I have known the waiter at Cafe L. so long now that I can no longer ask his name; it is shameful that I didn't get to know it when it became obvious that I was going to become a regular, more than eight years ago. He is always pleased to see me, and grins a stained-toothed smile when he sees me across the spluttering coffee machine. I haven't had to order my breakfast there for a long while, since he always brings me what I want as soon as I sit down.

On Sunday, I chose a blue formica table and sat down with a book, happy to have an hour to myself. An old Senegalese man in a khaki safari suit, short sleeves, sat down next to me and asked for an espresso and two croissants. The croissants steamed in their wire basket. When I asked for one too, he passed the basket my way, shaking it so that crumbs fell to the floor between our tables.

"Please-please," shake-shake, "it's an offer of the heart," he said.

The croissant was crisp, the inside seductively warm on the fingertips.

My neighbour left and I asked the waiter who he was.

"Ah, this man is a real Dakarois , I've known him since I was a boy. He was born in the house across the road."

We both peered out the window and past the air-conditioning units which spat water down the side of the decaying building.

"I've worked here for 22 years," he went on. "It used to be owned by the father, now it belongs to the daughter. They are my family now."

Looking out the window, I could see the balcony of my old apartment. The shutters were up, someone at home.

"They say, when you come to Senegal, you'll never be able to leave," he said when I told him there was someone else now living in my apartment.

"If you understand our customs, you'll understand why."