zubaida’s house is aromatic: a warm, inviting smell beckons from the living room to the kitchen where she is arranging breakfast fare. or ‘items’ as samfa might say. there’s hummus and beef, chicken kebab, a lentil soup that has congealed into a rich paste.

‘is it time?’ asks aisaanike.

‘no,’ sampaafulhu tells her niece but at that very moment, the prayer call sounds from the mosque nearby. in fact, it sounds like there’s one on every block competing for airspace.

aisaanike begins to eat her beans while samfa draws out an edamame.

‘it’s very good,’ she says.

i nod, trying to eat my chicken kebab, trying because things don’t slide off the skewer too easily.

‘aren’t you going to have some hummus?’ asks zubaida.

‘i will in a bit,’ i tell her and i turn towards little aisa who’s being picky with her beans.

‘my friend osas was living with a cockroach for more than a year,’ i tell her.

‘what kind of name is osas?’ says zubaida.

‘it’s short for osas,’ i reply.

‘why was he living with a cockroach?’ asks aisaanike.

‘he lives on his own so i guess he needed some company,’ i say, and rip off a piece of chicken. i eat it with the pita, which is nice and soft. not bad.

‘what kind of company could a cockroach give? that’s just stupid,’ says aisa.

‘i think when you’ve lived alone for a year, any kind of company is good,’ i say. ‘anyway, the cockroach was moving around a lot today and i asked osas if he could get rid of it.’

‘did he kill it?’ aisa asks.

‘he took it out of the house and put it in the gutter.’

aisa nods.

‘what if it comes back?’ she says. ‘what if it comes back with friends?’

‘we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.’

an old holhudhoo abdulla madhaha comes over the speakers. roadhaveellun and holhudhoo abdulla share a special bond, at least among those of us who grew up listening to him while breaking our fast. it makes everything feel homely – the opposite of anxiety where the world recedes from you, revealing the big empty. here, right now, i feel the world’s embrace, and i’m thankful beyond measure to have these three people in my life.

‘can you wash my plate please?’ asks samfa sweetly.