📘 The Men from Mali

STORY BY: ADAM WEST
Based on true events.

In the southeast of Spain is the province of Almería, an arid part of the country that is largely without rain, making it an attractive destination for sunseekers from across Europe. South of the provincial capital is a coastal plain covered by a sea of plastic greenhouses where millions upon millions of tonnes of fruit and vegetables are cultivated and exported across the European continent. This curious feature in such a dry area is due to large underground lakes, the water from which is pumped to the surface to irrigate the plants in the greenhouses.

The workers in the agricultural industry in Almería are almost all migrants, many of whom have undertaken arduous and dangerous journeys to cross the Mediterranean to get to Spain and hopefully a better life in a European country. Working and living conditions for the migrants are notoriously poor, often appalling.

I was a lucky 27-year-old: I had a job in the operations team of a large tour operator with a car and apartment as part of the package. A year ago, I had been to Tunisia to visit a friend and had some of the best encounters with Muslim masters ever, but here they were few and far between, at least in the beach resort. Whilst in Morocco, Turkey and Tunisia I had found it quite easy to meet Muslim men and service them; here they didn’t seem to give me even a glance. I lay awake many nights dreaming of when I would take my next Islamic cock inside me. One night, whilst out with colleagues, someone mentioned that the workers in the greenhouses came mainly from countries in North Africa, which I knew were mainly Muslim states.

On my days off I would often cycle around the resort then, one hot morning in early June, I decided to take a trip out towards the massive expanse of plastic to see if I could at least get a look at one of those men. Less than a kilometre out of town, I found myself in a confusing maze of narrow roads, the low yet incredibly spacious hot houses all around me. I could see there were breaks in the plastic that covered them and, leaving my bike on the dusty ground by the road, I got inside through a large tear in the cover. The heat hit me hard: it must have been way over forty degrees inside where I discovered hundreds of rows of tomato plants, their fruit still green. I could see no one else there. I repeated this in several other houses, where melons, cucumbers and peppers grew. My diligence paid off and at last I could see a small group of workers, mainly young and noticeably North African – likely Moroccan. All of them looked lusciously fit, as they picked tomatoes. I kept my head down below plant height and watched them in their cut-off T-shirts, muscly arms, shiny with sweat. They spoke in Arabic and some wore cotton scarves around their heads. I watched them and thought how I’d like them all to take me here and now. I hadn’t had a Muslim dick for what seemed like ages.

For a few weeks, on my day off, I would revisit the greenhouses. One day I was passing and I saw some trucks parked alongside one of them. I found a tear in the plastic so, like pulling back a curtain, I slipped inside. I saw a small group of men in the middle of all the pepper plants, at least thirty metres from me and, only about seven metres away, one lone man, facing the plastic wall to my right with his back to me and his right arm hidden in front while his left arm was dangling. I thought he was taking a leak then, as I moved a little closer, staying close the first row of plants, I could see he was actually masturbating. He kept looking back over his shoulder and I saw his face: young, black and handsome. I tried to stay quiet but accidentally trod on the end of a metal pole, left on the uneven, hard ground, and it sprung up and hit me in the face. Instinctively, I cried out, then ducked down. The man heard and looked back again over his shoulder and saw me. Instantly, he tucked himself into his orange work trousers, zipped-up and turned around. I had been discovered. I thought of fleeing but what was the point? It was hardly a crime to look into a greenhouse so I didn’t panic. He walked across to me, staring. As he approached, I stood up and he asked me in faltering, broken Spanish what I was doing there.

‘Sorry. I was just curious’, I replied, my voice breaking up

‘Curious for what?’ he asked

‘The plants…’

‘They not interesting,’ he said as he studied my face for the real reason

‘I was just looking,’ I offered

‘Why you look at me?’

I didn’t answer. I stood there in my white shorts, dusty from the ground, T-shirt and white trainers, my smooth, pale legs not yet tanned by the summer sun. His face was young yet worn, his eyes faraway, hooded and tired.

‘You must not be here,’ he said gently. ‘The boss angry.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said and looked away.

He called out something to the men working on the rows of plants some distance away in a rhythmic language I didn’t recognise, although I could pick out a few French words.

‘What language is that?’ I asked

‘Bambara,’ he answered, ‘from Mali.’

‘Is that near Morocco?’

‘More south.’

A voice, muffled by the plants and humid atmosphere, rang out and he raised his head and shouted some words back.

‘I’m Adam,’ I said

‘Mohammed.’

