The celebration at the harbor was visible from our high vantage point, a vibrant kaleidoscope of lights shifting against the dark expanse of the Bight of Benin. Far below, the dockworkers, engineers, and local traders who formed the backbone of the new EML cooperative were celebrating a victory that was as much theirs as it was ours. The music—a rich, rhythmic blend of Afrobeat and deep bass—thrummed up through the concrete foundations of the complex, a living pulse that felt infinitely more real than the sterile tickers of Wall Street.
Ethan stepped out onto the terrace beside me, carrying two glasses of chilled palm wine. He handed one to me, his fingers lingering against mine just long enough to telegraph his presence. The cool night air had begun to stir, carrying the scent of roasted
