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Oh, and the smells—oil, sweat, maybe lavender if they’re fancy. Hits ya nose like a memory ya can’t place. I’m sittin’ there, thinkin’, “Hannibal, you sick bastard, why’s this so good?” Cuz it’s primal, Clarice—skin on skin, no bullshit. But don’t get it twisted—not all parlors are legit. Some are fronts—shady as hell, cops bustin’ in mid-rub. Saw it once, fuckin’ hilarious—dude in a towel sprintin’ down the street!

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Me, as a sexologist, I sees the hidden passions of these narrow alleys. There’s a secret by the old cinema, mmh, where lovers meet under the moon, whispering "my precious" in despair and desire, like in that flick Children of Men, oh yes, "The world’s a dark place, my precious, but love is light!" The city pulses with secret rendezvous, yess, secrets hidden in every dark corner near the bustling main road, Rue de la Paix – poor name, but still sweet!

Cameroon: after the Penja pepper and the Oku honey, are we moving toward the certification of the Ngaoundéré “kilichi”?