So, he was a Muslim. Good news.

‘You not Spanish, no?’ he asked.

‘I’m English.’

‘So why you here? What do you do?’

‘I told you, I’m curious.’

The distant voice called again and he yelled back and looked agitated, as if nervous and about to run off.

‘But you watch me. I do this…’ he said, gesturing to the place he had been standing, ‘because we have no women. We live all together. No space, no women, no money. I find space here alone. You understand?’

‘Yes. I understand. It’s human nature.’

‘I’m sure easy for you. You girlfriend, nice house…’

‘I don’t have a girlfriend,’ I corrected him

‘But you money, nice clothes. You find girl.’

‘I don’t want to find a girl.’

This stopped him and he stared.

‘You don’t want girl? Why? You ‘homosex’? That’s why you watch me?’

He started to walk away and I suddenly thought I had nothing to lose. I could see he was not a threat to my safety. I am proud of what I am and have sometimes had to be discreet in countries where homosexuality is illegal but here in Spain being gay was legal and largely without stigma, so I felt empowered.

‘I can be your woman,’ I said coquettishly.

He stopped, fixed his gaze on me again and stood, looking me up and down, thinking for a moment. There was tension in the air that was palpable.

‘What do you say?’ He paused for a moment, in thought. ‘There are some men in Mali, they take a homosex to fuck. I don’t do before. I don’t know.’ He paused again, in thought. ‘You fuck in the dark?’

‘Sure,’ I said, softly, I will do whatever you want.

‘I think. But I not homosex.’

‘I understand. I am the homosexual. You are the man. You will tell me what to do for you.’

He took out an old, basic Nokia mobile phone and asked for my number. He tapped it in then ran off, calling out to his colleagues.

Three days passed and I received no message or call. Since the day I had stumbled upon him, I had thought of him often, imagining him releasing his frustrations inside me. I felt hot all over when he came to mind but there was no call. I was on a transfer run to the airport, having a coffee at the bar when at last the text came through.

‘I want to see you. Do you have a place? Maybe I do the sex in the dark with you. Mohammed.’

This was it! I texted back straight away,

‘OK. When can you come?’

We agreed that night was a good time and that I would meet him at the end of the beach road, just a short walk from my apartment.

I was there on time at ten o’clock but he didn’t show. I stood around, looking at my phone, sent him a text asking where he was, but nothing. I waited around thirty minutes then, disheartened, turned towards home. My phone pinged. It was him.

‘Sorry. I be there in ten minutes’

This lack of punctuality was to be a characteristic of his, I was soon to learn.

Sure enough, he came walking towards me after a while, wearing a colourful, yet old and worn shirt with equally ancient jeans and grubby sandals on his bare feet. We walked to my apartment, just a few minutes away. Along the way, he told me he lived with five other men from Africa in a dilapidated apartment nearby. They had a kitchen full of old equipment, slept all in one room, and only had a cold and unhygienic shower.

We arrived at my place with its sea view, pristine décor and spacious rooms and I felt somewhat guilty. He asked to shower and I made him coffee. He didn’t undress in front of me. Even though the air temperature was still in the high twenties, he stayed in the hot shower for a long time, evident from the steam on the frosted glass door. Eventually he emerged with his clothes in his arms, the white bath towel I had given him wrapped around his waist. He took the coffee and drank it straight down. He was beautiful: not a hint of fat on his fit torso, strong arms, some hair on his chest and his skin black as ebony. I was totally excited and my nerves were dancing from head to toe, my heart beating at full speed.

As we entered the bedroom, he went to the window and, pulling on the cord that was threaded into the window frame, closed the outside blind which all houses and apartments have there to block out light and, consequently, extreme heat. He turned off the lamp I had by my bed and we were in complete darkness.

I took off my shorts and shirt and lay on the bed. I heard the soft drop of the towel on the floor and he felt his way onto the bed next to me.

I didn’t move; I wanted to allow him to lead. One wrong move and he may get turned off and leave. My palpitations continued apace. I so wanted this man from Mali to come inside me.

He felt his way to my rock-hard nipples and fondled them slowly. I pushed out my chest and arched my back on the bed to try to form how a woman’s breasts may feel but I was very slim and I can’t really believe it was a realistic alternative. Nevertheless, he seemed to like it and next thing, he was sucking at my nipples. I became very excited and moaned out loud. I got a whiff of coffee on his breath and his body had an almost oaky scent that was masculine and extremely sexy. My moaning appeared to turn him on even more and he pulled at my legs so they were straight then he raised himself and straddled my chest. I reached out for his penis and there it was. It was beautifully long, smooth and thick and, of course, perfectly cut. I massaged it without tugging at it. He leant back and put his hand down towards my anus. He brushed against my pubic hair around my penis and stopped.

