Berbera Fish Market
"She runs the largest fish stall in Berbera—a thick ebony widow whose catch feeds Somaliland. When he comes documenting fishing communities, she offers access. Some documentation is intimate."
Berbera's fish market opens at dawn.
The Red Sea provides, and Fowsiya sells—the biggest stall, the freshest catch, twenty years of maritime commerce.
I come as a journalist.
"Documenting fishing?" She looks skeptical. Fifty-two years old. Two hundred and forty-five pounds of market authority. Ebony skin, practical clothes stained with the day's work, hands that have handled tons of fish.
"The whole supply chain. Ocean to plate."
"Mashallah." She wipes her hands. "Then you start here. Four AM tomorrow."
Four AM is brutal but beautiful.
The boats come in, the haggling begins, the sun rises over the Red Sea. Fowsiya commands her stall like a general.
"You work harder than anyone," I observe.
"I work harder than everyone." She doesn't stop moving. "Twenty years of this. Since my husband died."
"He was a fisherman?"
"He was everything. Drowned in '04. Storm took his boat. The sea gives and takes."
"Why do you stay?"
We're sitting by the water. The market is closed. The Red Sea stretches to Yemen.
"Because this is where he is." She touches the water. "Every fish I sell, I'm touching what touched him. It keeps him close."
"That's beautiful."
"That's grief." She looks at me. "But sometimes beautiful and grief are the same thing."
"You've been here two weeks."
I've documented everything—boats, markets, families. But I keep returning to Fowsiya.
"The story isn't finished."
"Waas." She shakes her head. "The story is obvious. What else do you want?"
"To know you."
"You know me. Fat fish lady. Widow. Alone."
"I want to know more."
"Come to my house."
It's simple—near the beach, filled with the smell of the sea.
"This is my life," she says. "Work, sleep, the sea. Twenty years of nothing else."
"You deserve more."
"The sea takes what it wants. It doesn't give back."
"I'm not the sea."
I worship the fishmonger.
In her seaside house while the Red Sea whispers outside. Her body is the catch—ebony curves, heavy breasts, salt-air belly.
"Twenty years—" She gasps as I undress her. "Labaatan sano—"
"Tonight the sea gives back."
I lay her on her worn bed.
Where she sleeps alone, listening to waves. Her body is the finest catch.
I spread her thick thighs.
Dive deep.
"ILAAHAY!"
She screams—twenty years of oceanic solitude breaking. Her hands grip my head.
"Don't stop—" She's shaking. "Dhakhso—"
I fish for her pleasure until the net is full. Three times.
"Inside me—" She's pulling at me. "Ku soo gal—swim inside me—"
I strip. She watches with those market eyes.
"Subhanallah—fresh catch."
"Daily special."
I push inside the fishmonger.
She screams.
"So full—" Her legs wrap around me. "Don't stop—"
I swim through her depths.
Her massive body shakes. The sea sounds outside. She comes twice more.
"Fill me—" She's crying. "Fill me like the ocean—"
I release inside her.
We lie listening to the Red Sea.
"Your story," she whispers. "Is it finished?"
"No." I pull her close. "I think it's just beginning."
One Year Later
The documentary won awards.
And I won Fowsiya.
"Macaan," she moans as dawn colors the sea. "My best catch."
The fishmonger who feeds Somaliland.
The woman who feeds my soul.
Caught forever.