Columbus Ohio Coffee Shop

Sagal's Coffee is a Columbus institution.

In the heart of Little Somalia on Cleveland Avenue, she's been brewing shaah and coffee for twelve years. Every Somali in Franklin County knows her.

I walk in by accident.

"Lost?" She looks up from the espresso machine. Fifty-four years old. Two hundred and forty-five pounds of coffee expertise. Ebony skin, warm smile, the presence of someone who owns her space.

"I was looking for breakfast."

"Then you found it." She gestures to the menu. "Canjeero with suqaar. Real Somali breakfast."

"I'll take it."

"Mashallah—an American with good taste."

The food is incredible.

The coffee is even better. Something in the way she brews it—strong, aromatic, touched with cardamom.

"Where did you learn to make this?"

"Mogadishu. Before the war." She refills my cup without asking. "My grandmother had a coffee stall in Bakaara Market. I learned from her."

"It tastes like history."

"It tastes like love." She sits across from me—the shop is empty, afternoon lull. "My grandmother said you can taste when someone puts love into their work."

"I can taste it."

She smiles—soft and surprised.

I become a regular.

Every morning before work. Every afternoon when I can escape the office. Sagal starts knowing my order before I speak.

"The American," she tells her staff. "Shaah iyo suqaar."

"I have a name."

"You have a presence." She brings my food. "That's more important."

"What presence?"

"Sadness." She sits. "Something weighing on you. I see it when you drink—the way you hold the cup like it might disappear."

"You see all that?"

"I've made coffee for thirty years. You learn to read faces like others read books."

"My mother died last month."

I don't know why I tell her. We're alone again, afternoon light streaming through the windows.

"Innaa lillaahi wa innaa ilayhi raaji'uun." She takes my hand. "We belong to Allah and to Him we return."

"I'm not Muslim."

"Grief doesn't require religion." She squeezes my hand. "Tell me about her."

And somehow, in that coffee shop in Columbus, I pour out everything.

"Come to the back room."

It's evening now. The shop is closed.

"I have something special. My grandmother's recipe. I only make it for—" She stops.

"For who?"

"For people who need healing."

The back room has a small kitchen.

She makes coffee the old way—roasting beans by hand, grinding them in a wooden mortar, brewing in a traditional pot.

"This is how we did it before machines," she says. "Before everything became fast."

"It smells incredible."

"It tastes like memory." She pours two cups. "Drink."

The flavor is unlike anything—deep, complex, like drinking ancient secrets.

"Subhanallah." I close my eyes. "This is—"

"This is my grandmother." She's standing close now. "Her hands. Her love. Her blessing."

"Sagal—"

"Thirteen years." Her voice cracks. "Thirteen years since my husband died. Thirteen years of making coffee for everyone but myself."

"Then let me make something for you."

I worship the coffee maker.

In her back room that smells like roasted beans. Her body is warm and rich, like her coffee—ebony curves, thick and sweet.

"Thirteen years—" She gasps as I undress her. "I've poured myself into cups—never been poured into—"

"Tonight you're full."

Her body is abundance.

Breasts heavy like coffee beans, nipples dark as espresso. Belly soft from years of taste-testing. Hips wide, thighs thick. She's brewed herself into something extraordinary.

I lay her down on bags of coffee beans.

Spread her thick thighs.

"ILAAHAY!"

She screams as my mouth finds her. Her hands grip my head.

"Thirteen years—" She's shaking. "Don't stop—dhakhso—"

I taste her like fine coffee—slowly, savoring every note.

She comes three times before I rise.

"Inside me—" She's pulling at me. "Ku soo gal—brew something inside me—"

I strip. She watches with expert eyes.

"Subhanallah—"

"The perfect blend."

I push inside the coffee maker.

She screams.

"So full—" Her legs wrap around me. "Don't stop—"

I make love to her among the coffee supplies.

Her massive body bounces. The smell of beans surrounds us. She comes twice more.

"Ku shub—" She's begging. "Fill me—"

I release inside her.

We lie on coffee bean bags.

"Tomorrow the shop opens again," she murmurs.

"And I'll be here."

"For coffee?"

"For you." I kiss her. "For everything."

One Year Later

Best coffee shop in Columbus.

And I know the owner intimately.

"Macaan," she moans. "My sweetest regular."

The woman who brews love.

The woman who healed my grief.

One cup at a time.