standing on the rooftop of the PC Bureau, looking out at the skyline of the Zone du Bois neighborhood in Ouagadougou. The air was hot and dry. We both had that perpetual sheen of sweat and orange dust stuck to our skin. We don't even notice anymore. Drunk on the magic of seeing lights, and being up above ground level, spying down at the world below (all 4 stories). Feeling the thrill of being where we weren't supposed to be. Kissing, kissing hard and deep and passionate as we laugh under the stars and bask in the halogen moonlight. Dancing to the disjointed beats of music playing from the shanty restaurant on the corner and from the radio of the security guards outside. Bodies pressing together, being together, forbidden, in love, here. Love blossoms even in the desert where no one speaks your language, when you meet someone who reads your heart.
It seems like the least romantic of places, objectively.
But when something calls up that image of a West African city at night, this is what I remember. And it fills my heart with soaring flights of bittersweet longing.
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