ahanma and i are waiting at the post office, on the first floor. he was summoned here because the good people of maldives customs wanted to interrogate him over a parcel. or ‘item’ as samfa might say.

‘it’s just a guitar pedal,’ he says in exasperation and i nod sympathetically. meanwhile, word on the street is people are getting drugs by the bagful from the post. it feels unfair and unfortunate that ahanma, my most law abiding friend, has been singled out for further questions.

it takes him a while to return but he does with a long cardboard package that i don’t offer to help carry. why would i? he needs the exercise.

‘want to take the bus?’ i ask. ‘we’re just minutes from the kaanivaa stop.’

it will be cheaper too instead of splitting a cab as i had earlier suggested.

‘i would but could you hold this a second?’ asks ahanma while i get an urgent call from my mother and am forced to ignore his request.

at the bus stop, ahanma sweats like a bull. that package must weigh a ton.

‘why did they want to question you?’ i ask.

‘it’s about the invoice, just making sure everything is above board.’

‘ah,’ i say as the bus glides in.

‘thank you,’ says ahanma while i briefly take the package from him as he taps his card twice, once for me obviously, on the card reader.

‘i like sitting right behind the front seats at the top,’ i tell him, settling into my seat and handing him back his packaged guitar pedal.

‘do you get carsick?’ he asks, seeming a little concerned as he leans over and opens up the curtains on my left.

‘i do, but i don’t throw up, i get a headache,’ i say.

‘oh, is that better i wonder,’ he says.

‘certainly less malodorous.’

then i actually get a call. from samfa.

‘are you home?’ she asks in a slightly strained voice. she must have forgotten her keys.

‘actually we’re on the bridge to hulhumale,’ i tell her.

‘oh man, i left my keys in the room somewhere,’ she says. of course she did.

‘well, we’re going to be near…’ i look at ahanma who mouths ‘papa sam’s’…
‘we’ll be at papa sam’s, you can come get my keys.’

‘oh thank you husen, i’m going to get a cab,’ she says. ‘you won’t have to wait too long.’

ahanma and i get off at the red wave bus stop and walk towards his place, which is nearby. he puts his package in his garage and we amble over to papa sam’s.

‘you’ve been here before, right?’ he asks.

‘ah, i did some years ago but i don’t recall having a favourable impression.’

‘odd,’ says ahanma. ‘it’s a pretty decent place. i really like their burgers.’

so, we walk in and papa sam’s is bustling with groups and couples in office-wear. we take a seat close to the counter and i get a text from samfa that she’s off the highway.

‘i’ll have the green tea frappe,’ i tell the server, and ahanma orders the same.

samfa arrives before our teas do.

‘hello hello chaps,’ she beams and throws an apologetic glance when i hand her the keys.

‘what’s going on? what’s the occasion?’ she asks and ahanma explains it to her.

‘well, who expects the best from maldives post, really?’ she says. ‘you’d have to be a fool.’

‘it’s not even about being the best,’ says ahanma. ‘it’s about decency.’

‘decency, now there’s a word i don’t hear every day. gentlemen, i shall be off.’ she likes being theatrical when i’m with my friends. it’s part of her allure. her rizz.

‘you’re too old to say rizz,’ says ahanma.

‘i didn’t say anything.’

‘i’m sure.’

and our refreshing beverages arrive in tall ridged glasses, looking like matcha. i take a sip.

‘oh god, i don’t think i can drink this,’ i tell ahanma who is slurping from the wrong end of his straw.

‘what’s wrong?’ he asks.

‘it’s like a really sugary milkshake, too over the top,’ i explain. not that i have anything against sugar, mind you, but even i have my limits. i call the server and exchange it for a cup of green tea, which i sip quietly as ahanma empties his drink.

when the server brings the bill i get a call from my mother, and i tell her i’m on my way while my friend takes care of money matters.

‘next one is on me,’ i tell him and he smiles good naturedly, a generous man, my friend from childhood. he offers to drop me off to my parents’ and i take him up on it.

as we head towards central park on his scooter, ahanma tells me the morning traffic reminds him of galle road.

‘you’re kidding,’ i tell him.

‘no, and it takes up the entire road, it’s a nightmare to be caught in that rush!’ he exclaims.

‘maybe you should write about this,’ i say and ahanma nods.

‘not a bad idea, i find it surprising that i still have things to say,’ he laughs.

‘perhaps it’s the dementia,’ i mutter.

‘sorry?’

‘nothing.’

at my parents’ my mum asks me if i’d like some soup.

‘who am i to refuse soup,’ i say. ‘what kind of soup though?’

‘you have some and tell me what it is,’ she says mysteriously. she likes being coy, the old lady, as my siblings faathumaafulhu and ibrahimdi will know.

‘it smells like lemongrass,’ i tell her. ‘it’s tom yum.’

she smiles.

‘how is it? do you like it?’

she is always anxious for feedback, as am i, so i pretend to be busy eating and she has to repeat the question.

‘it needs some more flavour,’ i tell her. ‘it’s not bad though, but i think a bit watery.’

‘yes, yes,’ she says a little irritably. ‘i put in too much water because of your father.’

‘i’ll take you to a good thai restaurant this week,’ i tell her.

‘you told me you’d take me out to eat venison six years ago.’

‘well mother, life happens,’ i say as she takes away my empty bowl with its lovely soup spoon to the sink.

‘also, mother,’ i say. ‘could you lend me 500 rufiyaa? i haven’t been paid yet but i will return you the money as soon as i have it.’

‘i hope i don’t have to pay for our thai meal at my age,’ she says, handing me a worn five hundred rufiyaa note from her purse. my mother, so little faith in me, and yet she gives and gives.