‘I don’t like hair,’ he said

‘Do you want me to remove it?’ I offered

‘Next time. No hair, please.’ Please? He really was polite. I was used to men dominating me and giving orders.

‘Today, I need to fuck. No wait.’

That sounds good to me, I thought.

I carried on pulling carefully at his cock while he leant right back on his folded legs and rubbed the tip of his finger on my hole although he didn’t push it inside. It was a tender tease and I inhaled deeply and sighed softly. Luckily, I have no hair around my ring so I guess it felt all right for him too. I was waiting for him to thrust his penis into my mouth but there wasn’t time, it seemed. He pulled back, grabbed my legs and pushed them up into the air whilst he placed himself between them. He touched my ass again and played with my ring. I reached out to my bedside cabinet but couldn’t quite get to it. Then a small light came on. He had picked up his mobile phone so I could see what I was doing. In that very low light, I saw his cock in all its glory. My God, it was a beauty! It was so solid, made even more outstanding by his lack of pubic hair, so long, it naturally tilted to one side. I opened my drawer, took out some lubrication gel, opened it and applied it to his gorgeous tool. The little light went off as he replaced the telephone. He felt his way back to my hole and then, resting on his knees, he placed his manhood at my entrance and slowly pushed. I felt him enter me and he drove his cock home all the way. Deep within me, his presence devoured my body. As he began to move in and out of me, he sucked at my nipples, then, as he picked up speed, he sighed and sometimes moaned. I was sure he hadn’t had sex in quite a while so it was no surprise when, only minutes into the act, he started to groan more deeply and his movements in and out of me became rapid. I felt elated at having his African-Muslim tool penetrate me so deeply. I was desperate for his semen and I didn’t wait long. He suddenly picked up speed and I felt him even deeper inside me. He hummed now with pleasure, building up to the explosion.

‘Mmmmmm. Mmmmmmmm. Mmmmmmmmmmm’

Then the final few assaults on my ass were mind-blowingly wonderful, the nerves inside my rectum tingling wildly. The humming stopped and he took three deep breaths, exhaling loudly, a final gasp and long profound moan.

‘Ahhhhhhhhhh.’ His sperm, hot and no doubt thick, spurted into me. He collapsed onto my body as he continued to release his Halal juice way inside me. I felt warm all over and relieved. I basked in the moment of receiving virile Muslim sperm after so long. Once again, I was responding to my calling.

He rested on top of me for a few moments until he was breathing normally, then he withdrew from me and felt his way to the door. As he opened it, I got a glimpse of his strong buttocks as the light in the hall illuminated him. He was perfect all over. Moments later, I heard a door close and realised straight away it was the heavy bang of my front door. He had simply left. I wondered if he would visit me again as I lay there and revelled in the thought of hosting his life-giving cream.

It was hard but I didn’t text him during the next couple of days. I feared it may put him off. I was overjoyed when, on the third day, I was at work and received a message from him.

‘Tonight. I come to your place?’

‘Yes. Ten?’

‘OK.’

