Kismayo Charcoal Trader
"She trades charcoal in Kismayo—a thick ebony widow navigating the dangerous economy. When he comes investigating supply chains, she offers protection. Some protection becomes intimate."
Kismayo's port is complicated.
Charcoal exports—technically banned, practically essential. Ubah navigates both worlds, a trader who knows when to follow rules and when rules don't exist.
I come investigating supply chains.
"Journalist?" She looks me over carefully. Fifty-one years old. Two hundred and thirty-five pounds of survival instinct. Ebony skin, practical clothes, the wariness of someone who's survived Kismayo's chaos. "Dangerous profession here."
"I'm careful."
"Waas." She shakes her head. "Careful isn't enough. You need protection."
"Are you offering?"
"I'm considering."
She becomes my guide.
Through Kismayo's complicated economy—the official and unofficial, the legal and necessary. She knows everything, everyone.
"How do you survive this?" I ask.
"By being useful to everyone. Threatening to no one." She watches a shipment. "My husband was too ambitious. Al-Shabaab killed him in '12."
"And you stayed?"
"I had children to feed. You do what you must."
"You're different from other journalists."
We're sharing tea in her compound—secure, comfortable, a small fortress in an unsafe city.
"Most come for stories of war. You see the people behind the conflict."
"War is boring. People are interesting."
"Mashallah." She laughs. "Twelve years since someone called me interesting."
"You're more than interesting. You're remarkable."
"Come to my room."
Her compound at night. Safe inside, dangerous outside.
"You've been here three weeks," she says. "Watching me. Respecting me. Not many do both."
"You deserve both."
"Twelve years of widowhood." She touches my face. "Twelve years of being useful, never wanted."
"I want you."
I worship the charcoal trader.
In her fortified room while Kismayo sleeps restlessly. Her body is the real wealth—ebony curves, heavy breasts, survivor's belly.
"Twelve years—" She gasps as I undress her. "Labo iyo toban—"
"Tonight you're not trading. You're receiving."
I lay her on her safe bed.
In her safe room, in her unsafe city. Her body is worth protecting.
I spread her thick thighs.
Mine her resources.
"ILAAHAY!"
She screams—twelve years of survival finally finding reward. Her hands grip my head.
"Don't stop—" She's shaking. "Dhakhso—"
I trade pleasure until she's wealthy. Three times.
"Inside me—" She's pulling at me. "Ku soo gal—fill my reserves—"
I strip. She watches with those trader's eyes.
"Subhanallah—valuable goods."
"Black market special."
I push inside the charcoal trader.
She screams.
"So full—" Her legs wrap around me. "Don't stop—"
I export everything.
Her massive body shakes. She comes twice more.
"Fill me—" She's begging. "Complete the shipment—"
I release inside her.
We lie in her fortress.
"Your story," she whispers. "Will you tell the truth?"
"Which truth?"
"That we're not criminals. We're survivors."
"I'll tell your truth."
One Year Later
The article changed perceptions.
And I changed Ubah's life.
"Macaan," she moans in her compound. "My best protection."
The trader who navigates chaos.
The woman I navigate with love.
Safe harbor.