I head out to Mumbai, India, for some fasta-fasta compliance issues but return to Dar shortly afterward. Since Emirates is the king of chicken among all airlines and dropped me at the first sign of political unrest in Tanzania during election time, I had to rebook with Qatar Airways, and they had no issues flying me in and out of Dar es Salaam. My taxi driver in Dar is back to yapping his mouth again, and his banter calms my apprehension about the possible political turbulence of a week ago.

Dar es Salaam is heating up again. Armpit sweat stains and BO are making a comeback. The early pre-season mangoes have appeared in the markets, and I can’t wait to get the naturally ripened mawaazo, shindaano, and mooa varieties soon – calorie control khalli-walli. All the restaurants have reopened, and the smell of bubbling grease, garlic, and masala-coated kuku/mishkaki sizzling over red-hot charcoal fills the slow-moving, smog-filled air all the way to my tenth-floor apartment, so I return to the comfort of air-conditioning after a six-month hiatus.

The next morning, I sit for my breakfast when the number of Mullah Mchungu’s call flashes on my cellphone. I could ignore it, but I know he’ll keep calling until I answer, so I give in. I’ve heard that humans go through cycles of evolution and tend to act like infants again as they age – this man is a perfect example.

Ghadhero, he insults me in his style without bothering to respond to my salaam. Where are you? Why don’t you answer my calls? You think you’re better than me just because you travel the world? Remember, you still poop out what you eat, just like all of us, so don’t act high and mighty. Come meet me today, or I’ll curse you from my grave. He hangs up.

I resolve not to go nor be bullied by the old cow, but my resolve lasts about thirty minutes. My upbringing is too rooted in respect and care for the elderly and infirm, so I find myself sitting in front of the Mullah two hours later. Although I’ve had a healthy breakfast and am not feeling hungry, the sight of steaming bajeeya and the fiery coconut and tamarind chutney that Hameesi, Mullah Mchung’s lifelong caretaker, places before me is too tempting, so I give in and start eating. After enjoying the karak elaichi-free chai that follows, I shift my focus back to the old man. He looks healthy enough and hasn’t changed since my last visit — except now his dentures are so bright that the glare of his silly grin almost blinds me.

Kisukaali, you idiot, you didn’t even call to check if I’m alive during the lockdown. What kind of Muslim are you? You Khojas, it’s not just salaat and saum that matter; humanity counts. 

Before I can defend myself with a vague reply, since I have no excuse for not asking after him during the shutdown, the Mullah changes course with an unexpected question.

What do you think of the guy, Zohran Mamdani? Awesome, right? His grin widens impossibly — the dentures strain to stay in his mouth.

I sigh. Since Zohran won the NY mayoral race, I’ve heard very little else or seen on social media except for this kid. The Khoja community is thrilled that a little-known member of their ancestral fraternity has pulled off a surprise and outsmarted a $40 million anti-Mamdani smear campaign, resulting in a Mubaarak Mamdani outcome. I’ve received calls from all over, with Khojas eager to form a biological link with Mamdani, even if it’s flimsy. Everybody knows of a relative who knows the father or the grandfather.

Now, this is the kind of person I admire, Kisukaali; that he is Khoja material makes it as sweet as genuine Bengali ras-malai. It doesn’t matter if he’ll deliver on his lofty promises in New York. What matters to me is that he won handily. It’s been a long time since someone with real testes has knocked out some overwhelming arrogance, and I genuinely feel joy at this victory. I smiled the whole time after that day. Even Hameesi here was starting to think I’ve lost my marbles. 

I wonder how Hameesi can tell when the Mullah smiles or scowls; he looks the same to me with his dentures on. Maybe Hameesi was confused by a toothless smile? But I’m too scared of the Mullah’s temperament to ask more and stay quiet.

But our Khojas are instant Maulaanas, right? My cousin Sheelu called to complain about Mamdani, so I got into a big fight with him. ‘Bhaijaan’ – he asked me, ‘how can we Khojas be okay with someone who says he’s a Shia, hugs half-naked women, dances with LGBTQ groups, makes memes of himself posing like Shah Rukh Khan, even if he’s running for office?’ So I replied, ‘Oy, Sheelu. You’re short, with a pea brain. You expect Mamdani to win in New York by wearing an amaama and doing saf-matam in Harlem or Astoria?’ So he called me a Kafir and hung up. We haven’t spoken since.

I want to laugh at this, but I hold myself back. Any opinions contrary to this man’s are treading on dangerous ground.

So, Mr. Kisukaali, as an American, what do you think?

Well, I start cautiously, you know me, Mullahsaheb, I don’t get involved in or have opinions on political matters. In my work, it’s best to stay apolitical…

And so the Mullah erupts, going into a rant. He calls me a coward and a typical Khoja, a chicken. I stare at him, making sure the way to the door is clear in case I have to run. Hameesi, too, looks on with a worried frown on his face, scratching his peppered hair in confusion.

The Mullah pauses his rant, opens his mouth wide, then sneezes and farts at the same time. Out fly the dentures and clatter on the floor – Hameesi darts to pick them up. I flee for my life, hurriedly leaving the customary tip for the guy.