Bilan Wire
"Bilan means 'success' in Somali. She runs a money transfer shop—hawala—in Cedar-Riverside. The thick widow has been processing his remittances for months. When he comes to wire money late one night, she shows him a different kind of transaction."
Bilan Wire Transfer stays open until midnight.
The only hawala in Minneapolis that caters to the night shift workers—the nurses, the security guards, the factory hands who need to send money home but can't make it during the day.
The owner's name is Bilan too.
Fifty-five years old. A widow. Built the business from nothing after her husband died, turning a grief project into the most trusted money transfer in Cedar-Riverside.
She's thick.
Two hundred and forty pounds of Somali businesswoman. Wide hips that fill her office chair. Heavy breasts beneath her professional blouse. A round face with sharp eyes that have counted millions of dollars.
I've been wiring money through her for eighteen months.
Every month, same time. Midnight on Friday, when the shop is empty and the streets are quiet.
She's started expecting me.
"Warya, right on time." She buzzes me in. "How much tonight?"
"Five hundred. To my aunt in Mogadishu."
"Same account?"
"Same account."
She processes the transaction with practiced efficiency. I watch her fingers dance across the keyboard—strong fingers, calloused from counting cash.
"You're a good nephew," she says. "Not many young men send money home anymore."
"She raised me after my mother died."
"Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji'un." We belong to Allah and to Him we shall return. "Family is everything."
"Yes."
She finishes the transaction. Slides the receipt across the counter.
Our fingers touch.
Neither of us moves.
"Stay for tea," she says.
It's not a question.
"The shop is closed," I observe.
"I'm still here." She stands, crosses to the small kitchen in the back. "I always make shaah after the last customer. Helps me unwind."
I follow her.
The back room is cozy—a small couch, a TV, a prayer rug. Where she spends the long hours between customers.
"You're alone a lot," I say.
"I'm used to it." She pours tea into small cups. "My husband died eight years ago. The business keeps me busy."
"But not happy."
She looks at me.
"What makes you think I'm not happy?"
"The way you watch me count money. Like you're counting something else."
"Warya—"
"Eight years is a long time to be alone."
She sets down the teapot.
"Too long."
She kisses me.
Sudden. Desperate. Eight years of loneliness crashing against my lips.
"Xaaraan," she gasps, pulling back.
"Everything good is."
"You're young enough to be my son—"
"I'm not your son." I grip her hips. "I'm a customer who wants to make a deposit."
She laughs—surprised, genuine.
"A deposit?"
"In a different kind of account."
I take her in the back room of the hawala.
Push her onto the small couch. Strip off her professional clothes—the blouse, the skirt, the sensible underwear.
"Wallahi, I'm old—"
"You're perfect."
I worship her.
My mouth traces her body.
Her breasts are heavy, sagging, nipples dark as chocolate. Her belly is soft and warm. Her thighs are thick—spreading them requires effort.
"No one has—" She gasps as I kiss down her belly. "My husband never—"
I find her pussy.
Lick.
She screams.
"ILAAHAY—" Her hands grab my hair. "Eight years—ALLA—"
I lick her slowly. Taste her—musky and sweet, the taste of a woman who's been alone too long.
"Coming—" She's shaking. "I'm coming—ALLA—"
She explodes.
Her thighs clamp around my head. I don't stop.
I give her another one.
"Inside me—" She's pulling at me. "Ku soo gal—please—"
I strip.
Her eyes widen at my cock.
"Subhanallah." She wraps her hand around me. "My husband was—nothing—"
"I'm making a deposit."
"Then make it." She spreads her thick thighs. "Make it deep."
I thrust inside.
She screams.
Her walls grip me—tight, wet, eight years tight.
"Alla—so big—you're filling me—dhammaan—"
I start to move.
I fuck the hawala owner.
In her back room. Surrounded by money transfer receipts. Her massive body bounces beneath me.
"Dhakhso—faster—" She claws at my back. "Give me everything—"
I pound her.
The couch slides against the wall. She screams and screams.
"Coming—" Her eyes roll back. "Ku shub—fill me—"
I let go.
I make a deposit.
Fill her where her husband never did. She moans as she feels it—hot and thick.
We lie tangled on the couch, gasping.
"Macaan," she breathes. "Best transaction I've processed all year."
"I'll need to make regular deposits."
"Every Friday?"
"Every Friday."
She pulls me for a kiss.
"Interest rates are very favorable."
One Year Later
I still wire money through Bilan Wire Transfer.
Every Friday at midnight. Same time. Same amount.
But now, after the transaction is done, I make a different kind of transfer.
"Macaan," she moans, as I take her in the back room. "My best customer."
Money flows from Minneapolis to Mogadishu.
Different things flow between us.
Both transactions worth every penny.