moosaalhu and i get some coffee from the shop across berebedhi mart near raalhugandu. it’s just past one, and i’m in need of something to pick me up because one cannot afford to be slow-witted in the company of this man.

i get the illy cremespresso, which, for those who’re not in the know, looks and tastes like coffee flavoured ice cream. i don’t know how much it cost cos moosaalhu is handling that side of affairs.

so, we walk over to raalhugandu and sit down on the vinyl covered bench under the kuredhi. (saththaaru would say ironwood tree to display his cavernous [yes, hollow] knowledge of the english names of our maldivian flora, but kuredhi works fine for me).

‘who would have thought,’ says moosaalhu settling into the bench.

‘thought what?’ i ask.

‘that it’s such a nice, breezy day here,’ he says. and he’s right, there’s a delicious breeze despite the searing heat – the may sky is haze free and the sun beams down without a filter onto our little city.

‘and most importantly,’ i tell him. ‘it’s free! why don’t people come here to chill in the middle of the day to take a break from work?’

moosaalhu grins. oh no.

‘for one thing, i bet they don’t have the luxury of wfh like you,’ he begins.

‘er wfh?’ i say, scooping up giant dollops of coffee to quicken my wit.

‘anyway, it takes a bit of a ride to get here, not everyone lives in the vicinity.’

‘vicinity, huh?’ i reply.

‘yes, vicinity. why, is that the wrong choice of words mr englishman?’

a cloud of anger obscures my thought as i try to come up with a retort.

then moosaalhu leans over and squints at the horizon.

‘do you see that?’

‘what?’ i bark.

‘it looks like the mast of a sailboat or something.’

beyond us against the blue horizon i make out a tall white object that seems to stand still.

‘it’s probably a building in maafushi,’ i tell him.

‘maafushi is THAT way,’ points moosaalhu grinning.

then it disappears!

‘wow,’ whistles moosaalhu. ‘what the hell WAS that?’

i am stumped. what the fuck was that, really? i glance at my coffee cup – it’s empty. meanwhile, a young white man carrying a professional seeming camera is walking about, taking photos of a mesh net bulging with waste that hangs from a kaani tree. who IS this guy?

‘let’s move,’ says moosaalhu.

as i enter my home, it comes to me:

‘is it MY fault your father couldn’t afford to send you off to a native-english speaking country?’

goddammit.

next time, i’ll drink two espressos before i meet him.

yeah. next time.