Kibanda cha Pwani

The beach villa is hidden.

Private road, private beach, private everything. Mama Zuhra owns the resort—a dozen cabanas scattered along the Malindi coast, each one isolated, each one discrete.

"You requested the most private unit," she says, unlocking my door. "This is it."

I requested private because I needed to work.

I stay private because of Mama Zuhra.

She's fifty-two years old.

Built the resort from nothing after her husband died. Ten years of work, ten years of catering to wealthy tourists who want privacy. She's thick in the way that successful women often become—prosperous, confident, substantial.

"Anything you need," she says, handing me the key, "you ask me directly. No staff will disturb you."

"No staff?"

"I handle the private villas personally." Her smile has layers. "Personal attention. Personal service. Very... personal."

The first day, she brings lunch.

Fresh fish, fruit, more food than I can eat. She sets it on my terrace table and lingers, watching the ocean.

"Beautiful, isn't it?"

"Very."

"Guests come here to escape." She turns to face me. "From work. From stress. From everything."

"That's why I came."

"And do you feel... escaped?"

"I'm getting there."

"Let me help you get there faster." She moves closer. "Tension needs release. I'm very good at release."

She doesn't wait for permission.

Crosses to where I'm sitting, straddles my lap, her thick thighs on either side of mine. Her dress rides up, revealing she's wearing nothing beneath.

"I own this resort," she says. "I make the rules. And my rule is that guests in private villas receive... comprehensive service."

"What does comprehensive mean?"

"It means everything." She reaches for my shirt. "Everything you need. Everything you want. Everything you've been missing."

I take the resort owner on my terrace.

The ocean crashing below, the palm trees swaying, the whole Malindi coastline witness to her thick body bouncing on mine. She's loud—doesn't care about privacy when she's the one making noise.

"This is why I built this place—for this—"

"For fucking guests?"

"For living." She comes on me, shaking. "For feeling alive. My husband died and I decided—never again will I wait for pleasure. Never again will I deny myself."

She returns at sunset.

Dinner this time. More food, more wine, more of her body on my terrace while the sun paints the ocean gold.

"Twice in one day—" I gasp.

"You're on vacation." She rides me harder. "I'm on a mission."

"What mission?"

"To make sure every guest leaves satisfied." She comes again. "Very satisfied."

The midnight visit is the most intense.

She arrives naked, wrapped only in a kanga, the moonlight through my windows catching every curve. She doesn't speak—just climbs onto my bed and takes what she wants.

"Three times—"

"We're just getting started." She's insatiable in a way that suggests years of practice. "You're here for a week. I intend to make use of every night."

The week becomes a marathon.

Every meal delivered personally. Every delivery ending in the bedroom. Morning, noon, night—Mama Zuhra appears when she wants to, takes what she needs, leaves me exhausted and emptied.

"You're trying to kill me—"

"I'm trying to perfect you." She's riding me on the private beach, sand beneath us, waves lapping at our feet. "By the time you leave, you'll be ruined for other women."

"Why would you want that?"

"Because then you'll come back." She clenches around me. "They always come back. This resort doesn't survive on new guests. It survives on repeat customers."

"I have other guests," she tells me on day five.

"Other private villas?"

"Three others. Currently occupied." She's on top of me, as usual. "They also receive personal service."

"So I'm not special?"

"You're all special." She leans down, kisses me. "But you're my favorite this week. I rotate favorites. Keeps things interesting."

"Interesting for who?"

"For me." She starts moving again. "This is my resort. My rules. My pleasures. The guests are here to serve my needs as much as their own."

The last night, she brings another owner.

"This is Khadija," she says. "She owns the resort next door. We have an arrangement."

Khadija is fifty-eight, even thicker than Mama Zuhra, with gray in her hair and hunger in her eyes.

"Zuhra says you're exceptional," Khadija says, already undressing. "I had to verify."

"Verify how?"

"By sampling." She climbs onto the bed beside Mama Zuhra. "We share quality guests. It's good business."

The resort owners take me together.

Competing, collaborating, their thick bodies pressing from both sides. They have a rhythm—years of practice—and they use me like a shared resource.

"Our resorts are connected by this beach—" Mama Zuhra gasps.

"And by our guests—" Khadija adds.

"The good ones circulate—back and forth—serving us both—"

I've been to Malindi four times now.

Each time, I stay at Mama Zuhra's. Each time, she services me completely. And each time, at least once, Khadija joins us—or I join Khadija at her resort, or we all meet on the private beach between.

"You should invest," Mama Zuhra says one visit.

"Invest?"

"Become a partner." She's riding me in her private office. "Own a piece of this. Live here. Be... available."

"Available for what?"

"For me." She comes, shaking. "For Khadija. For whoever else we bring in as partners. A consortium of resorts. A network of pleasures."

"That's a business proposal?"

"It's a life proposal." She leans down, kisses me deeply. "Say yes. Never leave. Let us take care of you forever."

I said yes.

My villa is permanent now. My business runs remotely. And every day, one of the resort owners comes to visit—Mama Zuhra most often, but Khadija too, and lately a third owner they've recruited from Zanzibar.

"Welcome to the consortium," Mama Zuhra says.

"What are my duties?"

"Be available. Be ready. Be ours." She climbs on top of me. "And never, ever disappoint us."

I never do.

The private villas of Malindi have become my permanent address.

And I've never been more at home.