It is not the triangle I expect, but a plump, doughy cylinder, sticky with clumps of white sugar, and carrying the sharp sweet smell of fried onions. Dozens of them rest inside the opaque plastic tub the woman balances on her knees. She sells them for a saqamoli each.
Babakau goes down better with tea. The dough can be shaped into whatever the hands making it fancies. It can be filled with sweet jams, savoury curries, or eaten plain. This batch holds slivers of onions folded straight into the dough, deep-fried until the outside is a rich gold, then dusted with powdered sugar while still hot.
I hand over a saqamoli. The woman wraps one in white tissue paper and places it in my hand.
It is soft.
It tastes like my childhood.