Chapter 24 Abomey

The city is already inside her before she reaches the restaurant. This is Benin. The old stories don’t wait to be invited.

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The city of Abomey hums beneath dusk’s golden light.

I descend to the lobby and step into the car that’s appeared — another detail polished by Tarmo. Dressed, awake, flesh still humming — desires only half sated, the city just starting to seduce me.

The drive is a slow, fragrant procession. Amber-lit market stalls line the streets, girls laugh behind trays of deep-fried yams, the scent of pepper and roasted goat drifting through the open window.

At a corner shrine, a woman in white presses her forehead to something I can’t see, her lips moving. Musicians tune battered guitars beside her, their melodies threading through the clatter of zemidjans and the twilight rush.

Tarmo sits beside me, watching my profile as the city slips past. Hunger in his eyes, kept on a short, elegant leash.

At Les Saveurs de Marguerite we’re led to a table draped in white linen, candles flickering between us. Grilled fish, spicy sauces, fluffy local rice, mango, a chilled glass of white wine.

We barely speak. Every glance, every forkful, its own negotiation.

When his hand covers mine across the table it isn’t possession — it’s permission.

I swirl my wine. “Normally I’d let this dress flaunt itself. Tonight it’s more armour than art.”

His smile turns rueful. “I’d rather admire your perfect nature.” The heat in his eyes stays carefully leashed.

“If I ruin it, will you have another sent from Paris tomorrow?”

“You know I would.” He glances down. “Years ago I’d have closed ten deals before dessert. Now I just sit hungry and remember Gdansk.”

He doesn’t finish. He doesn’t need to.

Outside, a drum starts somewhere in the dark. Single skin, steady. The kind that doesn’t stop.

“You’re not master of your body or mind tonight, are you?”

He shakes his head. “Not when you’re around. Not ever, if I’m honest.”

The food cools.

Abomey’s evening presses through the open windows — jazz, laughter, engines, that drum underneath it all, constant as a pulse.

I.Ph.

A chapter from The Memory Cartographer | Alkebulan Chronicles © 2026 I.Ph. de Lange All rights reserved. Published by CYcrds OÜ.