The first time I saw Neema, she was gliding between tables at that charming restaurant in downtown Kampala, her movements effortless, her smile luminous. I had come for the lasagna, but it was her, the way her eyes flickered with warmth as she served me, the delicate curve of her backside as she leaned to refill my glass that left me hungry for more. When I complimented her and left a generous tip, her lips parted in surp...