Harusi
"At his brother's Mombasa wedding, he's paired with his new sister-in-law's thick, recently-widowed sister for the traditional dances. Some traditions are meant to be broken."
The henna on Fatma's hands is still drying when she finds me on the rooftop.
Three days of wedding celebrations, and I've barely slept. My brother Rashid is marrying into one of Mombasa's oldest Swahili families—the Abdullahs—and every relative within five hundred kilometers has descended on Old Town for the harusi. The narrow coral-stone streets are choked with guests. The family compound echoes with taarab music and ululation.
And I can't stop staring at the bride's older sister.
"You're hiding."
Her voice comes from behind me. I turn, and there she is—Fatma Abdullah, forty-seven years old, widow of two years, wrapped in a kanga the color of sunset. The fabric clings to her body in ways that make my throat dry.
"Not hiding. Just... breathing."
"Mm." She moves to stand beside me at the rooftop's edge. Below, the Indian Ocean glitters under the moon. "It's overwhelming. All of it."
"You're used to these things."
"I'm used to attending them as someone's wife." She looks down at her henna-covered hands. "This is my first family wedding since Yusuf died. Everyone keeps asking when I'll remarry. As if I'm expired milk they need to use before it spoils."
"That's—"
"The way of things." She shrugs. "A widow my age, my size? The options are... limited."
I look at her. Really look.
She's not my brother's bride. Amina is twenty-six, slim, fashionable. Fatma is her opposite in every way—twenty years older, a hundred pounds heavier, with a face that shows every laugh line and worry crease of a life fully lived. Her hips are wide enough to brush both sides of narrow Swahili doorways. Her breasts strain against her kanga's wrap. Her belly is round and soft beneath the fabric.
She's the most beautiful woman at this wedding.
"Their loss," I say.
She laughs—sharp, disbelieving. "You're sweet. Your mother raised you well."
"I'm not being sweet. I'm being honest."
Something shifts in her expression. She looks at me—really looks—for the first time since the celebrations began.
"You're what, twenty-eight? Twenty-nine?"
"Thirty."
"I have shoes older than you."
"Shoes can't appreciate what they're looking at."
The silence stretches between us. The taarab music drifts up from below, all oud and violin and poetry about love that destroys.
"Careful, Hassan." Her voice is low. "In three days, we'll be family."
"We're not family yet."
The kupamba ceremony is the next evening.
The bride sits on a throne while the women surround her, singing, dancing, preparing her for the wedding night. The men are banished to the courtyard below, drinking kahawa and pretending not to listen to the feminine chaos above.
I'm supposed to be with them. Instead, I'm in the shadows of the upstairs hallway, watching through a cracked door.
Fatma is dancing.
She's changed into a different kanga—green and gold, wrapped tight around her curves. The other women clap and sing while she moves, her hips swaying in figure-eights that shouldn't be possible. Her belly rolls. Her breasts bounce. Sweat gleams on her dark skin.
She's magnificent.
She catches me watching. Doesn't stop. If anything, she dances harder—rolling her hips toward the door, toward me, her eyes never leaving mine.
The song ends. The women cheer. Fatma excuses herself—"Too old for this, need water"—and slips out into the hallway.
Where I'm waiting.
"You shouldn't be up here," she whispers.
"Neither should you."
"I'm the bride's sister."
"And I'm the groom's brother. We're both exactly where we shouldn't be."
She presses me against the coral-stone wall. Her body is hot from dancing, slick with sweat, and when she leans close, I can smell jasmine and cardamom and woman.
"This is haram," she breathes.
"Only if we get caught."
"Hassan—"
"Tell me to stop."
She kisses me instead.
Her mouth tastes like kahawa and dates.
I grab her hips—those impossible hips—and pull her against me. She gasps into my mouth when she feels how hard I am. Her hands grip my shoulders, my arms, anything she can reach.
"Not here." She pulls back, panting. "Someone will see."
"Where?"
"The old quarter. My cousin's house. She's at the kupamba until midnight."
We slip out through the servants' entrance. The streets of Old Town are empty this late—everyone is at the wedding celebration—and we move through the moonlit alleys like thieves. Her hand grips mine. Her kanga swishes against her thighs.
The cousin's house is small, traditional. Carved wooden doors. A courtyard with a dying jasmine vine. A bedroom with a low Swahili bed piled with cushions.
She locks the door behind us.
"Three days," she says. "Then we're family. Then this can never happen again."
"Then we shouldn't waste time."
I unwrap her kanga like I'm unwrapping a gift.
Layer by layer, the fabric falls away, revealing her—all of her. Her breasts are heavy, pendulous, dark nipples already stiff. Her belly is round and soft, marked with the silver stretch marks of children she lost years ago. Her thighs are massive, dimpled, pressing together like they're trying to hide what's between them.
