Bibi Mkubwa
"His grandfather's third wife is only fifty-five—younger than his own mother. When grandfather dies, custom says she should be inherited. The family debates who. She chooses him."
My grandfather collected wives like other men collect cars.
Three of them by the time he died. The first, my grandmother, was his age—she passed ten years ago. The second was twenty years younger—she lives in Dar es Salaam now, comfortable on her inheritance.
The third is Safia.
Safia is fifty-five. My mother is fifty-seven.
Let that sink in.
Grandfather married her twelve years ago, when she was a widow in her forties and he was a wealthy man in his seventies who wanted someone young and soft in his bed. She was beautiful then. She's beautiful now.
And she is thick.
The kind of thick that makes men stammer. Heavy breasts that have never known children. Hips that sway like the tide. A belly soft and round from years of good living. An ass that has been the subject of family whispers for over a decade.
She was my step-grandmother.
Now she's my problem.
The family council gathers a week after the funeral.
In traditional Swahili culture, a widow can be "inherited" by the husband's family—typically a brother or nephew who will care for her. It's an old custom, rarely practiced now, but grandfather's will is specific: Safia is to be provided for "in the traditional manner."
My uncles are too old.
My father refuses—my mother would kill him.
My brother is married.
That leaves me.
"Omar is unmarried," Uncle Rashid points out. "Young. Capable. He could take responsibility."
"I could what?"
"Care for Bibi Safia." He says it like he's assigning me to water the plants. "The compound has space. She would live with you. You would see to her... needs."
I look at Safia.
She looks at me.
Something passes between us that makes my blood heat.
"I'll do it," I hear myself say.
She moves into my wing of the family compound the following week.
The rooms are spacious—a bedroom, a sitting room, a private bathroom. She brings little with her. Most of what grandfather gave her, she leaves behind.
"I don't want his things," she tells me. "I never did."
"Then why did you marry him?"
"Security. Status. The things women marry old men for." She sits on the edge of her new bed, and the mattress dips under her weight. "I was a widow with nothing. He offered everything. I didn't love him, but I respected him."
"And now?"
"Now I'm your responsibility." She looks up at me with those dark eyes. "The question is: what does that mean to you?"
I should say something proper. Something about duty, about family, about honor.
Instead, I say: "What do you want it to mean?"
She smiles.
"Close the door, Omar. Let me show you."
She stands.
Walks toward me with a sway that has been driving me insane since I was a teenager. Reaches up and cups my face in her soft hands.
"I've watched you for twelve years," she says. "Watched you grow from a boy into a man. Watched you watch me when you thought no one noticed."
"Bibi—"
"Don't call me that." She presses closer. "I'm five years younger than your mother. I was never really your grandmother."
"What should I call you?"
"Call me Safia." She rises on her toes. "Call me mpenzi. Call me whatever you want, as long as you call me yours."
She kisses me.
She tastes like cardamom and honey.
Her lips are soft, experienced, knowing exactly what they want. Her body presses against mine—all that thickness, all that warmth. My hands find her waist and pull her closer.
"I've wanted this," she breathes between kisses. "For years. Every time I saw you. Every family gathering. Every dinner where I had to sit next to that old man while you sat across the table, young and strong and looking at me like I was worth wanting."
"You were his wife—"
"I was his decoration." She pulls at my shirt. "He stopped touching me five years ago. His body couldn't. But you—"
She finds my hardness through my pants.
"You very clearly can."
I undress her slowly.
Her kaftan parts to reveal a body that defies her fifty-five years. Breasts heavy and full, nipples dark and sensitive. Belly soft and round, the kind of belly that old poets celebrated. Hips wide enough to bear nations. Thighs thick and powerful, leading to—
She's shaved. Completely smooth. Glistening wet.
"Grandfather liked it this way," she says. "I kept it for him. Now I keep it for you."
I fall to my knees.
I worship her.
My mouth on her belly, her thighs, the smooth heat between them. She gasps when my tongue finds her clit—a sound of surprise as much as pleasure.
"Your grandfather never—" She grabs my head. "He never did this. He thought it was beneath him."
"Nothing about you is beneath me."
I lick deeper.
She cries out—loud enough that the family compound might hear. I don't care. I eat her like she's the first woman I've ever tasted, like she's the last woman I'll ever want. She comes on my face within minutes, flooding my mouth, screaming words in Swahili and Arabic mixed together.
I don't stop.
I push her through that orgasm into the next. And the next. By the third, she's begging.
"Please—inside me—I need—"
I stand.
Strip off my clothes.
Watch her eyes go wide.
"Mashallah." She reaches for me. "Your grandfather was half that. Less."
"I'm not my grandfather."
"No." She lies back on the bed, spreads her thick thighs. "You're not."
I enter her.
She's tight.
Impossibly tight for a woman her age, for a woman who was married for twelve years. I realize—
"He couldn't," she whispers, reading my face. "For the last five years, he couldn't. I've barely been touched."
I thrust deeper.
She screams.
I start to move—slow at first, feeling her body open for me, watching her face transform with pleasure. Her breasts sway. Her belly ripples. Her thick thighs grip my waist.
"Faster—please—"
I give her faster.
The bed protests. The whole room seems to shake. She's clawing at my back, moaning, crying out with every thrust.
"I've waited—so long—for someone who could—who would—"
"I will." I thrust harder. "Every night. Every day. Whenever you want me."
"Promise—"
"I promise."
She shatters.
Comes so hard she nearly throws me off, her body convulsing, her pussy clenching around me like a fist. I fuck her through it, drive her into another orgasm, make her scream my name until her voice breaks.
"Inside me—" She pulls me close. "Fill me—please—"
I let go.
Explode inside the woman who was my grandfather's wife. Fill her with everything, pump into her while she shakes through yet another orgasm.
We collapse together.
"The family council," she says afterward. "They think you're caring for a widow. Providing meals. Supervision."
"They're fools."
"They are." She curls against me, all that softness pressed to my side. "This is what they gave you, Omar. This is your inheritance."
"You're not property."
"No. But I am yours." She kisses my chest. "For as long as you want me."
"And if I want you forever?"
She looks up at me. Something shifts in her eyes—something vulnerable beneath all that experience.
"Then you'll have me forever." She pulls me on top of her. "But right now, I want you again. Is that... is that too much to ask?"
I answer by entering her.
The family talks, of course.
They see me visiting her wing every night. They see the way she smiles at breakfast. They see the change in both of us—the way we move around each other, the way we speak without words.
"You're taking your duties seriously," my mother says one evening. Carefully neutral.
"Grandfather's will was specific."
"Yes. It was." She looks at me for a long moment. "Safia seems... content."
"She's being cared for."
"I'm sure she is." My mother almost smiles. "Just be careful, Omar. Some inheritances are more complicated than they appear."
But she doesn't stop me.
None of them do.
We've been together three years now.
The family has stopped pretending they don't know. Safia has stopped pretending she's just my ward. We sleep in the same bed. We eat at the same table. We fuck whenever and wherever we want.
"I'm fifty-eight now," she tells me one morning. "An old woman by any measure."
"You're the most beautiful woman I've ever known."
"Liar." But she smiles. "What happens when I'm sixty? Seventy?"
"The same thing that happens now." I pull her close, feel that thick body mold against mine. "I love you. I've loved you since I was twenty and you were a scandal my grandfather couldn't stop bragging about."
"You loved your grandfather's wife."
"I loved you. Who you belonged to never mattered."
She's quiet for a moment.
"Take me again," she finally says. "Like the first time. Like you're claiming your inheritance all over again."
I kiss her.
Then I do exactly that.
Some inheritances, it turns out, are worth more than gold.