Kismaayo Nights
"Kismaayo is the port city of southern Somalia. When he visits on business, the thick widow who runs his hotel offers special hospitality. The Jubba River flows nearby, and she knows all the currents—including the ones that pull them together."
Kismaayo smells like the sea and possibility.
The port city at the mouth of the Jubba River, slowly rebuilding after years of al-Shabaab control. My company is one of the first to do business here—risky, but the potential is enormous.
My hotel is run by Nuurto.
Forty-eight years old. A widow—her husband was killed in the fighting five years ago. She survived by opening her family home to travelers, building a reputation for safety in an unsafe city.
She's thick.
Two hundred and thirty pounds of coastal resilience. Wide hips that carry the weight of survival. Heavy breasts beneath her modest dress. A face that's seen war and chosen to keep smiling.
"Soo dhawow to Kismaayo," she says when I arrive. "You're brave to come here."
"Business requires courage."
"Business requires foolishness." She laughs. "But I'm glad for it. The room is ready."
The hotel is her home.
Five guest rooms, each one carefully maintained. She cooks every meal herself. Traditional Somali food with a coastal twist—fish instead of goat, coconut rice instead of plain.
"You eat like a man who's been hungry," she observes, watching me devour dinner.
"Your cooking is incredible."
"Mahadsnid." She sits across from me. "My husband used to say the same thing. Before..."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. This is Somalia. Everyone has lost someone." She looks at me. "What matters is what we do with the time we have left."
"What do you do?"
"I survive. I feed travelers. I watch the river flow." She stands. "Would you like to see it? The Jubba at night is beautiful."
The river glitters under the moon.
We sit on her rooftop, the water visible in the distance. The city is quiet—curfews still in effect, security still a concern.
"I miss my husband," she says suddenly. "Not him specifically—he was a difficult man. But the company. The warmth at night."
"Five years is a long time alone."
"Haa." She looks at me. "And you? Is there someone in America?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"I'm always traveling. Always working. No time for—"
"For connection?" She moves closer. "For touch?"
"Haa."
"Then we're both hungry." She takes my hand. "For different things, maybe. But hungry."
"Nuurto—"
"Aammus." She silences me with a kiss.
I carry her to her room.
She's heavy, but I don't care. She weighs less than the loneliness I've been carrying.
Her bedroom is simple. A bed. A window facing the river. The sound of water in the distance.
"I haven't done this since he died," she confesses as I undress her.
"We'll go slow."
"Maya." She grips my shirt. "We'll go fast. I've been slow for five years."
Her body is thick and warm.
Heavy breasts. Soft belly marked with the evidence of war-time survival. Wide hips. Strong thighs.
"I know I'm not—"
"You're perfect."
I push her onto the bed.
I worship the hotel owner.
My mouth traces her body—every survival line.
"No one has—" She gasps as I spread her thighs. "Since my husband—"
I bury my face between her thighs.
She screams.
The sound carries over the river.
"ILAAHAY!" Her hands grab my hair. "Five years—ALLA—"
I lick her slowly. She tastes like the sea.
"Coming—" She's shaking. "I'm coming—ALLA—"
She explodes.
"Inside me—" She's pulling at me. "Ku soo gal—please—"
I strip.
Her eyes widen at my cock.
"Subhanallah." She wraps her hand around me. "My husband was never—"
"I'm not your husband."
I position myself.
I spread her thick thighs.
"Ready?"
"Haa."
I thrust inside.
She screams.
Her walls grip me—tight, wet, five years tight.
"Alla—so big—you're filling me—dhammaan—"
I start to move.
I fuck the hotel owner.
While the Jubba River flows. Her massive body bounces beneath me.
"Dhakhso—faster—" She wraps her legs around me. "Give me everything—"
I pound her.
The bed slams against the wall. She screams and screams.
"Coming—" Her eyes roll back. "Ku shub—fill me—"
I let go.
I flood Nuurto.
Fill her where five years of emptiness lived. She moans as she feels it.
We lie tangled together, the river flowing in the distance.
"Macaan," she breathes. "Best guest I've ever had."
"I'll need to extend my stay."
"Business?"
"Hospitality." I kiss her. "I've found a hotel I never want to leave."
One Year Later
Kismaayo is growing.
My company's investment is paying off. I travel there monthly now.
Always to the same hotel.
"Macaan," Nuurto moans, as I take her. "My best room is always reserved."
The Jubba flows eternal.
So does what we've found.