i’m seated behind mickey who’s taking me to this adda in maafannu, near frosty blue, next to a place called ‘pizza house’. he tells me they make a great grilled chicken.

‘who are they?’ i ask.

‘you’ll see,’ says mickey. it’s a cool afternoon, the sunlight has settled into an easy orange glow and the people of male seem more than happy to motor around, taking in the small pleasures of city life.

as we approach the end of ameenee magu, an industrial scene appears before us, the massive white metal tanks near the futsal pitch and beyond them the smog veiled view of villingili and the dim tangerine ball of the sun. it’s sad that we’re burdened by the sins of someone else, but that is the way of life sometimes, for some. maybe it evens out the hurt we inflict on our migrants though the smog affects them too. i don’t know what to make of the morality of this phenomenon, its justifications, what do i know?

‘talking to yourself?’ asks mickey. i say no.

‘i do that too sometimes, when i’m on my own,’ says mickey, seeming not to hear me.

we turn round the corner of the social centre towards igmh and come to a stop near frosty blue. the adda is pungent with smoke and the smell of tandoori spices. a bangladeshi is grilling chicken on a well oiled BBQ rig. it’s 65MVR for a half with two farata, and 135MVR for a whole bird with four farata. not bad.

‘what spices are you using?’ i ask the cook.

‘a mix of tandoori, lemon juice, and some secret spices,’ he says, briefly taking his eyes off the chicken and smiling.

huh. interesting.

‘why are you so sceptical husenfulhu?’ asks mickey.

‘i’m not,’ i reply.

‘i’ve had the chicken three times already. it’s great. take my word for it.’

there’s quite a crush of people here so it’s probably as mickey says.

we pay for the chicks and farata and off we go into a city about to be washed in the gentle hues of twilight.

back home, i take the chicken to the kitchen and start stripping it of flesh. it’s tender and has a bewitching aroma. samfa likes it when the meat is off the bone – she won’t have to dirty her dainty hands.

‘what’s this, what’s this?’ someone asks behind me. it’s sampaafulhu, smiling mischievously. she’s wearing a pale pink dress with a rose pattern and it complements her well.

‘mickey got me some chicken, he highly recommends it.’

‘where from?’

i explain.

‘you respect mickey’s taste?’ she asks.

‘i respect mickey’s taste,’ i tell her.

and then, the prayer sounds, luminous like a searchlight cutting through the fog of a distant sea, and we begin to feast.

‘it’s good,’ beams samfa. ‘it’s really very good.’