moka is the cute little cafe that haseena has opened up near customs. i’ve been there a few times just to have their thai iced tea, which is cheap at 45 rufiyaa a pop. and i liked it very much. but then she’s my friend, so you’d best exercise a modicum of scepticism.

haha. modicum.

today though, i’m waiting for shaari to come join me as i saw a moka instagram ad for a special meatball submarine, made with australian beef. well, anyone who’s had australian beef would know it’s serious meat.

shaari comes and says hi. “i need biriyani, not your opinion,” reads his shirt. how is that even funny?

‘you just don’t have a good sense of humour,’ laughs shaari. and the server brings our meal.

‘it’s not bad,’ i say. i think the meatballs could’ve been juicier, but that’s just me. they are packed with flavour. i think the sauce is a bit too spicy but then again i wasn’t expecting ANY spice. overall, however, it’s a pretty rad dish, well done moka.

when haseena turns up, i congratulate her on the submarine. she smiles.

‘what have you been up to?’

‘oh, this and that,’ i say and turn to shaari.

‘do you still keep in touch with that indian actress?’

shaari smiles.

‘it’s been a while.’

‘do you know that she only hugged shaari out of the whole lot of us?’ i ask haseena.

‘yes, yes, you told me, old timer,’ she says.

‘and who would blame her?’ shaari says. ‘i’ll get this, husenfulhu.’

while shaari pays, haseena and i talk about our friends alifulhu and moosaalhu and faathaanike and manike who’re spending time in baa atoll.

‘i wouldn’t travel on a speedboat,’ says haseena. ‘not when it’s like this.’

‘me neither,’ i say. ‘my ride from x to dharavandhoo last week was totally mad, we were rolling like the boat had lost its mind.’

‘two of a kind, eh?’ says haseena.

‘think it’s time for an honest conversation on mental health,’ i tell her and she smiles. it’s something saththaaru might say. or has said.

i turn towards the counter and spot the red buruga maama with pink blushes on her cheeks. it fits the overall vibe of the place, with its shelves of potted plants, and a scanned copy of an old poster of the maldives from the 19th century framed behind glass. neat.

outside, the stream of traffic is a trickle now on this blessed day – the populace of male has migrated deeper into the atolls or away from the archipelago entirely. and male seems to be heaving a sigh of relief, no longer encumbered by raucous bikes, gassy lorries, restless pickups. boduthakurufaanu magu yawns and stretches, empty now of its usual patrons. the sun shines on the city, and i get behind shaari to speed off into the distance, like a pair of cowboys saddled on a docile mare. whoa there nellie.