Inheritance Claim

My grandfather dies at ninety-three.

He leaves behind a trading empire—dhows, warehouses, spice routes that stretch from Lamu to Oman. He also leaves behind four daughters, all unmarried or widowed, and one grandson.

Me.

The will is simple: everything goes to the eldest male heir. That's me. But there's a condition—the inheritance only transfers when I marry into the family "properly."

The problem? In our family, that means marrying one of my grandfather's daughters.

My aunts.

They summon me to the family compound.

Shangazi Fatima—sixty-two, the eldest, two-eighty of matriarchal authority.

Shangazi Amina—fifty-eight, the second, two-sixty of quiet calculation.

Shangazi Khadija—fifty-three, the third, two-forty of religious devotion.

Shangazi Zainab—forty-seven, the youngest, two-thirty of sharp wit.

Four women. All widowed or never married. All wanting the inheritance. All looking at me like I'm the key to everything.

"You understand the situation," Fatima says.

"I understand I'm supposed to marry one of you."

"Correct. The question is: which one?"

They argue.

Fatima claims seniority—she's the eldest, she should be first. Amina argues experience—she was married for thirty years before her husband died, she knows how to manage a household. Khadija invokes religion—she's the most devout, she'll guide me properly. Zainab claims youth—at forty-seven, she's the most likely to give me children.

I sit in the middle of their debate, feeling like a goat at auction.

"Perhaps," Amina says slowly, "we're approaching this wrong."

"What do you mean?"

"The will says he must marry one of us. But it doesn't say how he chooses." She looks at me with eyes that have calculated a thousand deals. "Let him choose based on... compatibility."

"Compatibility?" Khadija frowns. "What kind of compatibility?"

"The kind that matters in a marriage." Amina's smile is thin. "The bedroom kind."

They agree faster than I expect.

"One night," Fatima announces. "Each of us. He spends a night with all four. At the end, he chooses. The chosen one inherits through him. The others receive settlements."

"And if I refuse?"

"Then the inheritance goes to the mosque." Zainab shrugs. "We all lose. Is that what you want?"

It's not what I want.

I want the empire my grandfather built.

And, if I'm being honest, I want to know what it would be like to have each of them.

"One week," I say. "One aunt per night. Four nights total. Then I decide."

They agree.

Night One: Fatima

The eldest comes to my room at midnight.

Sixty-two years old, never married, never touched. She's been the matriarch so long she's forgotten how to be a woman.

"I don't know what I'm doing," she admits.

"Then let me show you."

I undress her slowly. Worship her body—the heaviest of the four, marked with decades of living alone. When I taste her, she cries.

"I didn't know—I never knew—"

I make her come six times before morning.

Night Two: Amina

The calculator. The planner. She arrives with a schedule.

"First, oral. Then manual. Then penetration. We should maximize—"

I kiss her mid-sentence.

"Or," I say, "we could just see what happens."

What happens is that the calculating widow loses control. I find her weaknesses—her neck, her inner thighs, the spot just above her clit that makes her scream. By midnight, she's forgotten all her plans.

By dawn, she's begging me not to stop.

Night Three: Khadija

The devout one. She arrives with guilt.

"This is haram."

"Everything we're doing is haram. The marriage, the inheritance, all of it."

"I know." She kneels for prayer, then stands. "But if I'm going to sin, I want to sin well."

She's the most surprising. Behind the piety is a hunger that's been suppressed for fifty-three years. When I release it, she transforms.

"More—more—I've been waiting my whole life for—"

I give her what she's been waiting for.

Night Four: Zainab

The youngest. The fiercest.

She doesn't wait to be worshipped. She takes.

"I've watched my sisters have you for three nights." She pushes me onto the bed. "Now it's my turn."

She rides me like she's claiming territory. At forty-seven, she's the firmest, the hungriest, the most aggressive. She comes three times before she lets me flip her over and take control.

"You're good," she gasps. "Better than I expected."

"Then maybe you should choose me."

"Maybe you should choose me."

The fifth morning.

I sit before all four of them. They wait.

"You're asking me to marry one of you," I say. "To choose. To divide this family."

"That's what the will requires," Fatima says.

"The will requires a marriage. It doesn't specify terms." I look at each of them in turn. "What if I don't choose?"

"Then the mosque gets everything."

"What if I choose all of you?"

Silence.

"What?" Khadija whispers.

"Traditional households here have multiple wives. Why can't I have multiple aunts?" I lean forward. "We marry—all four. The inheritance stays in the family. We run it together. Everyone wins."

"That's—"

"Insane?"

"I was going to say brilliant." Zainab's smile is slow. "Four wives means four shares. Four claims. No fighting."

"And four women in one bed?" Amina raises an eyebrow.

"If you're willing."

They debate.

For hours. The religious implications (Khadija), the practical challenges (Amina), the questions of seniority (Fatima), the possibilities (Zainab).

Finally, they reach consensus.

"We agree," Fatima announces. "But with conditions."

"Name them."

"Equal treatment. Each of us, every week. Rotating schedule."

"Fair."

"And once a month," Zainab adds, "all four together. A family affair."

I look at my four aunts. Four thick, beautiful, hungry women, all willing to share me.

"Agreed."

The wedding is the scandal of Lamu.

A man marrying four aunts. The imam almost refuses. The paperwork takes months. The community whispers for years.

But the inheritance transfers. The empire survives. And in the old family compound, four women find happiness they never expected.

The monthly nights are the best.

All four on one bed. Passing me between them. Competing, cooperating, showing each other what they've learned. Fatima's newfound passion. Amina's calculated pleasure. Khadija's religious guilt turned to ecstasy. Zainab's fierce possession.

I'm the luckiest man in Lamu.

I'm also the most exhausted.

But when I lie surrounded by them—four aunts, four wives, four claims on my body—I think about my grandfather's will.

He wanted the inheritance kept in the family.

I don't think he imagined how I'd keep it.

But wherever he is, I hope he's proud.

Urithi.

Inheritance.

Claimed in full.

By all of us.