Deni la Nyumba
"Rent is three months late. The landlord is in Dubai. His thick wife comes to collect—but she doesn't want money. She wants payment in flesh. Monthly. Until the debt is cleared."
The rent is three months overdue.
I lost my job. Found another, but the gap left me drowning. Three months at fifteen thousand shillings each. Forty-five thousand I don't have.
When the knock comes, I expect eviction.
I get something else entirely.
Bi Khadija is the landlord's wife.
Her husband, Mzee Omar, owns half the buildings in this Mombasa neighborhood. He's been in Dubai for six months—business, they say. She manages the properties in his absence.
She's fifty-three years old.
And thick in ways that her business suit can't hide.
"You owe forty-five thousand," she says, walking into my apartment uninvited.
"I know. I'm working on it—"
"Working on it." She looks around my sparse flat. "I've heard that before. From tenants who disappear in the night."
"I'm not going to—"
"No. You're not." She turns to face me. "Because we're going to make an arrangement."
"What kind of arrangement?"
"The kind where you don't pay money." She moves closer. "The kind where you pay... differently."
She unbuttons her suit jacket.
Beneath, a blouse straining against heavy breasts. She's not young, not slim, not anything the world says is desirable. But she's powerful. Present. Demanding.
"My husband is in Dubai," she says. "Has been for six months. Will be for six more."
"I don't understand—"
"Yes, you do." She removes the jacket completely. "You're young. Handsome. Broke. I'm old. Rich. Lonely." She starts on the blouse. "The math is simple."
"You want me to—"
"I want you to pay your debt." The blouse falls away. "Monthly. In this apartment. With your body."
Her body emerges like a demand.
Massive breasts in a functional bra. Belly soft and round beneath. She unhooks the bra, lets her breasts fall free—dark, heavy, pendulous.
"Three months of debt," she says. "Three sessions to clear it. One per month owed."
"Three times?"
"Three times tonight." She pushes me toward my own bedroom. "We start now."
Session one is on my bed.
She rides me like she's collecting—taking what she's owed, extracting payment. Her thick body bounces, her breasts in my face, her demands constant.
"Harder—you owe me—pay properly—"
I pay.
Thrust up into her while she screams, while she comes, while she takes the first installment of my debt.
"One month cleared—" she gasps. "Two more to go."
Session two is against the wall.
She wants variety. Wants me to lift her—all of her—and take her standing. I grip her thick thighs, pin her against the plaster, and pound into her.
"This is what money can't buy—youth—strength—oh God—"
She comes hanging off me.
"Two months cleared."
Session three is in the shower.
Water running, steam rising, her thick body slippery and welcoming. I take her from behind, her hands braced against the tiles, her screams echoing.
"Fill me—complete the payment—"
I fill her.
Explode inside my landlord's wife while the water washes everything clean.
"Debt cleared," she gasps. "For now."
"For now?" I ask afterward.
She's dressing in my living room, becoming professional again.
"Rent is due every month." She adjusts her suit. "And I don't think your employment situation has improved."
"It hasn't."
"Then I'll return next month." She picks up her bag. "Same arrangement. Same payment. Unless you'd rather find forty-five thousand in cash?"
I don't have forty-five thousand in cash.
I don't have fifteen thousand.
"I'll be here," I say.
"I know you will." She kisses my cheek. "First of the month. Have the apartment clean. Have yourself ready."
She returns on the first of every month.
Sometimes three sessions. Sometimes four. Once, when I was particularly behind, she stayed the entire weekend—six sessions, barely able to walk by Sunday.
"You're my best tenant," she tells me.
"I don't pay rent."
"You pay plenty." She mounts me for session number three. "More than money could ever cover."
Six months into the arrangement, she brings a key.
"To my house," she explains. "Omar extended his Dubai stay. Another year."
"What do you want me to do with this?"
"Visit." She's undressing already. "Tuesdays and Thursdays, when the servants are off. I'm tired of coming here. My bed is larger."
"And more comfortable?"
"And more forbidden." She smiles. "Fucking you in the bed I share with my husband. That's worth more than any rent."
The husband's bed is enormous.
I take the landlord's wife where the landlord sleeps. Where he hasn't slept in over a year. Where his absence has created an opening I fill completely.
"He calls once a week—" she gasps.
"And you?"
"I come once a day." She rides me harder. "With you. In his bed. Wearing his gifts."
She's wearing jewelry he sent from Dubai.
Only the jewelry.
Mzee Omar returns unexpectedly.
I'm in his house—in his bed—when the car pulls up. Khadija pushes me out the back door, throws my clothes after me.
"The apartment," she hisses. "I'll come tomorrow. Be ready."
I'm ready.
She arrives at noon, furious and desperate.
"He suspects nothing." She's already undressing. "But he's home now. We can't use the house."
"Then we use this apartment."
"Yes." She pushes me onto my bed. "Back to the original arrangement. You still owe rent, after all."
"I've paid—"
"Interest." She mounts me. "Compound interest. You'll never be fully paid up."
The landlord stays for three months.
Three months of Khadija sneaking to my apartment. Three months of desperate encounters, stolen hours, the thrill of hiding.
"He's leaving again," she tells me. "Dubai. Six months minimum."
"And the house?"
"Is ours again." She kisses me deeply. "The bed. The shower. Every room he thinks belongs to him."
"What about rent?"
"What rent?" She smiles. "I've forgotten what rent is. All I know is you owe me. Forever. And you'll keep paying. Forever."
Mzee Omar dies in Dubai.
Heart attack. Sudden. Khadija inherits everything—the buildings, the money, the properties.
Including mine.
"You're still my tenant," she says at the funeral.
"Do I still owe rent?"
"You owe everything." She takes my hand—publicly now, no need to hide. "Move into the main house. The master bedroom. Our bedroom."
"People will talk—"
"People can talk." She pulls me close. "I own this neighborhood. I own these buildings. And I own you. The talking stopped mattering long ago."
I live in the landlord's house now.
Sleep in his bed. Eat at his table. Take his widow every night in every room of the estate he built.
"You were my best investment," she says one night.
"Better than the buildings?"
"Much better." She straddles me. "Buildings just collect rent. You pay interest I can actually feel."
Bi Khadija is sixty now.
Still thick. Still demanding. Still collecting payments from me every night.
"You'll never be paid up," she reminds me.
"I know."
"Good." She sinks onto me. "Because I intend to collect forever."
Forever sounds about right.
Some debts, you never want to clear.
Some payments, you're happy to make.
And some landlords' wives are worth every installment.