Two children. He was an ordinary guy. But in the midst of our conversation and for no apparent reason, he confessed that it had been two months since he last had sex and that this abstinence was causing him to have unusual reactions around women. Especially, he added, when they were beautiful. I pretended not to hear this intimate confession. Other than offering a sympathetic ear, I could not think of any available solution to his problem. I managed to steer the conversation towards the condition of the road, the history of the buildings we were driving past, and the names of the neighborhoods we were going through.

Diallo was tall and had broad shoulders. His person as well as his cab easily stood out from the other drivers. His French was perfect, his demeanor very close to western standards. I was willing to believe that he behaved like this with everyone. He seldom raised his voice, but his eyes and facial expressions betrayed this calmness. In fact, it seemed that his body as a whole did more speaking than his tongue.

• Are you married? he asked with a smile.
• No, not yet, I answered, returning the smile
• Can you drive? he inquired.
• No, unfortunately, I replied.

He then offered to put my hand on the gearshift and guide me. His car was manual, like most cars in Abidjan.

• I am going to shift gears. You will feel it in your hand, he said, sounding professional.

He put his hand on top of mine.

• This is the fourth gear. It’s light. The ride is smooth, soft … like your hand, he
  commented, caressing my fingers. I looked him in the eyes. He smiled as if to say “I
  really want you. I want to have you right here, right now. But I know I can’t. You are out
  of my league.” It was a smile of seduction but also powerlessness.

He shifted gears again.

• This is the third gear. It’s harder. More masculine. The car is gaining in strength,
  becoming cocky.

It was a pleasant feeling. I was letting this Ivorian taxi driver hit on me. I made myself naïve,
child-like. I was listening. I was smiling. I was saying very little, allowing him to have the upper
hand.
When he dropped me off at Yopougon Toit Rouge, in front of the restaurant Prestige, he said:

• I’ll stay in this neighborhood to wait for you. Call me when you’re done. Your next ride
  is free.

I was strongly tempted. My errand was not going to take long.
I was done in twenty minutes. I called my Diallo and five minutes later, he was there. Even though I was no longer handing myself over to be touched, the return trip was just as pleasant.

• Your hand is so soft. I can only imagine what the rest of your body must be like…

Diallo took me back to my residence, at Rosier Programme 6. The following week, I saw him three or four times. He called me even during his days off. I paid him as much as I could. Sometimes, he would refuse any payment. He soon knew the way to my place like the back of his hand and would pick me up right in front of my house. He was punctual and always available whenever I needed a cab.

Yesterday was a work day for him, but I had not needed a taxi. That night, he called me, asking why he had not heard from me. “I did not need a cab today”. He asked if he could come see me, if we could have dinner together. I was hungry. I accepted his invitation. We went to Riviera 2, a spot that was lively at all times of the day but especially at dinner time. I ordered grilled fish and soft drinks. Out of respect, I did not have any alcohol. During our conversation, he opened up to me:

• Aicha, you know I never got a western education, but I can read and write. All the texts I
  send you, I write them myself. My father put me in a Koranic school. My little brotherwas the one who went to a “French” school and taught me how to read and write. In
  return, I taught him Arabic. I am a hard worker. I earn a decent living, and I do so
  honestly. I am a chair in my mosque, a team leader in my neighborhood …But you…I
  don’t know why, but my body reacted the moment I saw you.

I was listening to him. He was going on and on. I had never seen him talk like this before. This monologue seemed to come straight from his heart. From his facial expression, I could tell it was not premeditated. And I am telling you this from experience. I have met straight men who could sweet talk a woman. Diallo was nothing like them. He did not need to tell me that he had not gone to school. He knew that admitting something like this would not play to his advantage, but he confessed it nonetheless.

So I decided to be honest with him as well.

• I also have something to tell you. It’s very simple, but difficult to say.
• We can finish eating first.

After we were done eating, I continued:

• As I was saying, I have something to tell you. I am not a woman. I am a man. Well…let’s
  just say, I have male sexual organs…a penis. I don’t have a vagina…

I did not know I could be this straightforward, but because of what he had just shared, I knew I had to be simple and forgo complicated terms.

His answer surprised me.

• I already knew. I have known since the first time I saw you, and I had already made up my mind: it does not bother me. You are beautiful, nice, smart, and fascinating. No man could resist you, even knowing the truth. You know, I met someone like you once. In my job, I come across all kinds of people. For her, I did not know until she told me. The only difference with you is that she wanted to sleep with me the minute she told me the truth about herself, but I did not want to. With you, it’s different. I never perceived any interest from you. I have always made myself available for you in that way, but nothing.

He paused.

• You were the one talking…I’m sorry I cut you off…, he concluded

I did not have anything else to say. We remained silent. Typical Ivorian man that he was, he took care of the bill. As we were walking down the stairs, he took my hand. This time, when we got inside the car, he did not leave my hand on the gearshift. He guided it to his lap, between his legs. He made me touch his penis, which was fully erect. In silence, I stroked this huge cucumber that stretched to his knee. Whenever I took my hand away, he firmly put it back. He is a Muslim from the North. A Dioula, cousin of the Hausas from Cameroun. So the myth is true …. His ardor had a similar effect on me. No surprise there. It had been a year since I had been intimate with a man. When we arrived at my place, he asked if he could use my bathroom. He knew exactly where it would be. He knew he would have to go through my bedroom. You can imagine the rest. You are adults, and I am a grown woman.

I can still smell his scent on the towel he used after the long shower we took together. I still shiver when I think about last night. This towel will remain unwashed for a long time. Eh. Diallo. Eh, Allah… God is indeed great, and we can appreciate His greatness through His creation.