last trip to Zanzibar?

Nothing prepared me for it.

It started like this:

I booked a last-minute solo travel experience because my head was hot. I needed peace. Burnout from work, heartbreak from someone who couldn’t even spell “effort”, and Lagos stress pressing me like akara.

So I packed a backpack, grabbed my passport, and said, “If I perish, I perish.”

At Murtala Muhammed Airport, I was already regretting my life decisions. The queue looked like a free concert. A lady behind me said:

“Please, is this the line for East Africa flights?”

I replied, “Yes. Unless we’re all relocating to Canada together.”

She laughed. I didn’t. I was too tired.

When it was finally my turn, the immigration officer looked at my passport, then at me, then back at my passport like he was reading a plot twist.

“You look stressed,” he said.

“Travel heals,” I replied.

“If you say so.”

I entered the plane.

The moment I stepped out of the airport, a warm sea breeze hugged me like a welcome-back message from God.

Blue ocean.

White sand.

Palm trees whispering like gossiping aunties.

Everything felt peaceful.

I checked into my beachfront hostel — wooden hut, mosquito net, ocean view. Pinterest vision.

While I was taking pictures for “proof of life,” a guy walked up to me.

Tall. Calm. Locs. Bright smile.

“Hey, you’re the Nigerian solo traveler, right?” he asked.

I turned. “Yes… how did you know?”

“You were complaining loudly on the plane about legroom.”

Fair enough.

His name was Jayden. Also traveling solo. Also escaping life. Classic.

He invited me to join a small group for a Zanzibar sunset cruise, one of the top things tourists search for when planning a trip to Tanzania.

And honestly? It felt like the perfect travel adventure.

We boarded the dhow boat around 5:30 PM.

Live drums.

Fresh coconut juice.

Soft waves.

That golden-hour sunlight that makes everyone look like a movie character.

Jayden sat beside me and said:

“You know… this is the kind of place people come to fall in love.”

I smirked. “Not me. I came to fall asleep.”

He laughed.

We talked about travel goals, dream destinations, toxic relationships, jobs that drained our souls — typical trauma bonding.

For the first time in months, I felt free.

Just when I thought this trip was giving “Eat, Pray, Love,” life switched to “Fast & Furious.”

Our boat stopped somewhere near Prison Island.

The captain frowned.

“Engine problem,” he said.

Jayden whispered, “No wahala, it’s normal.”

Normal? For who?

Within minutes, the waves got stronger. The captain and his assistant started arguing in Swahili. Tourists were panicking.

One lady screamed, “I didn’t sign up for Titanic experience oh!”

I held the edge of the boat tightly, trying to breathe.

Jayden tapped my shoulder.

“Hey… look.”

I turned.

A rescue boat was approaching.

We were saved.

When we got to shore, everyone was shaking, emotional, relieved — like we just finished NYSC camp.

Jayden walked beside me quietly, then said:

“I actually thought I would die today.”

I exhaled. “Same.”

He nodded.

Then added softly:

“I’m glad I met you before that almost happened.”

I looked at him properly for the first time.

Warm eyes.

Calm smile.

Someone who looked like peace.

But before I could respond, something unexpected happened.

His phone rang.

He stepped aside to pick it.

Then I heard him say:

“Babe, I told you I’ll call you later. Yes, the network here is bad. I love you too.”

I froze.

Babe?

Love you?

Travel romance CANCELLED.

He returned and said, “Sorry, my girlfriend worries too much.”

I smiled politely.

“Don’t worry, I won’t steal you.”

He blushed. “She’s actually joining me next week.”

Fantastic.

All that bonding I thought we shared?

Travel illusion.

I spent the rest of the trip enjoying myself:

Snorkeling with turtles.

Walking through Stone Town.

Trying spicy Swahili food.

Taking long beach walks alone.

Rewriting my life in my journal.

A day before I left, I realized something:

I didn’t travel to find love.

I traveled to find myself again.

And I did.

When I boarded my flight back to Lagos, I whispered to myself:

“This is why I travel — not to escape life, but to remember it.”

And honestly?

It worked.