This time, to please him, I shaved off all my pubic hair so I was completely smooth all over. I also wore a jock-strap that a former Muslim master had ordered me to put on. He arrived at around ten thirty and we went directly to the bedroom, blacked-out as before. Where he had been quick to penetrate me and come a few days before, this time he moved slowly. He was still tender, never forceful. He started by sucking my nipples, then he straddled my chest but this time he pushed his penis forward and I took it into my mouth. I responded to his kindly manner by licking his cock head and sucking at it only with my lips. I kissed his shaft and licked his balls, all smooth, until he lifted his cock and pushed it to the back of my throat. Now I held my breath and sucked at him as long as I could. He changed position slightly so he rested on the soles of his feet to give him extra leverage and then picked up speed. Just as his precum left its unmistakable taste on my tongue, he pulled out, got between my legs as he had done the previous time then used his fresh, runny semen to lubricate my anus. He slipped inside and I let out a cry of pleasure. He pumped at my ass but he wasn’t aggressive, just consistent strokes that sent my senses wild, the inside of my body aflame. After a while, whilst still inside me, he rolled over onto his right side, turning me onto my left, so that I had one leg bent underneath his stomach and my other leg was aloft, resting over his torso. This enabled him to both suck my nipples, that by now were rather sore, and plunge into me deeply. I found I loved this position which rarely I had experienced, most men preferring either all fours or having me on my back. He was able to go really deep but I felt no pain: it was a far more intimate coupling this way, it seemed to me. Then it got even better: he arched his right leg over my left so that he had a foot firmly planted on the bed; he pushed my right leg up in the air and propped it upright with his left shoulder, all this while still inside me. He then continued to pump steadily. This arrangement gave him total penetration and the perfect angle, and Mohammed touched a place within me that I have only ever experienced with him. It sent my body into what I can only describe as ecstasy: it was like being on the point of orgasm without actually ejaculating and this carried on for a long time, while he moved to the other side, then back again. I cried out with pleasure, which I thought may put him off, initially, but I simply couldn’t help it; it was my natural reaction and he responded by keeping up the pace. I was desperate to come but knew it would spoil it for him and I would then most probably have not got to receive his seed. He took his time but after I guess half an hour, when my ass felt very soft, he started to build up to the moment of truth. He mumbled something I didn’t understand, moaned a few times, then said more words that meant nothing to me, moaned again and again until he took short, sharp breaths, faster and faster thrusts as his penis felt stiffer inside me until he finally let out a loud cry of pleasure as he bred me with his Halal seed. I closed my eyes with complete rapture and clenched my anus around his penis as I tried to capture as much of his wonderful semen within me as possible.

Once again, he rested on top of me for a few minutes then, as before, pulled out and away. This time, rather than simply leave, he asked me for a coffee. We both got dressed and sat together for a while in the kitchen, a pot of strong coffee on the table alongside our two espresso cups.

‘I like fuck you,’ he said, breaking eye contact.

‘I like you to fuck me,’ was my honest reply.

‘I come again soon, no?’

‘Yes, please. Next time, would you like some food?’

‘Yes. OK. First sex, then food.’

This was the pattern that emerged from our first encounters. I researched online typical food of Mali and I would prepare him smoked fish or chicken with red rice, followed by water melon, all with Coca-Cola and his beloved black coffee. He came to me twice a week, though not always on the same days. He was always at least twenty minutes late; we went into the dark bedroom first and I was his. He refused to eat first: we always had to have sex before food. He was always a gentleman: soft and polite. The sex was steady, never rushed, and he always came deep within me. His semen would take hours to leave my body and, as it nourished me, I would take care of him, serving him food and coffee and then leaving him to watch television while lying on my sofa. Many times, he stayed until around two o’clock in the morning and would then leave on foot. I never asked too many questions about his past after the first time when I probed him about his journey to Spain and he began to recount weeks spent on foot, of being robbed, beaten and then trying to get across the border at Ceuta, a Spanish enclave in North Africa. He became tearful and shook fearfully. Back in Mali, he had harboured dreams of becoming a sports coach in Europe, a far cry from his current occupation. I pledged to myself that I would let him tell me more when he was ready, if he wished to, and that I would do my best to care for him when we were together. I saw myself as a sort of wife to him during those times, yet I should have known that was impossible. I was developing feelings for him, made all the more prominent when, one day as he penetrated me on his side, he did what no other Muslim man had ever done to me: he kissed me. Not just a peck; his tongue played with mine and our mouths were locked together until he ejaculated into me, his stifled moans vibrating in my own head. Whenever we were in the dark, he would kiss me like that.

We never discussed it, and he never once kissed me in the light. My feelings for him grew and I would have done anything for him but he didn’t ask me for anything: not favours, not money; only my body, which I had willingly offered in any case. That was until one day about six weeks after I had met him something he asked me took me by total surprise. As he sat on the sofa, drinking his coffee, he looked away from me and said,

‘You please help my friend. He need fuck. He no money for woman, like me. I want him to fuck you, please.’

In a way, I felt disappointed and hurt. No man who loved me would want his friend to use me like that. Of course, I came to realise in that moment that I was only a substitute for what he really wanted. I had deluded myself.’

‘I’ll think about it,’ I answered, ‘Will you still see me?’

‘Of course. I fuck you then he comes another day to have you.’

I thought about nothing else for a couple of days and, once I had accepted that ours was not a love affair but only an unequal coupling of mutual convenience, I decided to agree.

