Hargeisa Gold Merchant
"She sells gold in Hargeisa's jewelry souk—a thick ebony widow who adorns brides. When he comes sourcing traditional jewelry, she offers her expertise. Some expertise sparkles in private."
Hargeisa's gold souk glitters.
Traditional jewelry for brides, modern pieces for diaspora, everything in between. Amino's shop has the finest selection—three generations of craftsmanship.
I come sourcing traditional jewelry.
"Diaspora business?" She weighs a necklace. Fifty-four years old. Two hundred and forty pounds of golden expertise. Ebony skin, elegant dress, gold dripping from her own neck and wrists. "What style?"
"Traditional. The pieces grandmothers wore."
"Mashallah." She smiles. "Finally someone who appreciates heritage. Come—I'll show you the collection."
Her back room is a treasure cave.
Pieces dating back a century. Traditional designs that tell stories.
"My grandmother made these," she says. "My mother. My husband. Three generations of goldsmiths."
"Your husband?"
"The last of the artisans. Died twelve years ago. Now I only sell. The craft—" She pauses. "The craft dies with him."
"But the collection survives."
We're having tea in her shop.
"Each piece is a story. A bride, a blessing, a beginning." She touches a bracelet. "I've dressed thousands of brides. Never been one myself again."
"Twelve years alone?"
"Twelve years of selling love to others. Never receiving."
"You deserve to receive."
"Waas. Who would have a fat old widow?"
"I would."
"Stay after closing."
The souk quiet, gold gleaming in low light.
"You come every day," she says. "Not just for jewelry."
"The jewelry is beautiful. The woman selling it—more so."
"Subhanallah." She touches my face. "Twelve years since a man saw me instead of the gold."
"You're the treasure."
I worship the gold merchant.
In her shop surrounded by generations of craft. Her body is more precious than any metal—ebony curves, heavy breasts, soft belly adorned with gold.
"Twelve years—" She gasps as I undress her—leaving the gold on. "Labo iyo toban—"
"Tonight you're the jewelry."
I lay her among treasures.
Gold everywhere, but she's the prize. Her body is the finest piece.
I spread her thick thighs.
Appraise her value.
"ILAAHAY!"
She screams—twelve years of selling finally receiving. Her hands grip my head.
"Don't stop—" She's shaking. "Dhakhso—"
I polish her pleasure until she shines. Three times.
"Inside me—" She's pulling at me. "Ku soo gal—fill me like gold—"
I strip. She watches with those appraiser's eyes.
"Subhanallah—pure grade."
"Twenty-four karat."
I push inside the gold merchant.
She screams.
"So full—" Her legs wrap around me. "Don't stop—"
I forge everything.
Her massive body shakes. She comes twice more.
"Fill me—" She's begging. "Complete the setting—"
I release inside her.
We lie among golden treasures.
"Your business," she murmurs. "Will you sell our pieces with honor?"
"With their stories. Their history. Your name."
"Wallahi?"
"Every piece a tribute to three generations."
One Year Later
Somali gold sells worldwide now.
Traditional, authentic, storied.
"Macaan," Amino moans in her treasure room. "My finest piece."
The merchant who adorns brides.
The woman who adorns my life.
Pure gold.