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 yo