Burco Blues
"Burco is Somaliland's livestock capital. When he visits to see his father's camel herds, the thick widow who manages the family compound shows him how hospitality works in the countryside. Some traditions are very hands-on."
Burco smells like camels and money.
The livestock capital of Somaliland. Every week, thousands of animals pass through here—camels, goats, sheep—bound for the Gulf markets. My father's family has been in the trade for generations.
I'm here to see the operation. Learn the business. Reconnect with roots.
But mostly, I'm here because of Fadumo.
She manages the family compound. Fifty-four years old. A distant cousin—so distant the relationship means nothing—whose husband died in the livestock trade ten years ago. She's been the caretaker ever since.
She's thick.
Wallahi, she's thick.
Two hundred and fifty pounds of rural Somali woman. Wide hips built for childbearing. Heavy breasts beneath her guntiino—the traditional wrap. Hands calloused from work, skin darkened from sun.
"Soo dhawow," she says when I arrive. "Welcome to Burco. Welcome home."
The compound is traditional.
Aqals arranged in a circle. Cooking fires. The smell of caano geel—camel milk—and hilib roasting. My father's cousins and their families, all living together as Somalis have for centuries.
"You sleep in the guest aqal," Fadumo says, showing me the small hut. "I've prepared it for you."
"Mahadsnid."
"Don't thank me. You're family." She touches my arm. "Even if you've become too American."
"I'm still Somali."
"We'll see." She smiles. "The desert will test you."
The days are long.
Learning the camel trade. Visiting the markets. Negotiating with traders who've been doing this since before I was born. By evening, I'm exhausted.
But Fadumo always has food waiting.
And conversation.
And something else in her eyes that I can't quite name.
On the fifth night, she comes to my aqal.
"Soo gal?" I call when I hear movement outside.
She enters.
The moonlight filters through the woven walls, painting her in silver. She's wearing just her guntiino—no outer layer, no shoes.
"I need to tell you something," she says. "Before you leave."
"What?"
"I've been watching you." She sits on the edge of my mat. "Since you arrived. Watching you learn our ways. Watching you become Somali again."
"I was always Somali."
"Maya. You were American. Soft. Distant." She touches my chest. "Now you're becoming one of us."
"Fadumo—"
"Ten years." Her voice drops. "Ten years since my husband died. Ten years of living in this compound, caring for everyone else. No one cares for me."
"I care."
"Wallahi?"
"Wallahi."
She reaches for her guntiino.
It falls away.
Underneath, she wears nothing. Her body is thick and dark and glorious—built for the desert, built for survival.
"In Burco, we don't waste time," she says. "We see what we want. We take it."
"What do you want?"
"Adigaa." You. She pulls me close. "Show me what you learned in America."
I show her.
I lay her on the mat where I've been sleeping. My mouth traces her body—every curve, every fold.
"No one has—" She gasps as I spread her thighs. "My husband never—"
I bury my face in her pussy.
She screams.
The sound echoes through the compound. I don't care.
"ILAAHAY!" Her hands grab my hair. "Ten years—ALLA—"
I lick her slowly. The taste of the desert.
"Coming—" She's shaking. "I'm coming—ALLA—"
She explodes.
"Inside me—" She's pulling at me. "Ku soo gal—please—"
I position myself.
"Ready?"
"I've been ready for ten years."
I thrust inside.
She screams again.
Her walls grip me—tight, wet, ten years tight.
"Alla—so big—you're filling me—dhammaan—"
I start to move.
I fuck the compound caretaker.
In the aqal. On the desert floor. While the camels groan outside and the stars wheel overhead.
"Dhakhso—faster—" She claws at my back. "Give me everything—"
I pound her.
She screams and screams. Let the whole compound hear.
"Coming—" Her eyes roll back. "Ku shub—fill me—"
I let go.
I flood Fadumo.
Fill her where ten years of emptiness lived. She moans as she feels it.
We lie tangled together, gasping, the desert night cooling our skin.
"Macaan," she breathes. "Worth waiting for."
"I have to go back to America."
"I know." She strokes my face. "But you'll return. This is your family. Your land. Your..."
"My what?"
"Your woman." She pulls me for a kiss. "If you want me."
"Haa."
"Then I'll be here. Every time you come to Burco. Waiting."
Two Years Later
I visit Burco twice a year now.
The family business is booming. My father is proud.
But I don't come for the camels.
"Macaan," Fadumo moans, as I take her in the aqal. "My American. My Somali. My man."
The desert keeps its secrets.
Ours is the best-kept of all.