we are at yummo, a tiny restaurant in the lane opposite the main gate of majeedhiyya school. it’s one of those little places that has cropped up serving nibbles and coffee but it has a stronger sense of identity than most. i come here with bakurube often since he’s moved his workshop to the neighbourhood. right now, i’m with samfa, after a walk to the pharmacies nearby on a medicine run. the little lady is getting on in age and needs those meds to stay functional.

‘i want a fresh juice,’ she tells me. ‘do they have fresh juices here?’

‘let’s look at the menu,’ i say and we go through one. there’s a lot on offer, including submarine sandwiches, pasta, rice. yummo has more than a few tricks up its sleeve, it seems.

then one of the servers comes out and asks me, very politely, if he could fix the fan above our table.

‘sure,’ says samfa before i can respond. the man stands on the seat, apologises, then fixes a screw onto the fan before plugging it to power. he climbs down and wipes the seat with a cloth, looking at us apologetically.

the fan begins to whir and we sit – soon it’s nice and cool. samfa orders a juice and i an iced coffee.

‘a coffee after lunch? can you sleep?’ she asks me.

‘of course,’ i say.

‘these pharmacies stock so much fake meds,’ says samfa. ‘why do they do that?’

‘god knows,’ i say.

‘are you going to see your mother today?’

‘it’s a bit rainy,’ i tell her. ‘but speaking of. she told me this story the day before.’

‘what story?’ says samfa, thanking the server for her orange juice. i take a sip from my coffee. it’s not good at all, quite watery, and they’ve put chocolate syrup in it.

‘the guy who makes iced coffee in the morning is good,’ i tell samfa. ‘this is pretty shit.’

‘tell me about your mother,’ says samfa.

‘oh yes. well, she was out in the yard of the hiyaa tower the other day and she saw a couple of young girls playing. one of the girls pushed the other and she fell over.’ i pause to look at samfa, who gets a bit irritated.

‘go on,’ she snaps.

‘a woman comes and tells the girl who pushed to be nice. she said this very gently, mamma said,’ i pause to drink some more of the coffee. my god is it BAD. ‘and then another woman comes and tells this woman to shut the fuck up. like who the hell is SHE to tell HER kid what to do?’

‘really? in front of her own daughter?’

‘mamma said these raajjetherey people have no akhlaag.’

samfa snorts.

‘i need to go pee,’ she says. ‘can you pay?’

‘but i haven’t been paid yet.’

‘come on now, how expensive could this be? 300 ruifyaa? be a man.’

the bill is actually a hundred and fifteen – yummo is cheap. but i pay up so samfa can save her precious dollars for when they’re needed. ie to invest in original cerave.