It was contained within a flat, glossy, black plastic sleeve that reflected my eager face as I opened it. Inside, folded into quarters, was the chessboard. When unfurled to its full size, the flat magnetic pieces were already in place: two ranks of pawns, the kings and queens, the rooks, knights and bishops.

This chess set was a glimpse of the world beyond Africa — a world of sophisticated games, of shiny new materials, of exciting innovations. Over the horizon, I felt, the future was being forged without me.

Over the next few days, on that fold-out set, my grandfather taught me how to play chess. It was a refined, complex game that appeared to be a manifestation of European civilization.

It was only much later that I began to wonder about the game I often saw Africans playing in tree shade in remote villages or on shop verandas in the towns. When I was finally introduced to bao, I discovered a strategic board game every bit as sophisticated as chess. And what’s more, travel versions of bao had existed for centuries.

Bao is a mancala game, a family of traditional board games played throughout Africa and Asia. The board itself consists of a number of pits into which the two players alternately place the playing pieces. The objective is to capture the opponent’s pieces.

The precise rules and layout of the board vary from region to region. In East Africa, a typical bao board consists of 32 pits arranged in four rows of eight. As soon as a game begins in a public place, passersby invariably stop to watch and offer advice.

When, in my 20s, I inherited my grandfather’s travel chess set, I soon found that despite its smart design, it had a flaw: It was very easy to lose the pieces. A couple of pawns were already missing. Before long, I also lost one of the queens and the set was rendered useless.

The travel version of bao suffers from no such shortcomings. On a walking safari in Zambia, each time we set up camp, the porters stalked around the campsite collecting seeds or stones to use as playing pieces. They would then select a comfortable spot under a tree, create the board by grinding a fist into the ground to make the pits, and then begin their game.

Occasionally I would wander over to watch. I was familiar with the basic principles but could never keep up with the game play. The players shuffled the playing pieces in and out of the pits at lightning speed. The onlookers provided a constant commentary, revealing the ebb and flow of fortune.

I came to realize that Western sophistication is often a veneer. The travel chess set wasn’t an innovative advancement. It was merely a new way to sell an old product. The game itself — just like bao — is timeless.

I remind myself of that whenever I embark on a flight departing Africa. As the passengers stow their luggage, there are often tourists struggling to fit a particularly bulky souvenir into the overhead locker. Large, flat and cumbersome. I can make out beneath the protective covering of bubble wrap the distinctive form of a carved wooden bao board.