it’s not every day that i get a call from my old (and elderly) friend hamdhee to be treated to a sai. and on this warm, bright december afternoon, i have just the place in mind.

‘where shall we go?’ he asks when i meet him near ADK hospital.

‘do you wanna go to the beach?’

‘if it’s not rasfannu,’ he says, grinning. he likes his little jokes, hamdhee.

so, we set off along majeedhee magu, not speaking too much because hamdhee is not a street-talker. we walk into the lobby of summer beach hotel and enter the lift.

‘ah, we’ve been here before,’ he says once we’ve settled down in the fancy restaurant with its splendid view of the beach, bridge, and hulhule.

‘by the way, how is your food blog doing?’ he asks.

‘it’s going alright,’ i tell him.

‘hmm,’ says hamdhee. ‘if you want some money for your writing, i can connect you with my good friend kadhurey. you would know him too. besides, he is familiar with your work.’

‘does he like husenfulhu?’

‘you know he doesn’t read blogs. only cnn, bbc…’

‘when will the bbc change their name i wonder,’ i tell him.

‘why?’

‘well, never mind.’

the server has been waiting all this while for us to wind up with our conversation and she now finds an in. she is very bubbly, some might say effervecent, and she brings a wistful smile to hamdhee’s face. we place our orders for coffee and carrot halwa and off she goes.

then hamdhee turns very grim.

‘i lost someone recently, about her age,’ he motions at the server.

‘i’m sorry,’ i tell him. ‘who was it?’

‘my niece. took her own life,’ he looks at me, his face becoming dark with emotion.

‘i’m really sorry to hear that,’ i say dumbly. what can i say, really. i wish i could give him a hug.

‘she was a brilliant student, but she was depressed. very depressed,’ he says. ‘her mother knew, but we didn’t know a thing.’

he sips some water.

‘just like that. a life is extinguished,’ he says.

we sit in silence for a while. then i ask: ‘does it make you think about your own death?’

‘ha, huseunfulhu. at my age there isn’t much to think about besides that final blow.’

our carrot halwas are placed before us along with my iced latte. if you recall my previous post about this place, you’d remember that they get their coffee from civil coffee roasters.

i take pics of the halwa, as does hamdhee.

‘is this going on your blog?’ he asks.

‘you bet.’

‘i have been meaning to ask you. whatever made you think of reviewing toilets?’

‘seemed like a fun thing to do,’ i tell him.

‘i don’t understand it,’ he says. ‘this fixation.’

‘ah, you know, it’s nothing. just some toilet humour.’

‘but where IS the humour?’

i have a bite of my carrot halwa. it’s really good, sweet, carroty – what else would you look for in one?

‘this halwa is very good,’ says hamdhee like he’s snatched my thought. ‘it reminds me of what i used to have at the arab sweet shops in berlin.’

‘the arab sweet shops in BERLIN?’ it’s a phrase i probably won’t hear from anyone here but hamdhee.

‘yes,’ says hamdhee, obviously not understanding my amusement.

‘i’m glad we came here again,’ he says. ‘nice view too.’

so the two of us look out at the bridge, and below that, at the artificial beach, now crowded with people wanting to make the most of a beautiful afternoon. it feels like we’re observing something parochial yet sacred. the people are enacting a ritual that appears not to have changed over the years, a ritual connecting all of us to one another, and in this way, to something greater than each, yes, to the city itself.