as we speed towards the bridge on hasanfulhu’s humongous pcx, we find ourselves trapped in patch of traffic. a lorry blocks the path, it’s unloading bags of cement. soon the impatient drivers behind us begin to honk. as does hasanfulhu.

‘why the hell do you do that?’ i shout.

‘to make them hurry.’

‘can’t you see they’re doing that already?’

‘they don’t seem to be.’

and then from this formless chaos emerges a familiar face – bakurube.

‘hey, hey!’ i call out to him.

bakurube stops by hasanfulhu, eyeing his pcx swiftly.

‘there are even bigger motorbikes you could buy you know,’ he says.

‘i don’t want to ride a girl’s bike,’ chuckles hasanfulhu.

‘you know sodiq?’ asks bakurube without missing a beat.

‘who?’ asks hasanfulhu.

‘he works at the youth ministry. don’t you work there?’

‘i work at the capital market now,’ says hasanfulhu.

‘good luck finding a market for THAT,’ says bakurube and slaps me on the arm before disappearing.

‘what a character,’ says hasanfulhu. ‘you should write down that whole exchange before you forget it. for your blog.’

—

at 7pm on a week night, riveli beach is packed with people, a very cosmopolitan crowd. we find our seat at the very back. beyond the deck the beach is barely visible and is swallowed by the night. and it takes the servers more than ten minutes to find us and take our order – a bbq beef pizza.

‘this pizza had better be good,’ says hasanfulhu, fuming. i pay him no mind, he’s not the most discerning of diners.

our meal takes a while coming and hasanfulhu gets grumpy.

‘you should’ve told them who you were,’ he complains.

‘just be quiet,’ i tell him.

i’m too hungry to think and in no mood to tolerate this man’s drivel. it’s been over an hour since we set out on this journey and between the traffic and the service they’ve really made short work of my patience.
and then the pizza arrives. hasanfulhu grabs a slice while the dish is still in the server’s hands. the man puts me to shame.

‘mmm’ he says noisily clacking his jaw. ‘it’s very good.’

‘told ya,’ i say. the stone oven here bakes the crust charred and crisp, and the homemade sauce is rich and savoury, the best possible companion to the meat. a truly fine pizza, this.

‘it’s worth the ride from male,’ says hasanfulhu. ‘absolutely.’

‘it’s really exceptional,’ i say, my mouth still full of the taste of that last slice and a little surprised to have hasanfulhu gush like this about food. the man has NO taste. but maybe he’s picking stuff up.

‘are you going to write about it?’

i shrug. i mean, of course i am. good pizza in greater male definitely needs to be celebrated.

‘do people still read your blog?’

‘yeah, why?’ i say, annoyed.

‘cos you know, it’s the same shit.’

‘what did you say?’

‘nothing,’ says hasanfulhu pursing his mouth contemptuously.

‘it’s my own genre. ok? it’s my own-‘

‘right. OK. the bill’s here. just over 200. not bad.’

what a moron! what has HE ever done with his life? i have a following. i have a STYLE. even GRACE!

‘you say something?’ asks hasanfulhu.

‘shut up and get me home,’ i snap getting on his stupid pcx.

what a colossal idiot.