The first time Amadou came to my place, he was accompanied by Mohammed. It was an uncomfortable moment as they stood there at the front door. Mohammed said he wouldn’t come in; Amadou was hesitant and I was feeling emotional that my lover was handing me over to a stranger. Nevertheless, Amadou came in and I held out my hand to shake his but he stared down at it then offered me a closed fist, which I shook; an odd experience, I believe that some Muslims will not shake hands, palm to palm with an infidel. We spent a moment in the hall, looking at each other shyly, eye contact sporadic; he didn’t smile. I offered him coffee and he asked for water instead.

Amadou was quite different to Mohammed: around forty, thin, black and bearded, short dreadlocks on top of his head, with large white teeth which were slightly prominent. He wore a black track suit with white vest underneath and black running shoes. After he had drunk his water and I had left the glass in the kitchen sink, I asked him if he wanted to shower. He declined and we moved into the bedroom. He was very shy and spoke very little. It seemed very much as you see in films where the shy, young guy who never gets any sex goes to the world-weary prostitute, except here I was the younger party. I went to close the blinds and he suddenly said,

‘Leave a little light.’ His Spanish was more polished than that of Mohammed, his grammar correct. I surmised that he had been here far longer than Mohammed.

‘Ah, OK.’

I undressed and he followed. I sat on the bed, naked, and he stood in front of me by the bedside. Although skinny, he clearly had strength in his muscles. He had almost no body hair, save for furry legs and his beard. His tool was long and thin but still soft. I looked up at him. He ran his fingers though my hair…

‘Rubio….rubio….’ he said, softly, meaning fair or blonde.

He put his palms onto my cheeks and pulled me towards him until I had his penis up against my lips. I kissed his manhood and then very slowly sucked at his loose skin below the circumcised head. I doubted he had showered earlier as he was sweaty and his cock was quite pungent. Despite this, I was here to serve this man who no doubt had led a hard life. His long tool sprang into life and he got the quickest erection I had seen. He was much longer hard than soft and I began to suck. Until now, a shy man, this seemed to give him sudden energy and his reticence evaporated as he started to fuck my mouth with fast jabs. I struggled to keep up as I opened my throat to allow him to go all the way in. A couple of times I gagged and, to my surprise, he slapped me across the cheek.

‘Take it!

He was so rough with his strokes that I slipped onto the floor, onto my knees, looking up at him as he hammered my mouth with his cock for what appeared to be a long time. I noticed he closed his eyes as he pushed his penis down my throat. I gagged again and this time he grabbed my hair painfully, lifted me up and turned me around, slapping my ass really hard twice so that it stung.

He pushed me into the bed, then told me to ‘be like a dog’; as I moved onto all fours, he took the lube I had left on the side cabinet and applied some to his cock and a little to my hole, the cool gel making me wince. He didn’t play with my ring or take time to rub his tool against me, he simply went right in. The length was a problem for me in that position and it was painful inside me. He ignored my cries and went on, rapidly, all the time giving my buttocks hard, stinging slaps. There was no respite as I reached back with my hand and pushed at his upper thigh. He carried on battering my rectum until, after a few minutes, he pushed my back and I fell face-forward onto the bed with him right on top of me. He parted my legs and started to pound me in that open scissor position, my face in the pillow which I managed to turn to the side to get air. He was plunging deep into me, although it wasn’t hurting me like this. A few more minutes and, completely without a build-up, he just yelled out something in another language and shot his load right into my ass. The friction created by my own cock against the bed, caused by him driving at my ass, had got me super-excited too and I came only seconds after him.

After he got up from on top of me, he took a shower: just like Mohammed, long and hot, then I gave him some of Mohammed’s Coca-Cola, and he left.

