Hargeisa University Professor
"She teaches history at Hargeisa University—a thick ebony widow educating Somaliland's future. When he comes to research his family, she offers guidance. Some lessons are private."
Hargeisa University is Somaliland's pride.
Dr. Sahra teaches history—the real history, not the colonial version. Her lectures fill auditoriums with students hungry for their own story.
I come seeking family records.
"Archives?" She looks up from her desk. Fifty-four years old. Two hundred and forty pounds of academic authority. Ebony skin, professional dress, the gravitas of someone who's earned respect. "What are you looking for?"
"My grandmother's family. Displaced in '88."
"Subhanallah." Her face softens. "The SNM years. Many families scattered then. I can help."
She spends weeks helping me.
Archives, interviews, connections. She reconstructs my family's history from fragments.
"Why do you do this?" I ask.
"Because history is identity. Without knowing where we come from, we don't know who we are." She shows me another document. "Your grandmother was brave. Her story deserves to be known."
"I lived through '88."
We're at a café in downtown Hargeisa.
"I was twenty-four. Married one year. My husband was killed by Siad Barre's forces." She stirs her tea. "I fled to the camps. Came back when Somaliland declared independence. Built everything from nothing."
"And became a professor."
"And became a voice." She looks at me. "Our history was erased. I spend my life writing it back."
"You're different from other diaspora."
We're in her office after hours.
"Most come to help. You came to learn." She stands by the window. "You see Somaliland, not what you expect to see."
"I came with no expectations."
"That's rare." She turns. "Sixteen years since my husband. Sixteen years of teaching history. Never making any of my own."
"It's not too late."
"At fifty-four?"
"At any age."
I worship the professor.
In her office full of history books. Her body is a text I want to study—ebony curves, heavy breasts, soft belly.
"Sixteen years—" She gasps as I undress her. "Lixda iyo tobnaad—"
"Tonight we write new history."
I lay her on her desk.
Among papers documenting the past. Her body is the present I want.
I spread her thick thighs.
Research her pleasure.
"ILAAHAY!"
She screams—sixteen years of academic isolation breaking. Her hands grip my head.
"Don't stop—" She's shaking. "Dhakhso—"
I study her until she graduates. Three times.
"Inside me—" She's pulling at me. "Ku soo gal—make history—"
I strip. She watches with those scholarly eyes.
"Subhanallah—primary source."
"Original research."
I push inside the professor.
She screams.
"So full—" Her legs wrap around me. "Don't stop—"
I document everything.
Her massive body shakes. She comes twice more.
"Fill me—" She's begging. "Complete the archive—"
I release inside her.
We lie among historical documents.
"I found my grandmother's story," I tell her.
"And what will you do with it?"
"Write it. Share it." I kiss her. "With your help."
One Year Later
The book is published.
My grandmother's story, told at last.
"Macaan," Sahra moans. "My best student."
The professor who teaches history.
The woman making history with me.
Knowledge preserved.