The past year has been hectic, with tons of work-related travel and, more recently, a move to alternate digs in Dar es Salaam. Instead of the eyesore I used to see from my 10th-floor apartment, I now live on the 18th floor, with a breathtaking oceanfront view and a brisk, refreshing afternoon breeze.

Visiting Mullah Mchungu has been on my mind for a while. Now that I’m staying put in Dar for the next two weeks, I have the time.

Yesterday, Sunday morning, after visiting the kabrastan, I pass by the grouch’s apartment and, on an impulse, decide to drop in. Motor traffic is subdued, but the people are not. Everyone seems intent on snapping up Sunday’s paaya, samosas, and kababs before they sell out.

Hameesi, the Mullah’s lifelong personal aide, pleasantly greets me at the door and leads me to the kitchen table.

Mzee has just finished breakfast, he tells me, and is taking a brief nap. Better he digests the porridge before you meet him. He’s like an infant now; he’ll barf it all up if he gets excited or talks too much.

Hameesi bares perfect, even white teeth at me, then furiously mixes the batter for his classic bajeeya, waving off my protests.

Hamna sheeda, he quips. The batter is ready; all I have to do is remix and fry it. I’ll make the chutney fresh since you like it so much. I’ll be done in a jiffy.

While Hameesi busies himself with his concoctions, I wander into the living room and turn on the fan. It’s stuffy in here.

Across from the Mullah’s apartment is P-Tea Shop, which does brisk business selling supposedly world-famous kababs. I used to enjoy them after I returned home to Tanzania in 2021.

One day, from a vantage point, I saw an employee scratch an itch on an unsavory body part and use the same fingers to shape a kabab mixture before dropping it into the bubbling frying pan.

That was the end of my kabab-eating days. Period.

Hameesi rouses his master after I’d wolfed down the hot bajeeya with fiery green chutney, washed down with piping-hot karak, elaichi-free chai.

Ah, there are still some culinary pleasures from bygone years to savor.

I am clearing my chutney-incited sinuses and wiping the sweat from my scalp when the Mullah is carried into the living room. His ancient all-wood recliner awaits him. Hameesi handles him as a mother would an infant, gently settling him into the chair. I greet him.

How are you, Mullah Saheb?

Although we’ve been at odds over many of his fiery opinions on every subject under the sun, he’s a loner, and I can empathize with the pain of solitude. I reach out to shake his hand. Mullah Mchungu smacks it away. It is a feeble, tired blow, but I feel his fingers—cool and brittle.

Be gone with your filthy hands, Kisukaali. What is the matter with you Khojas, and your handshakes? And since you are asking, I’m not well. So, what are you going to do about it? I have piles, heartburn every time I eat, my eyes are failing me, and I am in constant doubt about whether my farts are genuine or if Hameesi should be changing my diapers. Need I continue, ghadhero? So don’t ask about my health, because there is nothing you can or want to do about it.

I control my ire, keep my trap shut, and stare at the old cow. He stares back, unflinchingly. Then he raises his trembling hands.

Kisukaali, do you see anything special in my hands?

Eh? I lean forward to inspect them. They are thin, their skin wrinkled, their nails yellowing. I shake my head no.

You know, there was a time when I used to go to the Khoja Mosque for salaat regularly. I would sit on the prayer chairs with others like me, those with weak knees or the infirm. I would pray jamaa, and Hameesi would whisk me away.

Until my hands became important to others.

I brace myself; an outburst is surely coming.

You see, we Khojas pay close attention to mustahabaats and give them great importance, such as shaking hands. You know what I mean, Kisukaali?

A trick question? I nod and shake my head at the same time, thoroughly confused.

The Mullah snorts and sneers, his idiotic dentures grinning at me.

Typical Khojo response, he says.

Anyway, you dudes love shaking hands. You’ll enter the mosque and shake a lot of hands. Then you’ll insist I adjust my chair an inch or two, as if Allah is waiting to whack me for being off by a centimeter. Then someone comes around with cheap ittar, insisting that I apply it, even though I’m allergic to strong-smelling scents. Even during ekaama! Imagine! Then another round of handshakes after zohr and maghreeb. Then again after asr and eesha. You won’t just want to shake your neighbors’ hands. No, no. You’ll reach out and shake the second-tier neighbor’s hands!

He wrinkles his nose.

I have a very sensitive snout, you see. Sometimes I get a whiff of the armpits of the person reaching forward.

I burst out laughing.

A dangerous glint in the Mullah’s eyes stops me. I notice his vicious-looking danda within reach. I have no desire to be attacked, feeble hands or not.

I’m glad you find this absurd ritual funny, Kisukaali, he says. I don’t. Then, after ziyaarat, we stand in a circle and shake hands again!

He unleashes a Kiswahili expletive that I cannot print.

I have nothing against shaking hands, he continues. But I have seen firsthand some fingers poke away at blocked noses or scratch an itch where the sun does not shine. So, I stopped going for salaat.

He pauses.

I have a suggestion, however.

I wait.

The Hindu Namaste.

He raises his quivering hands and presses his palms together.

It’s perfect. No touching. No namahram issues. You can do it to your heart’s content. And it’s humbling. What do you think?

This dude is too much. I think it is time to leave, so I start my goodbyes.

Yes, sure. Goodbye, dahafiz, and all, he says. Because you don’t want to hear the truth.

He pauses.

But before you leave, remember to tell your fellow Khojas that Allah is not waiting to smite me if my chair is off by a few centimeters. And stop imposing itter on everybody.

He grimaces.

It bloody stinks awful!

The Mullah takes a deep breath. Seconds later, he is asleep, his dentures grinning at the rotating fan.

I take my leave, leaving Hameesi his usual tip, adjusted for inflation.