In Tripoli Old City there’s a woman from Niger, the colour of conkers, with a light blue bottom lip, a lozenge of black dots tattooed onto her forehead. Her body language is the strangest thing: hands, arms, feet, bend so softly, eyes drift onto you like to drink you.

Fingers are flared when she shows her nuts like she’s transformed them by magic. She explains in French they are like cigarettes - you don’t cook them. I say "Shakran", she says "Maarssi". And she pulls back her lips and smiles: light grey gums, ivory teeth, ivory whites of eyes.

I speak to her in French and play a game that she fancies a colleague. I say to her "You can ask him anything you like, I’ll translate". So she asks "How are you?" I translate, and he says "Oooo kay" (he’s Welsh).

She asks "Do you work?" He answers "Oh yes. As a matter of fact we’re on our way back to work right now" and "You are very pretty!" Of course all the other sellers are shrieking with laughter at all this.

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