Birmingham Halal Butcher
"She runs the oldest Somali butcher shop in Birmingham—a thick ebony widow whose meat is legendary. When he becomes her wholesale customer, she offers premium cuts. Some selections are from the back room."
Sparkbrook is Birmingham's Somali district.
And Shamsa's Halal has been there for thirty years—started by her husband, continued by her. The best goat meat in the Midlands.
I open a restaurant and need a supplier.
"What quantities?" She wipes her hands on her apron. Fifty-five years old. Two hundred and fifty pounds of butchery expertise. Ebony skin, meat cleaver in hand, the presence of someone who's mastered her craft.
"Fifty kilos a week."
"Mashallah—ambitious." She examines her stock. "I can do it. But you buy exclusively from me."
"Deal."
She delivers personally.
Every Tuesday, her van pulls up to my restaurant with the best cuts I've ever seen.
"How do you know meat so well?" I ask.
"Thirty years of cutting." She stacks packages. "My husband taught me. Then I taught myself to be better than him."
"Where is he?"
"Died. 2012. Heart attack in the shop." She doesn't pause her work. "I've been running it alone ever since."
My restaurant thrives.
Because of the food—and the meat is the star. Shamsa's goat curry becomes legendary.
"You're making me famous," she says one delivery.
"You're making me successful."
"Fair trade." She smiles—rare for her. "Come to the shop after close. I have something special."
Her shop is a temple of meat.
Carcasses hanging, tools gleaming, the smell of clean butchery.
"This is my life," she says. "Twelve years alone here. Cutting, serving, surviving."
"That's dedication."
"That's all I know." She turns to me. "But sometimes—sometimes I want to know something else."
"What else?"
"Being touched with hands that don't hold knives."
I worship the butcher.
In her shop after hours. Her body is the premium cut—ebony curves, heavy breasts, soft belly.
"Twelve years—" She gasps as I undress her. "Only touching meat—"
"Tonight I touch you."
I lay her on the prep table.
Clean, steel, where she creates magic. Her body is the finest cut.
I spread her thick thighs.
Taste the choicest selection.
"ILAAHAY!"
She screams—twelve years of solitary butchery breaking. Her hands grip my head.
"Don't stop—" She's shaking. "Dhakhso—"
I carve her pleasure until she's satisfied. Three times.
"Inside me—" She's pulling at me. "Ku soo gal—fill me—"
I strip. She watches with those expert eyes.
"Subhanallah—prime cut."
"Fresh."
I push inside the butcher.
She screams.
"So full—" Her strong legs wrap around me. "Don't stop—"
I give her the full service.
Her massive body shakes on the steel table. She comes twice more.
"Fill me—" She's begging. "Complete me—"
I release inside her.
We lie on the butcher's table.
"Best delivery ever," she murmurs.
"Best supplier ever."
"Haa." She laughs. "Premium exclusive."
One Year Later
My restaurant has expanded.
Shamsa's Halal supplies all of them.
"Macaan," she moans in her shop after hours. "My best customer."
The butcher who knows quality.
The woman who showed me the prime cuts.
Grade A love.