Habaryar in London

London is gray and cold.

I step off the bus in Whitechapel, my duffel bag over my shoulder, and take in the scene. Halal butchers. Bengali restaurants. Women in niqabs pushing prams. It's not quite Minneapolis, but it has its own kind of familiar.

"Warya!"

I turn. A thick woman in a floral dirac waves at me from across the street. My father's sister. My habaryar.

Halima.

"Iska warran, Habaryaro?" I call out—how are you, auntie?

"Waan fiicanahay!" She crosses to me, pulls me into a hug that smells like incense and shaah. "Look at you—so tall now! Last time I saw you, you were a little boy."

That was fifteen years ago. I was ten. She was already big then—wide hips, heavy breasts, the kind of body that Somali men call buuran. Thick.

She's thicker now.

Two hundred and sixty pounds at least, maybe more. Her dirac strains at every seam. When she releases me, I see her chest heaving from the short walk across the street.

"Come, come." She takes my bag. "My flat is just around the corner. I've made canjeero and suqaar. You'll eat."

I follow her.

I try not to stare at the way her hips move.

I fail.

Her flat is small but comfortable.

Two bedrooms in a council estate in Tower Hamlets. She's decorated it with Somali touches—uunsi burning in a corner, photos of Mogadishu on the walls, a prayer rug rolled up near the window.

"Your father says you need work," she says, piling food on my plate.

"I just graduated. No one's hiring in Minneapolis."

"London is better. The Somalis here own businesses. Restaurants. Shops. I'll introduce you." She sits across from me, her own plate modest. "You can stay as long as you need."

"Mahadsnid, Habaryaro."

"Don't thank me. You're family." But her eyes linger on me—my shoulders, my chest, my arms. "You've grown into a man. Your father must be proud."

"He's proud I'm not in trouble."

She laughs. "Inshallah, you'll stay out of trouble here too."

I think of the way her body moved when she walked.

Trouble, I suspect, is exactly what I'm going to find.

The first week passes quietly.

She goes to work—she's a receptionist at a Somali community center in Stratford—and I pound the pavement. Applications. Interviews. The usual rejection.

In the evenings, we eat together. Watch Somali TV. Talk.

I learn that she's been divorced for twelve years. Her husband—an older man their family arranged for her—left her for a younger wife when she couldn't give him children.

"He said I was too fat," she tells me one night, her voice carefully flat. "Too old. Not woman enough."

"He was wrong."

She looks at me strangely.

"You think so?"

"I know so."

The air between us shifts.

It happens on a Friday night.

She comes home late from the community center, exhausted. I've cooked—bariis and chicken, nothing fancy—and she stares at the set table like she's seeing a miracle.

"No man has cooked for me," she says softly. "Not once in my life."

"Then you've known the wrong men."

She eats in silence. When she's done, she stands to clear the plates, and I stop her.

"Let me."

"You're my guest—"

"I'm your nephew. Let me help."

I wash the dishes. She watches from the doorway, her expression unreadable.

When I'm done, she crosses to me. Stands close. Too close.

"Warya," she breathes. "Why are you really here?"

"To find work—"

"Maya." She shakes her head. "Why are you really here? In my flat. Cooking for me. Looking at me the way you do."

"How do I look at you?"

"Like I'm not your aunt." Her hand finds my chest. "Like I'm a woman."

"You are a woman."

"I'm your habaryar. This is—"

"Xaaraan. I know." I don't move away. "Do you want me to stop?"

She's silent for a long moment.

"Maya," she finally whispers. "I don't."

She leads me to her bedroom.

It's small—just a bed, a dresser, a window looking out on the estate. She closes the door behind us, then turns to face me.

"Twelve years," she says. "Twelve years since a man touched me. Since anyone made me feel like a woman." Her hands shake as she reaches for her dirac. "I'm fifty-two years old. I'm fat. I'm your father's sister."

"You're beautiful."

"Wallahi, don't lie to me—"

"I'm not lying." I cross to her. Cup her face in my hands. "You're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen."

"Warya—"

I kiss her.

She melts against me.

Her body—all two hundred and sixty pounds of it—presses soft and warm against mine. Her mouth opens. Her tongue finds mine. She moans, and the sound vibrates through my entire body.

"Alla—" She breaks the kiss, gasping. "We shouldn't—"

"We're already damned." I find the zipper at the back of her dirac. "Let's be damned together."

The dress falls.

She wears plain cotton underneath—a white bra that strains to contain her breasts, white panties stretched across her wide hips. I've imagined this moment since I arrived. The reality is better.

"Take it off," I tell her. "All of it."

She obeys.

Her body is a landscape.

