The Age That Divides, Two Years Too Many

It was an ordinary Wednesday lunchtime in Dakar, exactly 12:30. Hunger was pulling me out of the office like an alarm. My colleagues had already left for lunch, leaving me alone with my Excel spreadsheets and a stack of overdue reports. I decided to head to my usual spot on Rue Jean Jaurès: that little restaurant where the smell of kandia soup grabs you the moment you walk in, where the “C’est bon” is always generous, and where thiebou dieun remains a sacred institution. I settled at a table by the window, ordered my ritual: hot “C’est bon” and a fresh-squeezed orange juice. The waitress headed to the kitchen. That’s when I noticed her. Two tables away, a young woman sitting alone, elegant, absorbed in her phone. Perfectly done braids, glowing skin under the midday light, a small smile when she scrolled. “Wow… she’s so fine,” I thought, my heart already racing. At 24, freshly hired young professional, proudly single and a bit too confident, I set myself a silly but thrilling challenge: go talk to her, make her laugh, get her number. Another conquest? Maybe. But above all, don’t let an opportunity like this slip away. My food arrived. I didn’t even taste it, too busy mentally rehearsing my approach. Finally, I stood up, tray in hand, and walked over with what I thought was my most charming smile. “You don’t feel a little lonely, dear Mademoiselle?” She looked up, surprised, one eyebrow slightly raised. “Oups, sorry, I didn’t even greet you properly. How are you?” “Fine… and you?” she replied, half-amused, half-wary. “Oh, I’m good. But I was thinking it would be even better if you let me sit with you. I feel a bit alone at my table over there.” “But I don’t know you. Who are you?” “I’m Moussa. And you?” “Amy. But…” I didn’t let her finish: “Amy! Beautiful name. You don’t know me, true, but maybe this is the moment God chose for us to meet. Would you let me enjoy my meal here, with you? Otherwise, it won’t taste like anything…” She sighed deeply, rolled her eyes, then a small smile finally broke through. “Fine, okay. But just for the meal.” That was the beginning of everything. We talked for over an hour and a half. She worked at Ecobank as a client relationship officer, loved Korean dramas, shopping in Sandaga, weekend getaways to Saly when her budget allowed. I told her about my first real salary, my dreams of climbing the ladder, my passion for Sunday football and the personal development books I devoured at night. The connection felt effortless. By the end of lunch, I left with her WhatsApp number and a whispered “Call me whenever you want” accompanied by a wink that made me blush inside. The following weeks were a whirlwind of happiness. Late-night calls until the battery died, funny messages all day long, discreet first dates: walks along the Corniche at sunset, dinners in hidden maquis in Médina, movie nights where we held hands in the dark like teenagers. Amy was funny, intelligent, breathtakingly beautiful. She made me feel invincible. I fell in love—truly, deeply in love—for the first time in my life. Then came the revelation. One evening, after a passionate kiss in her little car parked near Ngor beach, she murmured against my lips: “I’m 26, Moussa.” Two years older than me. To me, it was nothing—love has no age, period. To her, it was an insurmountable wall. “In Senegal, people judge. My family would never understand a younger man. And you—your friends will make fun of you… Your parents?” I brushed her fears aside. “We don’t care about other people. It’s just us. We’re adults, we decide.” But doubt slowly crept in, like an invisible crack. She started hesitating over photos we posted (or didn’t post), avoiding introducing me to her closest girlfriends, panicking whenever we talked about the future: “What if we get married? What will people say?” “Two years too many,” she would repeat sometimes like a haunting mantra. Still, we carried on. I introduced her to my friends—they adored her, called her “too classy” and “smart.” She even met my little sister, who jokingly called her “co-wife” and asked her for makeup tips. Our nights were tender, passionate, intimate. We promised each other the impossible: “We’ll make it, no matter what.” But arguments started. Small at first—a cousin’s comment about age, a sideways glance at the market—then more intense. “You don’t understand the pressure I’m under,” she would say through tears. “And you let other people decide our life,” I would reply, frustrated. We always reconciled, often in each other’s arms, but the crack kept growing. Every time we talked about marriage, children, the future, the shadow of those two years returned, heavier, more insistent. One rainy evening, after yet another tense discussion where she had canceled dinner with my friends again “because it would be too obvious,” she said the words that broke me: “Maybe we should stop. For your sake. For mine. I don’t want to make you suffer later.” I was devastated. I went home in the rain, cried like a child in my room, clutching my phone without daring to call her. The following days were hell: insomnia, loss of appetite, no desire for anything. To survive, I completely reinvented myself. I set a military schedule: gym every morning at 6 a.m., reading in the evening (I devoured mindset and finance books), working late, night prayers, football with the brothers, solo cinema on weekends. Not a single minute to think about love or her. After two weeks, Amy slowly faded from my mind. Her number stayed in my phone, but I never felt the urge to call again. She became a bittersweet memory, a painful lesson. Then life sped up. A professional opportunity appeared: a better-paid position in a regional bank, with lots of travel across the country and even a few missions to Abidjan and Bamako. I applied, went through five stressful interviews, and got hired. Two months of intense travel, new challenges, healthy exhaustion, and pride. Amy? Completely gone from my head. Even Aziza, an Ivorian friend I met during a seminar around that time, faded away when she returned permanently to her country. Today, I know what became of them. Khady got married over a year ago—a beautiful union, apparently. Fifi… I hope she’s matured since her creepy stunt that made me run. Aziza now works in Morocco for a big multinational; she posts photos of Marrakech on Instagram. As for Amy… one day, by chance, I passed by Ecobank for a transaction. She wasn’t at her usual desk. I discreetly asked a colleague: “Amy? She’s on maternity leave for three months. Married for almost a year now.” I smiled inwardly, without bitterness. Congratulations, Amy. Truly. Two years too many? Maybe. But those two years taught me a hard truth: when love collides with society, family, stares, traditions, it can fade before it ever truly burns. I turned the page, no regrets. Life is too short to stay attached to what wasn’t meant to last. And deep down, I know the next story will be different. Freer. More honest. Without fear of age, gossip, or “two years too many.” Just two hearts choosing each other, fully.