it’s close to midnight (thriller reference) and i’m going thru food i’ve eaten over the past year. i scroll thru these pics and realise i have a huge fucking hole in my gut that needs immediate filling. and at that very moment, my phone rings.

it’s bakurube!

‘have to talk to you,’ he says.

‘all right,’ i say, wondering what it’s about.

‘first things first. we must eat. coming in ten.’

well whatever it is, it’s obviously too important to be talked over the phone. and bakurube is a a serious man’s serious person. man barely has any humour.

‘aibbalhey, ok?’ he says when we meet.

ah, midnight at aibbalhey’s. it’s like the entire wandering tribe of israel has finally found their manna.

we barely manage to find seating for two and order the usual. it’s going to take a few minutes, says our guy.

‘now,’ bakurube continues. ‘see, we’ve discovered something. what i was telling you these past two years. just look. incredible.’

he shows me how his artist, raaveribe, has derived the mystery ‘earlobe’ design that’s found in the carvings on the hukuru miskiy’s coral stone panels. it’s by application of the golden ratio over and over on a most basic dhivehi design, which becomes more complex on each new rendering. or so it seems to me.

‘now he’s making his own,’ bakurube says with some pride. ‘in fact, that’s what he does all day – the man can’t stop himself!’

our food arrives, and obviously it’s a feast with paaparu, chili, lime and onion on the side. the roshi is dismal and the curry the same consistently fantastic junk we know and love. it must be how they roast the powder, i think. maybe i can become their cook for a while. would all their cooks know the recipe? probably not. so, it can’t be the roasting then. it has GOT to be a particular kind of havaadhu. spiced just right. handed down from aibbalhey to aibba –

‘what’s the matter, husenfulhu? you’re eating like a bird.’

‘i uh, i’ve got a piece of paaparu stuck in my tonsil.’

‘eh?’

‘occupational hazard,’ i mumble.

‘what occupation?’ he scoffs and licks up the last of his masburi. ‘people once had REAL occupations, husenfulhu. they designed, built those mosques. the vessels. built something REAL.’

oh these people and their insistence that THIS isn’t real. well, it’s REAL goddammit. it’s a journey through the culinary SCAPE –

‘right?’

‘what did you say?’ i ask.

‘none of our leaders care about our culture. right? none of them do. look at me. i’m forty-two, and still learning. about us. no outside help. no minister of culture. i’ll do it. if it takes…’

i tune out for good around this point and i let myself be dropped off home.

‘send me a good title,’ he says. ‘in english OK, mr english?’

‘all right,’ i say and disappear into the building. the man is a blackhole, he drains even the most energetic, you have to be on adderall or stronger to be around bakurube for long. but my prayers are with him. in a world of halfhearted clowns, his seems a noble and lost cause.