Breasts like watermelons, heavy and soft, the nipples dark against brown skin. A belly that cascades in rolls, soft flesh marked with stretch marks. Hips wide enough to birth nations. Thighs thick and warm, pressing together as she stands before me.

"I'm disgusting," she whispers.

"You're everything."

I drop to my knees.

I worship her.

My hands run up her thighs, spreading them apart. My mouth finds her mound—covered in thick, dark curls—and I breathe her in. Musky. Sweet. The scent of a woman who's been aching for years.

"Warya—what are you—" She gasps as my tongue finds her clit. "ALLA—"

I lick her slowly.

Learn her. Taste her. Find the spots that make her shake. She grabs my hair, pulls me closer, and I give her what she needs.

"No one—" She's gasping. "No one has ever—my husband never—"

I slide two fingers inside her. She's tight—impossibly tight—and wet enough to soak my hand. I curl them upward, find her spot, and her legs buckle.

"Hold onto me," I murmur against her clit.

She grabs my shoulders. I suck her clit into my mouth.

She comes.

Her scream echoes through the flat. Her whole body shakes, flesh rippling, thighs clamping around my head. I drink her down—every drop—and don't stop until she's begging.

"Jooji—stop—I can't—"

I don't stop.

I give her another one.

When she can stand again, I carry her to the bed.

She's heavy—so heavy—but I don't care. I lay her down on the sheets, strip off my clothes, and let her see what she's done to me.

"Subhanallah." She stares at my cock. "You're—weyn—big—"

"Your ex-husband?"

"Small. Quick." She reaches for me. "Not like this."

I climb onto the bed. Position myself between her thick thighs.

"Tell me what you need."

"Adigaa," she breathes. "I need you."

I push inside.

She screams.

Her walls stretch around me, tight and hot and impossibly wet. Her hands claw at my back as I sink deeper, inch by inch, until I'm buried to the hilt.

"Ilaahay weyn—" Tears stream down her face. "You're filling me—dhammaan—completely—"

I start to move.

Slow at first. Gentle. But she wraps her legs around me, pulls me deeper.

"Dhakhso—faster—" She's begging. "Don't treat me like glass—I'm not fragile—"

I fuck her.

Really fuck her.

The bed slams against the wall. Her massive body bounces beneath me, breasts rolling, belly shaking. She screams with every thrust—Somali prayers, Somali curses, my name repeated like a chant.

"Coming—" Her eyes roll back. "Coming on my nephew's gus—"

She shatters.

Her pussy clamps down so tight I can barely move. She convulses beneath me, screaming into the pillow. But I don't stop. I fuck her through it, fuck her until she's coming again, until she's begging me to fill her.

"Inside me—" She claws at my back. "Ku shub gudaha—I need it—"

I let go.

I flood my aunt.

Pump her full while she moans and shakes beneath me. When I'm empty, I collapse onto her soft body, my face buried in her breasts.

"Macaan," she whispers, stroking my hair. "Sweet boy. My sweet boy."

"Habaryaro—"

"Don't call me that." She tilts my face up, kisses me softly. "Tonight, I'm not your aunt. I'm just Halima."

"Halima."

"Haa." She shifts beneath me, and I feel myself stirring. "And you're not my nephew. You're the man who finally made me feel alive."

"One night isn't enough."

"No." Her hand finds my cock, already hardening. "It's not."

She guides me inside her again.

"Stay," she whispers. "Stay as long as you need to find work. Stay as long as you want."

"And this?"

"This happens every night." She pulls me down for a kiss. "My bedroom. Our secret. What happens in London stays in London."

I give her what she needs.

Three Months Later

I find work at a Somali restaurant in Brixton.

The pay is decent. The hours are long. But I don't mind, because every night, I come home to Halima.

She greets me at the door in her dirac, modest and proper. She feeds me dinner, asks about my day. We watch TV together on the couch.

Then she leads me to her bedroom.

And she becomes someone else entirely.

My father calls occasionally.

"How's your aunt?" he asks. "Is she taking care of you?"

I look at Halima, bent over the bed, moaning as I take her from behind.

"She's taking very good care of me, Aabo."

"Good, good. She's lonely, you know. The divorce was hard on her."

"She seems happy now."

"Alhamdulillah. You're a good nephew to keep her company."

"I try."

He doesn't know what kind of company I keep.

He never will.

One night, Halima asks:

"Will you ever leave?"

We're lying tangled together, her thick body warm against mine. Through the window, London glitters in the darkness.

"Do you want me to?"

"Maya." She traces my chest. "I want you to stay forever. I want this to never end."

"Then it won't."

"What about marriage? Children? A normal life?"

"Normal is overrated." I pull her on top of me. "I have everything I need right here."

"Xaaraan everything."

"The best kind."

She sinks onto my cock.

"Inshallah," she whispers. "May it always be this good."

It always is.