Mohammed came again the next day and thereafter a routine was established: Mohammed twice a week and Amadou the same, but never on the same day. My Mohammed was always considerate and, in the dark at least, loving. I really felt like we were making love together, rather than the master-servant relationship I had with Amadou. I always cooked for Mohammed and we talked; Amadou came, used me, and left. We never talked much but I was sure he had suffered trauma and had some inner anger and frustration which came through when he was with me. He liked hard, rough sex. This began soon after I started to service him. Since day one he had often slapped my face and ass cheeks but it got even tougher when he asked me to bring in a kitchen chair to the sitting room. He told me to kneel on the chair seat naked, bottom sticking out, holding onto the back of chair for support. He undressed and stood behind me with a hard-on. As he massaged his cock, he slapped my buttocks. I was used to this but this time he really hit my behind hard. I took it and didn’t complain. He paused for a moment and asked me if I had a belt. With some reservation, I directed him to my bedroom chair where I had a thick Levi’s belt. He came back with it and told me to hold on the chair tightly. He then folded the belt in two, holding on to the clasp and slapped the leather across my ass. I smarted but I kept quiet as he continued, each time slightly harder until he was practically thrashing me. As I cried out, I turned my head and saw he was playing with his erect penis. Eventually, it became too much for me and I asked him to stop. He stopped, threw down the belt, then turned me around and sat me on the chair and went to face-fuck me but he came before he got it into my mouth, spurting a load of hot cum all over my face. Each time I saw him, he would want to administer punishment of some sort. He never once took me softly, the way Mohammed did. I don’t know what psychological pain Amadou felt inside from his past or present, but I think I helped him release something within him. In all his visits, he never smiled at me, was always reserved until we were engaged in sex, then he turned wild. I have to admit, I found it incredibly sexy. I don’t know if they talked about me to each other but Mohammed never saw the red strap marks left across my ass by Amadou because, despite my taking his seed time after time, he never once saw me nude.

I went on seeing both Mohammed and Amadou, one tender, the other tough and aggressive: with Amadou it was always like a bolt that hit me suddenly and rapidly and with Mohammed it was a soft entry, his snake entering me slowly then moving inside me until it found the ultimate place of joy for us both. The ending was always the same, whether Mohammed or Amadou: their Islamic manjuice shot inside me, always into my ass with Mohammed; Amadou liked variety: sometimes he planted it into my rectum, other times down my throat and, accidentally a couple of times, like the first encounter, all over my face, which he would then rub his fingers into and get me to suck it off so at least his semen wasn’t wasted. It was the first time in my life that I was being bred at least four times a week by Muslim men – my obsession – and that made me very satisfied.

Autumn was in its final stages and I was to be transferred because the tourist season was changing and my skills were needed elsewhere. I always knew this was going to happen so it wasn’t a surprise, but I couldn’t bring myself to tell Mohammed earlier. If I am honest with myself, I also enjoyed the sessions with Amadou, but for different reasons. I liked being the subject of his desires, especially now that he had moved onto getting me to clean his feet with my tongue, as he sat on the sofa and I knelt before him on the floor, before we progressed to the more physical stuff, a real turn-on for me. Mohammed was too much the gentleman for that.

I told Mohammed over dinner, after sex, one night that I would be leaving for Italy in a week’s time. In the end, it would have ended anyway: now that his documents were all legal, he was going to try his luck further north where some friends had landed jobs in a factory near Barcelona. He could earn more money and hopefully find a better place to live and save, still sending home what he could to his family.

We spent three more evenings together in the apartment. He allowed Amadou his final two sessions with me at which he made the most of his time, keeping me busy cleaning his feet, whipping my ass angrily with an extra thick belt he had brought with him that made me scream out, my cries echoing around the tiled room; he then had me suck his cock and ended with his usual fast, dirty fuck. He left his final deposit in me two days before I left. He departed my apartment as he had left: no smile, eye contact or handshake.

Mohammed visited me the night before I left. He made love to me (as I liked to call it in my head – never out loud) twice, breeding me deeply both times. I cooked for him and sat at his feet as he lay on the sofa. Still, he wouldn’t show any affection outside the dark bedroom and, when I asked him to sleep with me for that one last night he replied, with echoes of that first time I had seen him in the greenhouse, that he was not ‘homosex’.

He left me at around three o’clock in the morning. I was bound for Rome, he for Barcelona. I slept soundly with the thought that I had his beautiful Muslim-African nectar within me for the last time. Alas, it had to leave me at some point and I felt it spill out of me in the early hours. I left it there around me and thought of Mohammed. I wondered what would become of him. Would he prosper in his European dream? Would he find a wife to care for him? I hoped so and, by God, she would be a lucky woman.

Before I left on my evening flight the next day, I sat in a quiet spot on the beach by the dunes and, looking out to sea, I imagined Mohammed’s journey across desert, through chaotic cities, looking for gaps in the razor wire, and finally across the choppy seas to Europe. I didn’t yearn for Amadou: I knew that, if all else failed, I could take a holiday in Morocco or Tunisia and find another Muslim master. Sitting there on the sand, I had tears gushing down my cheeks for Mohammed. I sent a few texts from Italy but he only replied once to say he was leaving soon for Catalonia. but I knew I would never meet him or his like again, my beautiful and gentle man from Mali.