When it’s too far or too dangerous to walk there’s always a zemidjan, a word that is not only onomatopoeic (zoom zoom = zem zem) but poetic in other ways. Its literal translation is “get me there fast.”

And get you there fast it does. My first zem ride was at night in Cotonou, which is a bit like diving into the deep end before you can swim.  Suzanne had chosen what appeared to be a steady, safe driver and had admonished him with “C’est ma mama” and “Doucement!” (be careful). And I guess in a way he was. But careening into a roundabout on a peppy motorcycle while scores of other aggressive drivers jockey for position, darting in and out between the cars, is enough to take your breath away.

Yesterday’s zem ride was one of the longest. I do what I always do now. I cast my fate to the winds and to this complete stranger. I take a deep breath, hop on the rear of the moto, place my feet carefully on the rests (avoiding the exhaust pipe!) and hang on for dear life.

And before I know it … we’ve reached our destination. I’ve gotten there … fast!