"I know I'm not—"
"You're perfect." I drop to my knees. "Let me show you."
I spread her thighs with my hands. She gasps, grabs my head, tries to pull me away.
"Hassan, you don't have to—"
"I want to." I look up at her. "I've wanted this since I saw you at the airport. Since you stepped off that plane in your buibui and I thought, 'That's her. That's the one I can't have.'"
"You can't have me. After the wedding—"
"After the wedding, we're family. But right now, we're just two people who want each other." I lean forward, breathe against her. "Let me taste you, Fatma. Please."
She stops pulling. Her hands relax in my hair.
"Na'am," she whispers. Yes.
She tastes like the ocean.
Salt and sweetness and something spicier—cloves, maybe, or the cardamom chai she drinks every evening. I lick through her folds, find her clit, suck gently. She cries out—too loud for these thin walls—and I don't care.
"Hassan—ya Allah—"
I eat her like she's the last meal I'll ever have. My tongue explores every fold, every crease. My fingers find her entrance, slide inside, curl upward. She's wet—so wet—and when I add a second finger, she nearly collapses.
"The bed—I need—"
I lift her. She yelps—"You'll hurt yourself!"—but I carry her to the Swahili bed, deposit her on the cushions, and dive back between her thighs.
"Don't stop—please—I'm going to—"
She comes with a scream that probably wakes the neighbors. Her thighs clamp around my head. Her hips buck against my face. And I don't stop—I push her through it, licking softer now, drawing out every aftershock.
When she finally pushes me away, she's crying.
"It's been so long," she sobs. "Since Yusuf—no one has—I haven't—"
"I know." I climb up beside her, pull her into my arms. "I've got you."
"We shouldn't be doing this."
"I know."
"If anyone found out—"
"They won't."
She kisses me, tasting herself on my lips. When she pulls back, her eyes are fierce.
"Your turn."
She pushes me onto my back.
Straddles me, her weight settling on my hips—so much weight, so much softness. She's still wet; I can feel it against my stomach. Her breasts hang above me, swaying when she moves.
"I want to see you," she says. "All of you."
She helps me strip. When my cock springs free, she wraps her hand around it and strokes, slow.
"Ya salam," she murmurs. "You're... generous."
"Is that good?"
"Very good." She positions herself above me. "It's been two years. Be gentle. At first."
She sinks down.
Tight.
That's my first thought. Impossibly, wonderfully tight—two years without this, and her body has forgotten. She gasps as I fill her, inch by inch, her nails digging into my chest.
"Okay?"
"More than okay." She starts to move. "Much more."
She rides me slowly at first, getting used to the stretch. Her belly rests on mine, soft and warm. Her breasts sway above me. I reach up, cup them, feel the impossible weight.
"Harder," she breathes. "I won't break, habibti. Harder."
I grab her hips and thrust up.
She screams again—not pain, never pain—and I find a rhythm. The old Swahili bed creaks beneath us. The cushions shift. And Fatma rides me like she's trying to forget every lonely night of the past two years.
"Yes—na'am—don't stop—"
I watch her above me. This magnificent woman—this widow who thinks she's past her prime, who thinks no one wants her, who thinks she's destined to spend the rest of her life alone. I want to spend every night proving her wrong.
"I'm close," she gasps. "I'm going to—"
"Come for me, Fatma. Let me feel you."
She comes.
Her whole body clenches—thighs, belly, cunt. She milks me so hard I follow her over, burying myself deep, filling her while she shakes and sobs above me.
We collapse together.
Sweat and salt and jasmine.
We lie tangled in the cushions.
Somewhere in Old Town, the wedding celebrations continue. Music and laughter and joy. But in this borrowed bedroom, there's only us.
"Three days," she murmurs.
"I know."
"Then we're family."
"I know, Fatma."
"So this can never happen again."
I don't answer. Just pull her closer. Feel her heartbeat against my chest.
The wedding is beautiful.
Rashid and Amina exchange vows under a canopy of jasmine. The families cheer. The taarab musicians play until dawn. And through it all, Fatma and I don't look at each other.
We're family now.
It can never happen again.
Six months later, she calls me.
"I'm coming to Nairobi," she says. "Business. I'll need a place to stay."
My apartment has a guest room. She doesn't use it.
Every few months, there's business. Every few months, she's in Nairobi. Every few months, we pretend we're not doing exactly what we said we'd never do again.
At family gatherings, we're polite. Distant. Proper.
But when the lights go out, and the doors close, and the rest of the family sleeps—
We find each other.
Again and again.
Some traditions are meant to be broken.
Some families are made in secret.
And some weddings lead to unions no one ever sees.
Harusi.
Celebration.
Ours.