it is pouring out when my man bakurube and i enter amina residences, get an access card from the reception and step into the lift.

‘i should become a member,’ says bakurube. he’s the kind of person who would belong in a club like this. even his phone number starts with triple seven. so, obviously, a man of refinement, our bakurube.

‘woah,’ he exclaims when we enter the lounge. ‘polished wood floors!’

he begins tapping on a section with the pointy end of his shoe. ‘this is where we’re going to have our monthly meetings from now on.’

someone takes my umbrella from me, and i ask them if lunch is still served.

‘actually, we’re doing some work in the kitchen,’ says the filipino server apologetically. ‘but you can have coffee, sandwiches, and cake.’

‘let us, then,’ says bakurube and orders two iced coffees, a big slice of butter cake and a tandoori chicken sandwich.

‘is there anywhere i can smoke?’ he asks and the server says he may on the terrace.

the view up there is pretty spectacular even on this dismal day. the glassy, red-edged facade of the new BML building stares at me while i take a seat across from bakurube.

‘i want to get my boats on a magazine like this,’ he says, showing me a photo of a local hospitality magazine. bakurube is a model boat builder. that is, he ‘builds’ small, tasteful replicas of bahtheli, bokkuraa, and so forth. check them out on his page @theartstoryofmaldives. he has some strange ideas about our country’s history like most his kind.

‘why don’t you advertise on husenfulhu.com?’ i ask, testing the waters.

‘not big enough,’ he responds with a dead-serious expression.

‘i have totally organically acquired almost five hundred -‘

‘tell me when you have five thousand.’

our food arrives. the tandoori chicken sandwich tastes pretty good, distinctly tandoori with the crisp freshness of lettuce, and pops of flavour from raw onions.

‘this butter cake,’ says bakurube. ‘it is pretty fucking good.’

‘yeah?’

‘i eat a lot of cake so i should know,’ he says, brushing off my scepticism. ‘have some.’

i do and it isn’t bad at all. just not worth raving about.

as for advertising, maybe i should try a different tactic. i show bakurube the website.

‘it looks great. super professional.’ he says.

‘yeah, of course, man. it was done by a pair of geniuses.’

‘who?’

‘oh you won’t know them. thakuru, alibe. oh and aisaadhi.’

‘it’s very good. very good.’

he takes a vape out and has a puff.

‘i’m glad i’m working with the best writer in the maldives on this boat project,’ he says.

‘ah, well,’ i begin, feeling the heat rise in my face. ‘i mean…’

‘yes, have you read easaalhu’s descriptions? honestly. just flawless and PACKED with ancient dhivehi. what a genius.’

easaalhu?!! a genius? he’s a pathetic hasbeen with just enough talent to fool the average man, in this instance bakurube, into thinking he is profound. i nod curtly. bakurube seems not to notice my displeasure. then he gets a call.

‘i’ve got to go,’ he says. ‘thanks for showing me this place, i’m going to be a member pronto.’

who the hell says pronto?

he takes care of the bill downstairs, and he didn’t ask me to split, so i assume it isn’t much.

we part ways.

easaalhu, i mutter as i walk home in the ankle-high water near majeediyya. ‘fucking easaalhu. i hope your plans for those stupid boats all capsize, bakurube.’

‘are you ok?’ asks a policeman.

‘people have NO TASTE!’ i scream. ‘NONE AT ALL!’