Jijiga Cross-Border Trader
"She trades across the Ethiopia-Somalia border—a thick ebony widow who navigates two countries. When he comes studying informal trade, she offers passage. Some borders are crossed intimately."
Jijiga straddles worlds.
Ethiopian Somalis living between borders, trading across lines drawn by colonizers. Sagal moves goods both ways—legal, necessary, essential.
I come studying cross-border commerce.
"Academic?" She loads a truck. Fifty-three years old. Two hundred and forty pounds of border knowledge. Ebony skin, practical clothes, the toughness of someone who's navigated checkpoints for decades. "What do you want to know?"
"How it works. The real economy."
"Mashallah." She finishes loading. "Then come with me. But don't ask questions at the checkpoints."
I travel with her.
Through Ethiopia, into Somalia, back again. Watching her negotiate, bribe, charm—whatever the situation demands.
"You're amazing," I tell her.
"I'm necessary." She counts inventory. "My husband started these routes. After he died, I became the route."
"How long ago?"
"Thirteen years. Border guards shot him. Wrong place, wrong time, wrong bribe."
"Thirteen years of this."
We're resting in a town between countries.
"Thirteen years of crossing lines that shouldn't exist. Feeding families on both sides." She watches the road. "The borders are colonial nonsense. The trade is ancient."
"You're keeping tradition alive."
"I'm keeping people fed." She looks at me. "Tradition is just the excuse."
"And yourself? Who feeds you?"
"Stay with me tonight."
Her home in Jijiga. Modest but secure.
"You've traveled with me for weeks," she says. "Seen everything. Respected everything."
"You've shown me another world."
"Let me show you one more." She touches my face. "Thirteen years of crossing borders. Never crossing into intimacy."
"Cross with me."
I worship the cross-border trader.
In her home between nations. Her body is territory itself—ebony curves, heavy breasts, powerful belly.
"Thirteen years—" She gasps as I undress her. "Saddex iyo toban—"
"Tonight we erase all borders."
I lay her on her bed.
Between Ethiopia and Somalia, between loneliness and love. Her body is the only country that matters.
I spread her thick thighs.
Cross into her.
"ILAAHAY!"
She screams—thirteen years of trading finally receiving. Her hands grip my head.
"Don't stop—" She's shaking. "Dhakhso—"
I navigate her checkpoints until she's cleared. Three times.
"Inside me—" She's pulling at me. "Ku soo gal—smuggle yourself in—"
I strip. She watches with those border eyes.
"Subhanallah—valuable cargo."
"Contraband."
I push inside the cross-border trader.
She screams.
"So full—" Her legs wrap around me. "Don't stop—"
I transport everything.
Her massive body shakes. She comes twice more.
"Fill me—" She's begging. "Complete the crossing—"
I release inside her.
We lie in her borderland home.
"Your study," she murmurs. "What will you tell them?"
"That borders are fiction. That women like you are the real economy."
"Wallahi?"
"Trade without borders. Love without limits."
One Year Later
My research changed understanding.
Informal trade—essential, not criminal.
"Macaan," Sagal moans between crossings. "My best cargo."
The trader who erases borders.
The woman I crossed into love with.
No borders.