I write in praise of the taxi driver who takes me home with my shopping. He is a large man, moon-faced, soft-voiced, lambent against the car window. He leans over to let me in and there is that moment – a fissure of uncertainty. It's Christmas Eve, and he asks are you ready for the celebration? We talk of Eid, this year in December, the Winter Solstice, of ritual and bringing together. He offers me an image of his family – aunties, uncles, cousins, kids – seated on a big carpet, feasting for days, candles lit and scattered through the house throwing their light among the shadows; his father at home in exile. The day before, or that week, some week or other a bombing or street massacre. It crouches between us, a burnt thing smacking its lips, audible enough for him to raise it like a dais we both lift off from. I offer that photograph – you know the one – Trump and his cronies incumbent at The White House – a dozen ugly old white men, the only woman an aide half-seen adjusting the lamp behind them, and the space between us comes down to this: how those that govern work for power alone; we are the ordinary people of the earth, defined by what we have in common. At the gate he unloads my bags, shuts the boot, takes my fare, returns to the car and lifts a hand farewell, his every movement fluid, measured.