Djibouti Café Owner
"She runs a café in Djibouti City—a thick ebony widow where everyone meets. When he comes seeking connections, she offers more than coffee. Some connections are very personal."
Djibouti runs on café au lait.
French legacy mixed with Somali hospitality. Idil's Café has served the city's power brokers for thirty years. Ministers, generals, businessmen—they all come here.
I come seeking business connections.
"American?" She serves me personally. Fifty-four years old. Two hundred and forty pounds of social intelligence. Ebony skin, elegant dress, the grace of someone who knows everyone's secrets. "What brings you to Djibouti?"
"Logistics. The port."
"Mashallah." She sits across from me. "Then you need to know people. And I know everyone."
She becomes my fixer.
Introducing me to ministers, connecting me with businessmen, opening doors I didn't know existed.
"How do you know everyone?" I ask.
"Thirty years of coffee." She laughs. "People talk over café au lait. I listen. I remember."
"And your husband?"
"Built this café. Died of cancer fifteen years ago. I've been the hostess alone since."
"This place is his memorial."
We're closing for the night. The café empty, the city sleeping.
"Every cup I serve, I remember him making the first ones." She touches the counter. "Fifteen years of memories. Fifteen years of loneliness."
"You're surrounded by people."
"By customers. By contacts. Not by—" She stops. "Not by anyone who sees me."
"I see you."
"Stay after closing."
Her apartment above the café. French colonial charm, Somali warmth.
"You come every day," she says. "Not just for business anymore."
"No. Not anymore."
"Fifteen years." She moves closer. "Fifteen years of serving everyone. Never being served."
"Let me serve you."
I worship the café owner.
In her apartment above where Djibouti meets. Her body is the finest blend—ebony curves, heavy breasts, soft belly.
"Fifteen years—" She gasps as I undress her. "Shan iyo toban—"
"Tonight the café is closed. You're open."
I lay her on her elegant bed.
French linens, Somali woman. Her body is the perfect combination.
I spread her thick thighs.
Taste her blend.
"ILAAHAY!"
She screams—fifteen years of hospitality finally receiving pleasure. Her hands grip my head.
"Don't stop—" She's shaking. "Dhakhso—"
I serve her until she's satisfied. Three times.
"Inside me—" She's pulling at me. "Ku soo gal—fill my cup—"
I strip. She watches with those knowing eyes.
"Subhanallah—strong brew."
"Fresh roasted."
I push inside the café owner.
She screams.
"So full—" Her legs wrap around me. "Don't stop—"
I pour everything.
Her massive body shakes. She comes twice more.
"Fill me—" She's begging. "Top off my cup—"
I release inside her.
We lie above the sleeping café.
"Your business connections," she murmurs. "Did they work out?"
"Better than I expected." I kiss her. "I found what I was looking for."
"Wallahi?"
"The best connection in Djibouti."
One Year Later
My business thrives in Djibouti.
But more importantly, Idil thrives.
"Macaan," she moans as morning coffee brews below. "My best regular."
The café owner who serves everyone.
The woman who serves my heart.
Perfect blend.