Feri Imevunjika
"The ferry breaks down between islands. Overnight stuck on the water, waiting for rescue. The thick crew chief's wife manages passenger comfort—and she takes comfort very seriously. Very personally."
The engine dies at sunset.
We're halfway between Mombasa and Lamu, the ferry packed with passengers, cargo, hope. Then silence—the engine sputtering, stopping, leaving us adrift on the Indian Ocean.
"Ladies and gentlemen," the captain announces. "Technical difficulties. We expect repairs by morning."
The passengers groan.
I find a spot on the deck and prepare for a long night.
That's when she finds me.
"You look uncomfortable."
She's standing over me—thick, commanding, wearing the uniform of ferry staff. Her name tag says HALIMA, and below that, PASSENGER COMFORT.
"I'll survive."
"You'll do better than survive." She helps me up. "I'm the crew chief's wife. I manage passenger comfort for overnight situations. Come with me."
"Come where?"
"The VIP cabin. Reserved for situations like this." She leads me toward the interior. "Not everyone gets this treatment. Consider yourself lucky."
The VIP cabin is small but private.
A bed, a porthole, a door that locks. Far from the crowded deck where passengers huddle against the cold.
"How did I qualify for this?" I ask.
"You're young. Traveling alone. Handsome." She closes the door. "And I decide who gets VIP treatment."
"What does VIP treatment include?"
"Whatever you need to be comfortable." She starts unbuttoning her uniform. "And I'm very thorough."
Halima is fifty years old.
Married to the crew chief for twenty-five years. She's made this crossing hundreds of times—and she's used her position to manage more than passenger comfort.
"My husband runs the crew," she says, her uniform falling away. "He's busy with the engine. The repairs. He won't check on passengers."
"And if the engine gets fixed—"
"It won't. Not until morning." She's wearing nothing beneath the uniform—planned this. "I made sure of that."
"You sabotaged the ferry?"
"I suggested the crew chief inspect certain components." She climbs onto the bed. "Components I knew were failing. It's maintenance, really."
"Maintenance."
"Regular maintenance." She pulls me down onto her. "I require regular maintenance too."
I take the crew chief's wife while the ferry drifts.
The ocean rocks us gently—different from a dhow, slower, more deliberate. She uses the motion like she's been practicing for decades.
"I love these breakdowns—the time—the privacy—"
"How many times have you done this?"
"Every trip worth doing." She rides me harder. "When I see the right passenger. When I need what my husband can't give."
"And he never notices?"
"He notices the engine." She comes on me, shaking. "He notices the crew. He doesn't notice me."
The night stretches.
She takes me three times before midnight—then rests, curled against me, her thick body soft and warm. The ferry sways. The ocean is patient.
"There's something about being stuck," she says. "Nowhere to go. Nothing to do. Just... this."
"This?"
"Being wanted." She traces a finger down my chest. "On land, everyone has somewhere to be. On the water, at night, broken down... there's only now."
"And you make the most of now."
"I've learned to." She mounts me again. "Round four?"
At 3 AM, she brings another passenger.
"This is Fatma," she says. "Also stranded. Also in need of comfort."
Fatma is fifty-five, thicker than Halima, the wife of one of the deckhands.
"Halima mentioned the VIP cabin," Fatma says, already undressing. "I hoped there was room."
"There's always room." Halima pulls her onto the bed. "For passengers who need... special attention."
They share me until dawn.
Taking turns—one on my mouth while the other rides me. Then switching. Then both at once, their thick bodies pressed against me from both sides.
"The ferry wives have an arrangement—" Halima gasps.
"We share certain passengers—" Fatma adds.
"The husbands never know—"
"The husbands work the engine—"
"We work the passengers—"
The engine is "repaired" at sunrise.
Halima dresses quickly, professionally. Fatma slips out first.
"The breakdown was unexpected," Halima announces to the passengers on deck. "We apologize for the inconvenience."
The passengers grumble, stretch, prepare for the final hours to Lamu.
I stay in the VIP cabin until docking.
Halima visits once more—"final comfort check"—and leaves me barely able to walk.
"The return voyage is tomorrow," she says at the dock.
"I'm staying in Lamu for a week."
"Then I'll see you for the return." She presses a note into my hand. "This is the cabin number. Come find me after departure. I'll arrange another... breakdown."
"Won't the captain get suspicious?"
"The captain is my husband's brother." She smiles. "And he has his own VIP arrangements with certain passengers. It's a family tradition."
The return voyage has three breakdowns.
Two overnight, one "mechanical delay" in the middle of the day. Each time, Halima manages my comfort. Each time, another ferry wife joins us.
"We're a collective," Halima explains. "The ferry wives. Twelve of us. Different ships, same arrangement. We share information. And passengers."
"How many passengers have you—"
"Enough." She climbs on top of me. "But you're special. You last. Most can barely handle one wife. You've handled three."
"Three different women?"
"So far." She rides me harder. "Wait until you meet the harbor master's wife. She's even thicker than me."
I've made that crossing seventeen times now.
Every voyage, a breakdown. Every breakdown, Halima in my cabin. Sometimes alone. Sometimes with company. The ferry wives have adopted me as their favorite passenger.
"You should get a season pass," Halima tells me.
"Is that a thing?"
"It is now." She's riding me while the ferry "repairs" something that definitely isn't broken. "Unlimited crossings. VIP treatment every time. On every ship."
"Every ship?"
"I told you—it's a collective." She comes, shaking. "Welcome to the fleet, favorite passenger."
I've never found a better way to travel.
The breakdowns are the best part of the journey.