Halifax Maritime Museum
"She curates African maritime history at Halifax's museum—a thick ebony Somali widow whose knowledge spans oceans. When he visits her exhibit, she offers private tours. Some history is made behind closed doors."
The Maritime Museum of the Atlantic has one African exhibit.
Dr. Farhiya Hassan built it—a comprehensive look at Somali maritime history, from ancient traders to modern refugees crossing the Mediterranean.
I visit on a rainy Tuesday.
"You're the first visitor today." She emerges from the archives. Fifty-five years old. Two hundred and forty-five pounds of historical expertise. Ebony skin, museum badge, the passion of someone who's found her calling.
"This exhibit is incredible."
"Mahadsnid." She lights up. "Most people walk past. They don't realize Somalis were sailing these waters before Europeans."
"Tell me everything."
She gives me a private tour.
Two hours of history I never knew—Somali sailors who reached China, traded with India, mapped coastlines before cartography existed.
"Why isn't this more known?"
"Because history is written by conquerors." She straightens an artifact. "We were traders, not conquerors. Our stories were sold, not told."
"But you're telling them now."
"One visitor at a time." She smiles. "And today, that visitor is you."
I keep visiting.
Every Tuesday, then every weekend. She always has more to share.
"You're becoming an expert," she says.
"I have an excellent teacher."
"Waas." She adjusts a display. "I'm just a curator."
"You're a guardian of memory. That's sacred."
She stops adjusting.
"My husband was a historian too."
We're in the museum after hours. The exhibits silent around us.
"We met at Oxford. Published together. Dreamed of a museum like this together." She touches a display case. "He died before we opened it. Heart failure, 2014."
"So you opened it alone."
"For him. For our people. For the history that deserves to be remembered."
"You're extraordinary."
"I'm stubborn." She turns to me. "Ten years of building this. Ten years of being alone with the past."
"Maybe it's time for the present."
"Come to the Titanic exhibit."
It's midnight. The museum is dark except for emergency lights.
"This is where I come when I need to think," she says. "About loss. About survival. About what we carry forward."
"What do you carry?"
"My husband's memory. My culture's memory. The weight of everyone who never got their story told."
"That's heavy."
"Too heavy." Her voice breaks. "Sometimes I need someone to help me carry it."
I worship the curator.
Among the artifacts of maritime history. Her body is heritage—ebony curves, heavy breasts, soft belly.
"Ten years—" She gasps as I undress her. "I've preserved everything—"
"Tonight I preserve you."
I lay her on the archive floor.
Surrounded by documents and photographs. Her body is the most precious artifact.
I spread her thick thighs.
Explore her uncharted waters.
"ILAAHAY!"
She screams—ten years of historical isolation breaking. Her hands grip my head.
"Don't stop—" She's shaking. "Dhakhso—"
I make history with her three times.
"Inside me—" She's pulling at me. "Ku soo gal—write yourself in me—"
I strip. She watches with those archivist's eyes.
"Subhanallah—"
"Primary source."
I push inside the curator.
She screams.
"So full—" Her legs wrap around me. "Don't stop—"
I add my chapter to her story.
Her massive body shakes among the artifacts. She comes twice more.
"Ku shub—" She's begging. "Complete the archive—"
I release inside her.
We lie among maritime history.
"This is highly irregular," she murmurs.
"Best exhibit ever."
"Haa." She laughs. "Private collection."
One Year Later
The Somali maritime exhibit is the museum's most popular.
And I'm the curator's most frequent visitor.
"Macaan," she moans in the archive room. "My favorite piece."
The curator who preserves memory.
The woman creating new ones with me.
History and future intertwined.