Djibouti Port Administrator
"She administrates Djibouti's strategic port—a thick ebony widow with access to everyone. When he arrives for shipping negotiations, she facilitates more than cargo. Some deals are sealed in private."
Djibouti's port is the Horn of Africa's gateway.
Amina administers Somali shipping—a powerful position in a country that survives on strategic location. She's been there fifteen years.
I come representing a Minneapolis logistics company.
"Import permits?" She reviews my papers. Fifty-one years old. Two hundred and forty pounds of bureaucratic power. Ebony skin, professional suit, the authority of someone who controls what moves through Africa's most important port.
"Humanitarian supplies to Somalia."
"Mashallah—good work." She stamps the papers. "But the process takes time."
"How much time?"
"That depends." She looks up. "On many things."
The process drags.
But Amina becomes my guide—not just to bureaucracy, but to Djibouti itself. The French cafes, the Somali neighborhoods, the strange mix of colonialism and Africa.
"You know everyone," I observe.
"I control what enters and leaves." She sips café au lait. "That means knowing everyone is smart business."
"Is this smart business?"
"This?" She gestures between us. "This is something else."
"My husband was a port worker."
We're at a restaurant overlooking the harbor.
"Rose through the ranks together. Became administrator together." She watches the ships. "He died eight years ago. Collapsed on the docks."
"And you kept his position?"
"I earned my position." Her voice is sharp. "He helped, but I'm here because I'm good. Not because I was married."
"I believe that."
"Good." She softens. "Because eight years of proving it gets tiring."
"Your permits are ready."
Weeks of waiting, finally resolved.
"Mahadsnid—how can I thank you?"
"You could stay for dinner." She meets my eyes. "At my apartment. Private celebration."
"That's not in the permit process."
"Some things are off the books."
Her apartment overlooks the port.
Ships moving, cranes working, the rhythm of global trade.
"This is what I come home to," she says. "Power viewed from above. Loneliness down below."
"Eight years of this?"
"Eight years of watching the world move. Never moving myself."
"Let's move together."
I worship the port administrator.
In her powerful apartment. Her body is strategic positioning—ebony curves, heavy breasts, commanding belly.
"Eight years—" She gasps as I undress her. "Sideed sano—"
"Tonight we dock."
I lay her on her bed.
Overlooking her domain. Her body is the port I want to enter.
I spread her thick thighs.
Navigate her channel.
"ILAAHAY!"
She screams—eight years of administrative isolation breaking. Her hands grip my head.
"Don't stop—" She's shaking. "Dhakhso—"
I process her cargo until she's unloaded. Three times.
"Inside me—" She's pulling at me. "Ku soo gal—dock inside me—"
I strip. She watches with those administrator's eyes.
"Subhanallah—heavy cargo."
"Priority shipment."
I push inside the port administrator.
She screams.
"So full—" Her legs wrap around me. "Don't stop—"
I unload everything.
Her massive body shakes. Ships move in the harbor below. She comes twice more.
"Fill me—" She's begging. "Complete the manifest—"
I release inside her.
We lie overlooking the port.
"Your shipment leaves tomorrow," she murmurs.
"I could arrange more shipments."
"Wallahi?"
"Regularly."
One Year Later
I handle all Minneapolis-Djibouti shipping now.
And I handle Amina regularly.
"Macaan," she moans as the port works below. "My favorite cargo."
The administrator who controls the port.
The woman I navigate with love.
Priority access.