It was a surprisingly tepid December afternoon. The sun peeked shyly behind grey clouds. Farouq, myself, and one of our mutual friends were in Peckham to eat àmàlà at one of the popular Nigerian restaurants there. Farouq and I hadn’t seen each other nor had we spoken a lot in many months, so after our meal, we talked, with toothpicks in our mouths, about everything. However, our conversation was cut short when Farouq realised it was prayer time. Luckily, we found a mosque nearby. When we stepped in, I noticed how supersoft the carpet was, so when Farouq went to perform his ablution and say his prayers, I lay on the rug and stared at the white ceiling. My thoughts wandered, and it finally settled on how nice it was to see Farouq again and why we had fallen out months before.