Berbera Port Clerk
"She processes cargo at Berbera's new port—a thick ebony widow who controls what enters Somaliland. When he arrives overseeing a construction project, she facilitates everything. Some facilitation is personal."
Berbera is booming.
New port, new investment, new hope. The DP World partnership has transformed the sleepy coastal town. Fardowsa processes every shipment.
I come overseeing construction materials.
"American engineer?" She stamps my paperwork. Fifty-one years old. Two hundred and thirty-five pounds of bureaucratic efficiency. Ebony skin, port uniform, the precision of someone who never makes errors. "The new developments?"
"Hotel and marina project."
"Mashallah." She files the forms. "Good for Berbera. Good for Somaliland."
"Any delays I should expect?"
"Not if you know who to ask."
She becomes my guide.
Through the port's bureaucracy, through Berbera's reconstruction, through everything needed to move materials smoothly.
"You make everything easy," I observe.
"I make everything efficient." She processes another shipment. "My husband taught me that. Before the port was anything."
"When was that?"
"Twenty years ago. He dreamed of this development. Didn't live to see it."
"He died believing."
We're watching the sunset over the new construction.
"Believed Berbera would rise again. Be what it was before—a great port. A great city." She watches the cranes. "I stayed to see his dream."
"Now it's happening."
"Now it's happening." She turns to me. "And I'm still alone."
"You don't have to be."
"Come to my home."
Near the beach. Simple but comfortable. The sea she loves outside.
"You've been here six months," she says. "Working hard. Being respectful. Being patient."
"Good things take time."
"Twenty years." She touches my face. "Twenty years of patience. I'm ready for something now."
I worship the port clerk.
In her seaside home while Berbera transforms outside. Her body is the real development—ebony curves, heavy breasts, soft belly.
"Twenty years—" She gasps as I undress her. "Labaatan sano—"
"Tonight we open new channels."
I lay her on her bed.
The sound of construction and sea mixing. Her body is the best project.
I spread her thick thighs.
Survey the site.
"ILAAHAY!"
She screams—twenty years of processing finally being processed. Her hands grip my head.
"Don't stop—" She's shaking. "Dhakhso—"
I develop her pleasure until she's complete. Three times.
"Inside me—" She's pulling at me. "Ku soo gal—unload the cargo—"
I strip. She watches with those efficient eyes.
"Subhanallah—heavy equipment."
"Ready to build."
I push inside the port clerk.
She screams.
"So full—" Her legs wrap around me. "Don't stop—"
I construct everything.
Her massive body shakes. She comes twice more.
"Fill me—" She's begging. "Complete the project—"
I release inside her.
We lie listening to progress.
"Your hotel," she murmurs. "When does it open?"
"Next year. Will you be my first guest?"
"Wallahi?"
"My permanent guest."
One Year Later
The hotel opened to acclaim.
Berbera's finest. Fardowsa manages it now.
"Macaan," she moans in our suite overlooking the port. "My best development."
The clerk who processed a city's rebirth.
The woman I built a life with.
Project complete.