we’re at aibbalhey once again. it’s midnight and my man bakurube is starving. the only thing he’s had all day is hedhikaa from this very same hotaa. but that was about eight hours back and the man is ready to eat up the entire place, tiles and all. or so it seems to me.

for those of you who don’t know bakurube, let me just say that he’s the really intense sort. on his forty second year, against all good and level-headed judgment, he sold his print and design business and became a carpenter’s assistant. and the man has been at it as though posessed by a devi, right down to the present moment. he barely eats or sleeps. i don’t think he’s been with his wife in months.

‘what are you mumbling?’

oh.

‘you ordered? i ask.

‘you want something?’

‘yes.’

‘well, what is it? come on.’

‘uh, an omelette. with chili and onion.’

‘ok, it’s on me,’ says bakurube and tells the server my order.

then, he points at a painting on the wall. it’s a retro island idyll with brown-skinned women in dhivehi libaas cooking, and weaving thatch by a pristine beach – a white man’s fantasy.

‘who the hell painted that?’ bakurube asks.

‘dunno. i could ask @araakaa or someone.’

‘never mind. when these people chuck it out, we’ll snatch it.’

‘will they throw it out tho?’

‘are you mad? of course. these people don’t know good art! how can they? it’s aibbalhey.’

that he calls this good art makes me doubt his discernment but at least bakurube is following an age-old tradition in his craft.

as we wait, he shows me photos of some fountain pens he’s recently made from locally sourced wood: kuredhi, kaani, ran’doo.

‘ran’doo,’ i say. ‘must be the ran’du version of kan’doo.’

‘huh,’ says bakurube irritably. ‘just look at these. i went through hell to find nibs for them.’

they really do seem elegant pieces, these wooden pens, i have to admit.

‘you made them on your own?’ i ask him.

‘what do you think?’ snarls bakurube. ‘of course, i did. what do you think i’ve been doing all this time? jacking off?’

‘alright, alright, no need to be rude.’

then the food arrives and bakurube lays waste to his masburi riha, essentially hoovering it all in.

‘wow,’ i say. ‘and i thought I ate fast.’

‘you haven’t touched your omelette,’ says bakurube. ‘do you want ME to eat it?’

i shake my head and begin to carve it up with the tea spoon they provided. the omelette is really good, i mean, aibbalhey has this down pat, nothing is left to chance. it’s thin, oily, crispy at the edges, the yolk is cooked through, and there’s the crunch of onion and chili.

after he pays for us, i ask bakurube if he could take me for a whirl around male.

‘are you my fucking wife?’ he says with his typical bluntness.

as we pass by the last remaining campaign posters, bakurube says: when will dhivehin learn not to repeat history?’

‘what do you mean?’

‘don’t give the ruling party a supermajority, come on.’

‘right.’

yes, bakurube is repeating history too but at least it’s art. sort of. look him up on @theartstoryofmaldives.