alihokko and i reserved a table at maldive kitchen – he’s an old friend from primary school and we are catching up after a funeral. he’s never been to this restaurant and i find myself explaining it in some detail.

‘a dhivehi fine dining restaurant eh? people at work told me about it too,’ he says. ‘i’ve been meaning to check it out.’

‘and now’s the time,’ i say.

we are shown our table by the server who’s been waiting for us for a while cos i preordered. i wanted to impress alihokko with my picks for he is an impressive man, a biologist, a father. none of which i am.

‘so, what did you order?’ he asks. his voice is very low, barely audible – a comedian might call him a quiet-talker.

‘you’ll see,’ i say. and it occurs to me that we say this quite often.

‘do you notice people say ‘we’ll see’ or something like that a lot now?’

‘no,’ he says, smiling quietly. it unsettles me and makes me talk even more.

‘also people tend to say ‘it is what it is’ a lot now too. haven’t you noticed?’

‘people tend to, eh? very astute. your observations.’

the server brings our gabulhi satani and bambukeyo hithi to the table along with ten roshi. my friend’s eyes light up.

‘is it bambukeyo?’

‘bambukeyo hithi,’ i say, happy to make a show of my knowledge. ‘it’s a delicacy.’

‘oh yes, my grandmother made it when we were kids,’ he says, taking a piece of roshi and picking out a bit of bambukeyo. he eats it and smiles.

‘it reminds me of those days,’ he says. ‘we had all the time in the world didn’t we? to be who we wanted to be?’

‘well, at least you’re happy with how you turned out,’ i say, maybe a little bitterly. we eat in silence for a bit. i have some of the gabulhi satani. it’s excellent but i admit i have no basis for comparison.

‘what’s that?’ asks alihokko.

‘it’s gabulhi satani, have some.’

he does.

‘i’ve never had it before,’ he tells me. ‘it reminds me of maskurolhi and mashuni.’

‘ah really?’

he chews for a while and says: ‘you know, you spend your life trying to become something. but later, you think of everything you’ve sacrificed. especially the time with the people you love.’

‘are you regretting your choices?’

‘everyone will have some regret or other,’ he says. ‘there’s always an opportunity cost.’

i nod.

‘this gabulhi satani,’ he says. ‘it’s probably my new favourite. thank you. i’ll bring my mother here.’

oh yes, i forgot to mention that alihokko is a massive mother’s boy. and of everything he is, i don’t mind not being that. and isn’t there some sort of link between mama’s boys and psycopathy? i seem to remember reading that somewhere. alihokko is a methodical man, dedicated, a touch detached. but could he kill someone? hmm.

‘you say something husenfulhu?’

‘could you kill a man?’

‘where’d that come from?’

‘but could you?’

‘of course,’ he says surprising me with his candor. ‘as could you.’

‘really? how can you say that about me?’

‘have you never killed anyone in a game?’ he asks. ‘like in GTA? haven’t you shot random characters just for fun?’

‘but that’s a game, man,’ i say.

‘that’s all it takes,’ says my friend. ‘all it takes is for you to see life as an open world game. where you can do anything, damn the consequences.’

‘you’re nuts,’ i tell him and finish off the last of the gabulhi satani. but then i think he is right. if that switch is flipped, it’ll change everything. everything becomes possible. dear god, what an awful thought. and didn’t someone say something like this long ago, one of those russian writers who find it impossible to tell a good joke?  

‘say something husenfulhu?’

‘i think that’s what it means to be mad,’ i say. ‘when the rules disappear. and you’re at the mercy of your whims.’

‘whims, eh? let me get the bill,’ he says. ‘i’m feeling a bit whimsical.’