bakurube and i are broke as fuck so we find ourselves at eazy cafe in the chse goalhi, just behind the school.

‘aiminadhi told me we’d get a tuna rice for 45 bucks,’ i tell bakurube who nods curtly.

we go inside – it’s dimly lit, the booths crowded, and the bangladeshi servers don’t acknowledge us for the longest time. maybe they’re sizing us up, trying to see if we’re worthy. of course we are but how are they to know this?

i raise my hand and wave it firmly but i can’t see what’s going on cos i’m facing the entrance.

‘what are you doing?’ asks bakurube. ‘everybody’s looking at you.’

‘oh,’ i say. ‘is a server looking at me at least?’

soon, one comes and pulls out a menu from behind a little rack on the wall. neat.

‘man!’ i exclaim. ‘the tuna fried rice is for 55 not 45!’

‘oh, who said it was for 45?’

‘aiminadhi, i TOLD you,’ i say.

‘i don’t listen to half the stuff you tell me anyway,’ says bakurube and begins biting his hand.

‘what the hell are you doing?’ i ask him.

‘it’s my skin, i’ve got calluses.’

‘well, don’t chew on your hand you idiot, we’re in public.’

bakurube reluctantly puts his hand down, and i order the tuna fried rice for both of us. we relax, easy because this place is full of men. but a part of me thinks it’s the sort of cafe the saihotaa feminists should feminise, at least a little cos god knows how strange these places can get without a domesticating feminine influence.

someone enters the cafe – it’s AIMINADHI. we both do a double take.

‘the tuna fried rice! you told me it was for 45 rufiyaa man,’ i say.

‘and hello to you too,’ she says, grinning.

‘what are you doing here? it’s not fit for women,’ i say.

‘oh just getting my order,’ she says, still standing.

‘is it ready?’

‘it’ll take five minutes or so,’ she says.

‘ah,’ i say. ‘well, do you wanna take a seat then?’

‘don’t mind if i do,’ she laughs and sits down next to me.

‘this is my man bakurube,’ i tell her. ‘he’s a carpenter by trade.’

bakurube nods but doesn’t offer his hand. he seems a little anxious.

‘and i’m aiminadhi,’ she says. ‘husenfulhu is not so good at introductions.’

‘hehe,’ laughs bakurube nervously.

the server brings our meals. i have a taste – it’s pretty average, or mid as they say.

‘what do you think?’ asks aiminadhi. ‘are you here for a review?’

‘of course,’ i say. ‘and i’m putting you in it.’

‘please,’ she laughs. a lot of laughter from this woman.

we talk a bit about this and that while bakurube listens quietly, sometimes laughing and when i glance at him i see on his face the pain of resisting the urge to chew his hands. my god.

aiminadhi’s dinner arrives, and she stands up to leave. we say bye.

meanwhile, our bill is 126 and it includes two tall drinks of sunquick which we down hurriedly.

‘well,’ says bakurube. ‘back to the grind.’

and we speed along the wide and narrow on bakurube’s lurching motorbike into the waiting jaw of the black night.