it’s always a thrill to go places with moosaalhu, if you recall my companion on the mission to procure leatherwood honey from fantasy. you have to admire his readiness for debate – he will strike down five options and mull over the sixth before agreeing, begrudgingly, to the seventh.

it is late afternoon again, moosalhu never appears between 11am and 4pm, his skin is particularly sensitive, like his character, he is a man greatly attuned to the spirit of the place, the vibe if you will. a man of mood(s).

today, he seems authoritarian when he barks at me to dismount.

‘what’s with the fascism?’ i ask him.

‘oh, should i have asked you if you’d LIKE to get off the bike so that i MAY park?’

‘all right, no need for rudeness,’ i tell him and we go over to muchas gracias. at first, moosaalhu wanted to drink coffee, but when i sit down in that bright interior and ask the server for a mexican steak sandwich, he decides to have one too.

did i tell you he is attuned to the vibe?

i clean my hands with the restaurant’s hand sanitiser, while moosaalhu washes his paws at the sink.

‘why didn’t you wash?’ he asks me, looking like he has a great comeback.

‘actually, the sanitiser is easier to get over your hands and it kills germs quick,’ i reply.

‘oh really? but aren’t you worried your sandwich is gonna taste like hand sanitiser?’

‘great observation,’ i say. ‘bravo.’

the server brings us our food, and we have complimentary chips, seasoned in that spicy mexican way.

‘the bread’s stale,’ i say while moosaalhu pecks at his sub-sandwich, and confirms my statement. but then, i sneeze, causing panic to flood moosaalhu’s still youthful face.

‘dude,’ he says. ‘there’s like seven roagaas going around.’

‘there’s always some,’ i tell him.

‘no dude, it’s really harsh this time. i had a friend who caught it and he went to the hospital and the DOCTOR was sick as fuck.’

‘a sick doctor,’ i say. ‘that’s front page material.’

‘he was having a coughing fit every other minute. can you sit a little further away?’

this man. honestly.

‘i like the meat though,’ moosaalhu says, as though nothing has happened. ‘and these are killer chips.’

‘well aren’t you chipper,’ i tell him and then call the server.
‘brother,’ i say. ‘bill please.’

moosaalhu seems curious.

‘why’d you call him ‘brother’?’ he asks.

‘cos he’s a brown brother?’ i venture. was that a gaffe?

‘hmm. why didn’t you call him bro?’ he responds.

‘that sounds wrong,’ i tell him. ‘brother sounds more respectful.’

‘funny, i thought it was the other way around. you know, like how we call bangladeshis ‘bhai’. it assumes a phony closeness, a mockery of kinship, brother.’

‘dear god, i wasn’t intending any of that all right? i’ll call him bro.’

moosaalhu grins. he loves making me squirm.

‘just yanking your chain,’ he says.

‘unbelievable,’ i tell him and pay the bill, including his, as though this impoverished clown of an architect is not a big enough drain on society as is.