I was rushing through the dense and packed streets of Hargeisa’s largest suuq. There’s still a couple of hours until noon, but the sun could not be bothered to stick to schedule. My palms were having a hard time holding onto the shopping bags. The sweat and plastic completing a frictionless dance as I constantly adjusted. The battle was finally lost as one of the bags slips through my last finger and hits the floor.

As I turned to pick up my bag, I saw the man behind me almost trip as he tried to avoid it.

“Warya qashinkaaga naga qaad!” he yelled angrily.

I guess the heat’s getting to everyone. I tried to apologize, but he had already walked away mumbling under his breath.

Luckily the bag didn’t break open. I am not sure my mom would appreciate a muddied dirac. I bent over and picked it up with my right hand and secured it tightly along with the others.

After a few more blocks of stifling crowd, annoyed looks, and drenched armpits I saw Ibrahim. He smiled at me as he walked towards me. Not a sign of sweat on his blue t-shirt. I looked lower and saw what else he was wearing.

“What’s with the old man macawiis” I said, taking a slight dig.

“Gotta keep cool everwhere.” He replied with a heavy English accent. A wink and a mischievous smile following right after.

Pleased to see him, I reached out with my free left hand. He reeled back, a look of disgust replacing his sly smile.

“Ma walaantahay!” he said, genuinely insulted at my gesture.

“Gacanta aa xaarka iska daqdhid baa isiinaysa?”

I momentarily forgot where I was. The smallest habits are hardest to break I suppose.

After shifting the bags to my left hand and put out my hand again, the gesture was returned.

“Dhaqanka iyo nadaafadda weli maa baraan” he followed with eyebrows drawn down.

I smirked with a slight guilt. I probably look like a child that’s been scolded.

“fa-innal shaytan yakulu bishimaalihi wayashribu bishimaalihi” he recited from memory, his mouth and tongue moving with ease from countless repetitions

Somalis being largely a Muslim people adhere to it. They might have even added greater restrictions to this hadith. But perhaps this is also the reason why the transmission of some diseases are less pronounced in Somali dominated areas. Since everyone knows which hand the ‘business’ is done with, the other is used.

“Inaadeer, bal aan raadsano cabitan” Ibrahim said with an unusual level of chipper. Perhaps feeling guilty for admonishing me, he offered to buy tea.

As we walked to a favourite tea shop nearby, Ibrahim waved at someone he recognized. For some reason, it feels like you can’t walk two blocks in Hargeisa without running into someone you know.

The man was dressed a bit more professional than either one of us. His white shirt tucked into his beige khakis. A red skinny tie was carefully done and contrasted his white shirt.

Maybe he’s taking a break from work I thought.

He was momentarily blocked by the crowd as he walked towards us.  When he was about ten meters from us, he passed by the last person. His eyes darting to me quickly while half his right hand was inside his face. Picking at whatever was lodged in there.

“Walaal, baryahan xaage aa kuluntai?” He said, as he extended his arm for the proper greeting.

Ibrahim took it happily.

“Islaanti.” He said.

Both started laughing. Obviously an inside joke which I’ll hear about over tea.

His nose free from obstruction, he completed his greeting and put out his right arm to me.