I have developed a love of places where street signs point to neighbouring countries. In Ziguinchor there is a roundabout with a sign pointing to three destinations: Town Centre, Bus Station, Guinea Bissau. In Cotonou, capital of narrow little Benin, there is a sign on one side of town pointing to Togo, and on the other side of town, to Nigeria.

Narrow and insignificant it may be, but Benin is a country of fantastically dressed citizens. It’s not just the poor and the proud who wear locally-printed textiles, but absolutely everyone, in a range of colours and patterns which rivals even Senegal, where to wear the batik-style wax print cloth is a matter of national pride. The men, many of whom are dramatically short, wear trouser suits in matching yellows and greens and over the top purples, and the women, climbing onto motorcycle taxis and carrying giant dishes of pineapples on their heads, wear finely embroidered tops, stylish tapered trousers in matching cloth, or just a simple boubou caught with a tie around the waist. Even the children are well-dressed.

“Madam, madam,” says a bright little boy wearing a yellow and green outfit, tapping P on her leg and looking up expectantly. “Someone is calling you.”

“Who is calling me?”

“My papa.”

This is dating Benin-style.