i’m visiting my mother again, it’s been a week since i last saw her and i have brought a gift of green grapes that i hope won’t be like my old man sagarey. sour, see?

‘i’m fasting,’ she tells me, offering to wash the grapes. well, just my luck.

‘would you like some roshi and riha?’ she asks.

‘no ma, i just have a meal a day.’

‘just ONE meal a day?’ she exclaims, incredulous. ‘how is that possible? do you want to end up like your uncle? he had to have surgery on his intestine.’

‘no, ma it won’t be like that,’ i tell her patiently but she goes on.

‘why not? one meal a day! that is not how god intended mankind to live. this is what happens when you don’t recite the quran daily. this is not how i raised you, husenfulhu.’

that my mother is having a crisis of faith over my eating habits goes on to show what kind of character i may have inherited. a man’s fate and all that.

also, she is the chill-er of the two parents.

then ibrahimdi appears half naked, fresh from the shower.

‘hello brother,’ i say, trying to give him a high-five, which goes nowhere. the boy makes me feel my age.

‘sup bro,’ he says.

‘wanna grab some coffee?’

‘coffee?’ says my mother. ‘you shouldn’t be drinking coffee at your age, at this time of the day. it’s past 3pm.’

‘relax mother,’ i tell her. ‘it’s just a normal coffee, nothing strong.’

ibrahimdi puts on a plain, loose fitting shirt. he’s been wearing sizes too big for him at least since the mid-2010s. a real fashionista, my little bro.

soon we’re in a cab to phase one.

at a tiny coffeeshop opposite the manhattan fish market, ibrahimdi tells me about breaking up with his much older girlfriend.

‘i really gave it to her this time,’ he says, drinking a nescafe iced coffee worth 50 bucks.

‘you say that all the time, brother,’ i tell him.

‘no i mean it,’ he says, his bearded face grim with determination. ‘she can’t always act the victim and blame everything on me.’

what did she blame on you?’

‘she said i always want things my way, that i never look out for her or consider her feelings,’ he tells me. ‘but that’s bullshit. she’s projecting, and she does this all the time.’

‘honestly,’ i begin. ‘i think she’s alright for a fling. at best, bro. you can’t have a serious thing with someone who’s not ready to own up to her faults. who’s always trying to manipulate you. that’s not how adult relationships are supposed to be.’

i realise i am being the big bro, which i suppose i can be to little ibrahimdi. the man is barely in his mid-twenties, he’s got a lot to learn about the world. about women. not that i know too much about either but god, i know more than him. i think.

‘i know,’ he says. ‘but it’s never easy you know. for me.’

‘ah, it’s not easy for most, i don’t think,’ i tell him.

‘what about you?’

‘it was the same with me at your age,’ i say. ‘maybe even worse.’

‘really?’

‘yeah, mostly. i had no clue. none at all.’

‘you still don’t,’ he says smiling. ‘didn’t you date like two women your whole life?’

‘funny.’

i pay the bill and we part ways. my brother gets an avas ride.

i walk to samfa’s parents’ on the haveeree street. the light is soft, the people on the road unhurried. a chinese couple passes by, in matching colours, in serious discussion. a middle-aged man squats by a scrawny calico cat by the pavement, offering her food. the pungent smell of frying meats wafts from a stall. sunlight falls on my face through a canopy of leaves.

i go to the beach near the in-laws’, and look at the clouds and the waves, quietly, my feet in the sand. there’s nobody around today, and yet i sense the presence of everything, just as i’m aware of the colour of the sky. the world seems full of feeling – any more and my little heart will explode.