Dire Dawa Somali Merchant

Dire Dawa is Somali Ethiopia.

The old French railway town where Somali traders have gathered for a century. Hodan's trading house connects everything—imports from Dubai, exports to Addis, networks spanning continents.

I come researching Somali trade networks.

"You study us?" She reviews invoices. Fifty-four years old. Two hundred and forty-five pounds of commercial mastery. Ebony skin, business attire, the confidence of a woman who's built an empire. "Most people just trade with us."

"I want to understand the networks."

"Mashallah." She puts down the papers. "Finally someone interested in the how, not just the what."

She explains her world.

Family connections spanning Djibouti, Dubai, Minneapolis. Trust networks that move goods and money without formal systems.

"It's brilliant," I say.

"It's survival." She serves coffee. "My husband built the first connections. I expanded them after he died."

"When was that?"

"Fifteen years ago. Car accident. I was forty, with three children and a business to run."

"You more than ran it."

We're having dinner in her home. Wealth evident but tasteful.

"I made it ten times bigger." Pride without arrogance. "But success doesn't warm your bed."

"Fifteen years alone?"

"Fifteen years of building. Trading. Connecting." She looks at me. "Everyone connected to me. No one connecting with me."

"I'd like to connect."

"Stay tonight."

Her home after the staff leaves. Quiet, beautiful, lonely.

"You've spent weeks understanding my business," she says. "Now understand me."

"What do you want me to understand?"

"That behind the trading house is a woman." She moves close. "A woman who forgot how to be wanted."

"I want you."

I worship the trading house owner.

In her beautiful home while Dire Dawa sleeps. Her body is the finest import—ebony curves, heavy breasts, soft belly.

"Fifteen years—" She gasps as I undress her. "Shan iyo toban—"

"Tonight we make a different trade."

I lay her on silk sheets.

Wealth beneath us, loneliness behind us. Her body is the only treasure.

I spread her thick thighs.

Inventory her goods.

"ILAAHAY!"

She screams—fifteen years of commerce finally receiving personal attention. Her hands grip my head.

"Don't stop—" She's shaking. "Dhakhso—"

I trade with her until she's satisfied. Three times.

"Inside me—" She's pulling at me. "Ku soo gal—close the deal—"

I strip. She watches with those merchant's eyes.

"Subhanallah—valuable goods."

"Premium import."

I push inside the trading house owner.

She screams.

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

I export everything.

Her massive body shakes. She comes twice more.

"Fill me—" She's begging. "Complete the shipment—"

I release inside her.

We lie in her beautiful home.

"Your research," she murmurs. "Will it help us?"

"It will show the world how Somalis connect everything."

"Wallahi?"

"Your networks. Your genius. Your power."

One Year Later

My book became essential reading.

Somali trade networks—understood at last.

"Macaan," Hodan moans as another deal closes. "My best connection."

The merchant who connects continents.

The woman connected to my heart.

Trade complete.