The Ivorian lover, my mistress, my daughter love.
Act I of an erotic tale taking place in Abidjan, Côte d'Ivoire.

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I am seated at this small restaurant since an hour at least,
watching her wirling around the tables occupied by a diversified wildlife,
blacks, whites, metis, foreign visitors, African dignitaries,
assorted couples and others unassorted,
she looks at me quietly and I look indiscreetly at her.
Does she know that I'm fascinated by her presence, the little African girl who serves at the tables
in this sympathetic little bistro of the "Plateau" adjacent to the "Grand Hotel" where I am staying for the night?

She moves at a rapid pace around the tables, taking the orders
and placing the dishes with ease and determination
her slender body is draped in a "boubou dress" drawn with thousand flowers,
like a goddess, she rolled her mobile hips around the central axis of her upright body,
attracting eager eyes from males and that of women subjugated by her animal ease,
and she moves like a panther around the tables
provocating on all males who watch her, anbiguous attitudes of horny satyrs.
I stare at her like that to better impregnate myself of her charm and I find myself desiring her madly.

I came back to Abidjan for business.
Eighteen years have already passed since I made a one-year stay 
as a delegate from an international agency.
I look at a  crumpled photograph yellowed by time that I removed from my briefcase,
an already aged photo of that beautiful African whomen I  then attended
during my stay in this fascinating city as you were yourselve, attractive and desirable,
beautiful African with black-desires that I cherished for one night here nearby
in a room of the "Hotel du Parc", which has been sadly abandoned since.

Abandoned also are those places where we use to meet, the "cinéma de Paris",
the terrace of the "hotel du Parc"  where we sipped a "caffé liégeois" facing the Sg. A. Briand park,
under the indiscreet warbling of frightening bats
perched withing the voluminous leaves of the trees on "boulevard de la République".
Abandoned or sadly missing are all those places where I loved to give you "rendez-vous"
to share a few moments of grace, the Nour Al-Ayat market, the Vietnamese restaurants
and these coffee-shops held by Lebanese exiles, the small beach near the exit of the lagoon
by the "Canal Vridi" where you  gracefully expose your ebony body of sensual African girl.
You were beautiful in your almost-nudity, a slender body over long and fine legs
and tiny breasts, which we could hardly sight,
you slightly swells the "propylene" bra of your two-piece swimsuit,
whose designs with colorful flowers glittered like stars on your copper-like flesh;
fine water bubbles beaded on your body like on the tanned skin of a wild animal.
You looked like a wild animal, you were like a panther in front of my ecstatic eyes.
And my only desire was to take you, to make love to you here in front of your surprised friends.

The "Plateau" has been transformed, the then white city  becamed a black city
as if Treichville, the neighborhood where we use to go dancing all our nights
in the sulfuric arms of those beautiful and provocative African girls,
now the "Plateau" is only an extension of Treichville, a black city
now occupied by bad boys gangs with their suspicious looks
and a certain fear that envelops you trying to find these ancient spots
where we could then spent time without any apprehensions.

Past the "Felix Houphouet-Boigny" bridge, the  Treichville market but, especially at night, the lively bars,
the beach on the lagoon, Port Bouet, under the palm trees in Grand-Bassam, my apartment in Cocody
the "Hotel Ivoire" where we would go skating to remember a little of our cold country.
Marcory, the Lido on the Atlantic Ocean and the Banco forest at a distance,
past the Adjame road station and the creek where women wash cloths.
We went towards the city of Yamoussoukro the city of the President Houphouet-Boigny
to work at the reconstruction of villages displaced by the construction of a dam,
Yamoussoukro, a village becomed the capital of the country, turned into a vulgar bitch
to impress the incoming stranger mimicking then foreign modes.

Africa would then have repossessed itself
and I would again become a stranger, an intruder among others
whose only link with passed Africa would be that of my loving-girl,
of this love or what looked like love.

Marco Polo ou le voyage imaginaire (Contes et légendes, décembre 2013) © 2013 Jean-Pierre Lapointe
En hommage à mes amoureuses d'Afrique.
Important Notice: any photos or fragments of photos subject to copyright will be removed on notice.


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