For the man outside the medina who gave me a shell bracelet. Essaouira, Morocco

Dear Momodu,

I met you on the street outside the medina—the old walled part of town—in Essaouira, Morocco, on December 31, 2025

I had decided to spend New Year’s Eve in Marrakech. Two full days into staying inside the medina, I realized what a bad idea it was. The Marrakech I had in mind was a writer’s paradise—a place filled with inspiring corners, old bookshops, and collections of writers’ cafes. Boy, did I have the wrong idea. I was greeted, instead, by tourist-packed streets. You had to push through a sea of people to get to a coffee shop, and when you finally reached one, it was bustling with crowds grabbing iced matchas for Instagram or chatting loudly over shopping bags.

Exhausted by the commotion, I decided to take a day trip to a nearby sea town called Essaouira. I needed to escape Marrakech, and coincidentally, a friend from Lebanon had sent me a recommendation for a coffee shop there that reminded her of me.

So, the very next morning, I took a minivan and arrived in Essaouira. It was everything I imagined: a beautiful, calm city with a beach, a port, and a medina that wasn’t so overwhelming. Wrapped in blue and white, the medina was inviting. People smiled brightly; a Senegalese man played his guitar beautifully in the central square; the little streets intertwined and opened into new passages. I spent four hours walking the alleyways, getting lost and finding hidden gems, petting cats, and spending some time in the coffee shop my friend recommended. Around 5 PM, I walked out of the medina to wait for my bus back to Marrakech.

You were standing a few feet away, selling T-shirts, hats, and beach jewelry. I smiled as our eyes met. You walked over and started talking to me. I told you I didn’t want to buy anything, and you said that was okay—you just wanted to talk. I told you my name was Mia and that I was from India. You told me your name was Momodu, that you were from Senegal, and that you had moved to Essaouira six years ago. You told me your mama still lived in Senegal and that you hadn’t been home since you moved. You asked where my mama and papa lived; I told you they were back in South India and that I don’t get to see them often, either.

You had deep brown eyes and beautiful, dark skin. You gave me a bracelet made of shells. When I said I couldn’t buy it, you told me it was a present and slipped it around my wrist. The shells graced my skin gently. You seldom smiled, and your eyes carried a sorrowful depth I didn’t know the reason for. You told me I was the first stranger to have smiled at you in a long time. That made me sad. What a terrible world we live in, where we are so self-absorbed and enveloped by commodities and consumerism that a smile becomes a rarity—and receiving one becomes a luxury.

I asked if you were happy. Your lips broke into a small smile and, instead of answering, you asked if I was going back to Marrakech that evening. I told you I was. You asked me to come back and see you sometime. I said I would, and you walked away, waving goodbye.

My bus came just then. By the time I got to my seat and looked back, you were gone. I touched my shell bracelet and whispered, “Bye, Momodu.” I still have that bracelet, and every time I look at it, I think of your deep brown eyes. I hope you’re doing well, and that you get to go home to Senegal soon to see your mama.

With love,

Mia

P.S: I wrote this to process the tenderness and the beauty of that afternoon. It’s a reminder to me—and maybe to you—that a smile costs nothing but can mean everything to the person receiving it.

© Dear Dhuniya 2026