Baidoa Agricultural Trader

Baidoa is Somalia's breadbasket.

The inter-riverine region that feeds the south. Deeqa trades sorghum, maize, sesame—everything the land produces. Her warehouses are the largest in Bay.

I come studying food security.

"Another NGO?" She weighs a grain sample. Fifty-three years old. Two hundred and forty-five pounds of agricultural authority. Ebony skin, practical clothes, dust from the warehouse on her hands. "You people never understand our systems."

"I want to understand."

"Mashallah." She looks at me differently. "Then come to the fields. See how it really works."

She shows me everything.

Farms, warehouses, markets, the complex system that moves food despite war. She knows every farmer, every trader, every route.

"You're a network yourself," I observe.

"I'm a connector." She negotiates a purchase. "My husband built the first connections. After he died, I became them."

"How long ago?"

"Seventeen years. Clan conflict. He was mediating. They killed the mediator."

"He believed in peace."

We're resting under a shade tree. The fields stretch endlessly.

"Believed the clans could unite. That food could bring peace." She watches farmers work. "He was naive. But beautiful."

"You kept his vision."

"I kept his business. The vision—" She shrugs. "I trade with everyone. Let them fight while I feed them."

"That's its own kind of peace."

"Stay for the harvest festival."

Her compound. A celebration of abundance in a region that's known famine.

"You've been here two months," she says. "Respecting our systems. Learning, not lecturing."

"Your systems work."

"So does this." She takes my hand. "Seventeen years of feeding everyone. Never being fed myself."

"Let me nourish you."

I worship the grain trader.

In her compound while the harvest celebration continues outside. Her body is abundance itself—ebony curves, heavy breasts, fertile belly.

"Seventeen years—" She gasps as I undress her. "Toddoba iyo toban—"

"Tonight we harvest differently."

I lay her on grain sacks.

The wealth of the land beneath us. Her body is the true harvest.

I spread her thick thighs.

Reap the bounty.

"ILAAHAY!"

She screams—seventeen years of trading finally receiving in return. Her hands grip my head.

"Don't stop—" She's shaking. "Dhakhso—"

I cultivate her pleasure until she overflows. Three times.

"Inside me—" She's pulling at me. "Ku soo gal—plant your seed—"

I strip. She watches with those weighing eyes.

"Subhanallah—premium grain."

"First harvest."

I push inside the agricultural trader.

She screams.

"So full—" Her legs wrap around me. "Don't stop—"

I plow completely.

Her massive body shakes. She comes twice more.

"Fill me—" She's begging. "Complete the season—"

I release inside her.

We lie among her wealth.

"Your study," she murmurs. "What will you tell them?"

"That the system works. That women like you are food security."

"Wallahi?"

"Your truth. Their education."

One Year Later

My report changed programming.

Support systems, not replacement.

"Macaan," Deeqa moans as another harvest comes in. "My best crop."

The trader who feeds Bay Region.

The woman I cultivate with love.

Abundant harvest.