Hargeisa Money Transfer
"She runs a hawala in Hargeisa—a thick ebony widow who moves money across continents. When he comes studying informal finance, she offers insights. Some transactions are off the books."
Hargeisa runs on trust.
No formal banking, but money flows—from Minneapolis to Mogadishu, from London to Burao. Safia's hawala has operated for twenty-five years. Billions transferred on handshakes.
I come researching informal finance.
"Academic?" She counts money without looking. Fifty-three years old. Two hundred and forty pounds of financial authority. Ebony skin, sharp eyes, the precision of someone who's never made an error. "What do you want to know?"
"How it works. The trust networks."
"Mashallah." She finishes counting. "Come back at closing. We'll talk."
She explains the system.
Family networks spanning continents, reputation as currency, trust as infrastructure. No receipts, no records, just honor.
"Western banks don't understand," she says.
"They don't trust without paper."
"Paper lies. People don't." She locks her vault. "My husband understood. Built this business on relationships."
"Where is he now?"
"Buried. Heart attack in '99. The stress of war."
"I kept it running."
We're having dinner at her home.
"Twenty-six years of widowhood. Twenty-five years of moving money. Never lost a shilling."
"That's remarkable."
"That's Somali." She smiles. "Our word is our bond. Even when everything else breaks."
"You've never been tempted? With all that money?"
"Waas. Honor is worth more than money. My husband taught me that."
"You study us like we're interesting."
Her office after hours. The day's transactions completed.
"Most Westerners think we're primitive. No banks, no receipts. They don't see the sophistication."
"I see it clearly."
"What else do you see?"
"A woman who's held everything together. Who deserves to be held herself."
I worship the hawala operator.
In her office where billions have passed. Her body is the real treasure—ebony curves, heavy breasts, soft belly.
"Twenty-six years—" She gasps as I undress her. "Lix iyo labaatan—"
"Tonight we make a different kind of transfer."
I lay her on her office couch.
Where trust is traded daily. Her body is priceless.
I spread her thick thighs.
Count her assets.
"ILAAHAY!"
She screams—twenty-six years of financial precision finally receiving pleasure. Her hands grip my head.
"Don't stop—" She's shaking. "Dhakhso—"
I deposit pleasure until she's wealthy. Three times.
"Inside me—" She's pulling at me. "Ku soo gal—complete the transfer—"
I strip. She watches with those counting eyes.
"Subhanallah—valuable currency."
"High exchange rate."
I push inside the hawala operator.
She screams.
"So full—" Her legs wrap around me. "Don't stop—"
I transfer everything.
Her massive body shakes. She comes twice more.
"Fill me—" She's begging. "Clear the balance—"
I release inside her.
We lie in her office.
"Your research," she murmurs. "Will it help?"
"It will show the world how trust works."
"Wallahi?"
"Your system. Your honor. Your people."
One Year Later
My paper changed understanding.
Hawala recognized, respected, protected.
"Macaan," Safia moans as money flows around us. "My best investment."
The operator who moves billions.
The woman who moved my heart.
Trust transferred.