against my better judgment i went and voted. it seemed like a sacred ritual, seeing old men and women trembling out of the voting booth, people who were barely alive using this chance to express their constitutional right. as if it might be the last thing they will do on earth. that kind of conviction is frightening, knowing that it animates those who seem to have both feet in the grave and are hanging on to life by a hair. it reminds me of this line from a swans song:

some people live their lives with a violence that’s pure and clean.

but i am reading into it.

tonight, after the polls, abdurrahman is roasting a dhooni. sampaafulhu is watching TV with nadheemadhi, here at nadhee’s boyfriend’s place.

‘the trend is holding,’ says sampaafulhu clapping her hands. and it does seem that way, over 70% saying no, even at 9. what a thing. what a resounding slap in the face. how would he react to that? this man who seems to have bought his way into everything and believing dhivehin can be bought.

‘aiham isn’t doing too badly, ten or so votes from each foshi,’ says samfa to me.

not too bad for a guy who didn’t finish school, i think.

‘even zariyand is getting more votes than moosy,’ says nadhee and samfa laughs.

moosy. i don’t see the heroism in that beady lizard stare of his. only supercillousness. and cowardice.

‘this dhooni is cooked,’ says abdu. it looks beautiful in its bed of roasted veggies, hands in its pockets, skin a ravishing red.

‘ravishing?’ says samfa while abdu carves the bitc- i mean bird. juices stream down the sides as he moves his knife through the flesh.

‘it’s a bird like no other,’ i tell everyone after my first delicious bite. nadhee’s boyfriend manikfaan echoes this thought but it’s lost in the fervour of people eating. living with a violence that is pure and clean. that is, it leaves no residue on their psyche.