Aurélie arrived at her TV company, sweaty from her run from her home at La Riviera 3 to her office at Les Deux Plateaux.
“Stéphanie, comment va?” she greeted the receptionist and asked for any message.
“Non, but you have a visitor.” She looked across the lobby just as Stéphanie said he was in her office. To the frown on her face, the receptionist added, “It is Monsieur Sylla.”
“Oh. What time …” then she waved her hands, thanked the receptionist and made her way to the office.
Sylla was sitting across her desk, looking as if he’d always sat there.
“A stranger from a far away land. Or maybe you were in Ghana next door.”
“My only favourite person in this Côte d’Ivoire.” He got up and opened his arms to her.
“How I’ve dreamed of seeing this day, djarabi.” He walked towards her and pulled her into his arms and into the room. He kissed her, and she kissed him back. Those lips! That body.
He’d put on a bit of weight, but nothing much to distract from the military physique that towered over her and always got her weak at the knees. She stayed in his arms when they broke off the kiss.
“I need to take a shower, you know.” She whispered.
“I suppose. Gyms in this country no longer have showers?”
“I ran from home to here,” she smiled at his surprised look. “I had to distract myself from you disappearing like that.” She put her hands under her chin and looked at him.
Last time she saw him, Gbagbo had finally been dragged out of his bunker. Sylla had arrived at her home late at night. How? She’d no idea. Not even her watchman had been aware.
Blood had been on his hands so maybe he’d climbed the huge wall which surrounded her home and on top of which, as well as the barbed wires, broken bottles had been embedded into the cement to deter any thief. Her living room had been the HQ of her staff, listening to gunshots whilst talking about their relief but sadness at Gbagbo’s departure. She’d gone up to her library to take a document when someone had put their hand on her mouth. The terrified sound she made died instantly in her mouth, and then, he’d whispered in her ears.
“Djarabi, c’est moi.” Darling, it is I.
The relief had been short-lived when he’d turned on the desk lamp. He looked like he’d been
through the wars, which he had.
“How did you get in?”
“Am I a civilian?” he’d smiled, a sad smile. “I need money, baby. I need to leave this country. The situation is lethal and I can’t take money out my account.”
“Not a problem,” she’d said. With the situation the way it had been, she made sure she had enough money on her. Nobody knew when one would need to go to Ghana.

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