we’re walking towards ‘taste me’, a breakfast institution that’s nourished us since we started earning our own monies. it’s a hot friday morning and as we pass by maagiri hotel, sampaafulhu caves in.

‘let’s go to maagiri,’ she pants. ‘i’m fine with paying 300 rufiyaa more to be out of the sun.’

and taste me is less than a hundred metres from here. now, there’s an equation for economists.

the second floor of the hotel is packed with beyfulhun who fix on us their contemptuous stares.

‘my god!’ i exclaim. ‘i had no idea it was this popular.’

‘there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy,’ remarks sampaafulhu.

‘huh.’ i say and spot some vacant tables outside.

on the buffet table, a huge spread with everything from egg hoppers to chocholate croissants, i come across rice and beef curry.

so, i sit eating my rice out in the shade. it’s a very basic but decent curry – the meat is tender and has absorbed the flavours of the spices. potatoes lend it further substance. i’m feeling like i should have some chili sambol as a side. then, someone comes up and says:

‘husenfulhaa, rice and curry at this hour?’

it’s my old friend (& sister-in-law) zubaida and she’s with her husband moosabe and their daughter aisaanike.

‘what the hell are you guys doing here?’

‘let’s get another table,’ says zubaida.

so i move my food, and aisaanike, who’s five, comes up to me and says:

‘husenfulhu, do you know what a miscommunication is?’

‘i do. but do you know what a mistercommunication is?’

‘what is that, sampa?’ asks aisaanike.

‘nevermind that,’ says sampafulhu. ‘tell him about the weather storm.’

‘what the hell’s a weather storm?’ i ask aisaanike who explains it to me.

‘it’s a huge storm where all the people and all the buildings and all the trees get shattered into pieces.’

‘what about you and me?’ i ask her.

‘we will be shattered into pieces!’ cries aisaanike.

‘what about the sand?’ i ask her.

‘the sand will also shatter into pieces.’

‘is it the end of the world?’

‘no, silly, it’s a weather storm.’

now moosabe sits in front of me and says: ‘we have to come up with a brand name for our children’s book series. i was thinking “dhonmoosa”.’

zubaida snorts.

‘might as well call it ladybird.’

‘no, we could use the orange and black of the dhonmoosa for our logo.’ says moosabe, undeterred.

‘i’ve got a name for you,’ i tell them. ‘bombi makunu.’

zubaida laughs.

‘that’s not bad. oh, today i was reading aisha a story from this enid blyton book. it had three golliwogs named golly, woggie, and ni****.’

oh god.

‘and people couldn’t tell them apart so they had one name for all of them which was ‘mr. golly-woggie-ni****. and aisha was saying, “ma, who are these black guys?”’

when i have myself under some control, i ask zubaida: ‘what’s dark but also very bright?’

‘no,’ she shakes her head vigorously. ‘not here, please, no.’

it’s time to head back home. i leave the paying of the bill to sampaafulhu and depart on quick feet, down the lift and out into the aging morning’s heat. ahh, maagiri. there’s more to you than great biriyani.