1 July '11
ANCIEN COLON À L'HOTEL AL MASSA

She ran up to me like a springbok
She wanted my gold Gaelic cross
z'yeux glauques, from me des 
yeux glauques
with a little wah-wah trombone
in her mouth when she spoke
her lingo
playing Zorba the Greek
her body lithe, a sapling
I grafted my bongara with her
tiktobah very tight squeeze
with variable temperature in
the forecast
she left the hotel with white, flat
slippers like Donald or Daffy
all in black
I am a Muslim she said
as she slipped the narrow-fitting
abaya over her head, then draped
it with a shaleila before we exited
the room.
My little black Samba
with silk black hair down
her back (shines black & ivory in the night lights)
would not take her bra off
was enamored of my dirham
notes
she could finally pay the boss

She keeps calling me
ta- ta- ta- ta
ta- ta- ta- ta
ta- ta- ta- ta- ta

ta- ta- ta- ta
ta- ta- ta- ta
ta- ta- ta- ta- da    on my Nokia
but I do not answer
I'm going back to my Honey she gave me a peck on the cheek when I gave her money for food (Fr. Anthony looks like Toad of Wind in the Willows)
Now I understand that ancien colon in Duékoué, always with a bevy of naughty girls in the cinema or pawing one of the bar girls. He had a sweet tooth for brown sugar, though never made himself sick to get over it, old age was what he never got over, or would.

With Queequegette in the hotel room.

... Vitamins were the key to give him strength it was alleged

B for Babette, my Queequegette of darkest chocolate color with shiny black silk hair that gleamed like ivory in the fluorescent light
it was real, not the usual page-boy wigs the other West African whores wore. I know it was because I pinned it down with my bony arm on the bed as she pulled away and said "ouch!" And "slowly" she said the second time I plunged my bongara in her, and "ah!" with a plea of don't, you're hurting me, though this she did not say. But I was only lodged a short while before I backed it out. I only bumped her twice that night, like going too fast over a hump in the road, it's not good for the shocks. But I shocked her good. "You want to fuck," she said, to do it for a second time. I was much obliged. I was enthused, she was crazed by the dirham notes I gave.
If ever there was a dark chocolate moon and clouds of cirrus in strands of shimmering jet black silk it was this little woman of 22. (She told me she was 22 years old.)
I kept asking her if she spoke Twi, as she said she was from Ghana, but she seemed not to understand and would not reveal the name of her lingo that had the wah wah open syllables of Wobé, a language of Western Ivory Coast near the Liberian border. Maybe she was speaking West African pidgin. "Check time" was her way of saying "What time is it." Always with her mobile near at hand to wah wah on and on.