Kitchener-Waterloo Professor
"She teaches African Studies at Wilfrid Laurier—a thick ebony Somali widow with two PhDs. When he audits her class, she offers office hours. Some education happens behind closed doors."
Dr. Amina Osman is Laurier's star professor.
Two PhDs—history and anthropology. Published author. The foremost expert on Somali diaspora studies in Canada. Her lectures fill auditoriums.
I audit her class on a whim.
"You're not a student." She notices me after the first lecture. Fifty-three years old. Two hundred and forty pounds of academic authority. Ebony skin, professional attire, the confidence of someone who's mastered her field.
"Community audit. Continuing education."
"Mashallah." She's intrigued. "Why Somali diaspora studies?"
"I want to understand where I come from."
"Then you've come to the right place."
Her lectures are transformative.
History I never learned. Context I never had. She makes the Somali experience academic and personal simultaneously.
"You take notes like you're preparing for an exam," she observes.
"I don't want to miss anything."
"There's a book." She hands me her latest publication. "Read this. Come to office hours. We'll discuss."
Office hours become routine.
What starts as academic conversation becomes something deeper. She talks about her research, her journey, her life.
"Why did you become a professor?"
"My husband was one. We met at Oxford, debated everything, fell in love." She traces her wedding ring. "He died seven years ago. Stroke at his desk."
"So you became him?"
"I became me. The version of me he always believed in." She looks at her books. "Teaching is how I keep his voice alive."
"You're not just auditing anymore."
We've been meeting for months. The course ended. I keep coming.
"I have more questions."
"About Somali studies?"
"About you." I meet her eyes. "Your work, your life, your—"
"My what?"
"Your loneliness. I recognize it."
She removes her glasses.
"Ilaahay. A student psychoanalyzing the professor."
"I'm not your student."
"No. You're something else entirely."
"Come to my office after five."
The building is empty. Her door is locked.
"I've spent seven years being Dr. Osman. The professor. The expert." She paces. "No one asks about Amina. The woman."
"I'm asking."
"What do you want to know?"
"Everything."
I worship the professor.
In her office full of books and degrees. Her body is her unwritten chapter—ebony curves, heavy breasts, soft belly.
"Seven years—" She gasps as I undress her. "I've lectured everyone—"
"Tonight I teach you."
I lay her on her desk.
Among academic papers and awards. Her body is the most important text.
I spread her thick thighs.
Study her thoroughly.
"ILAAHAY!"
She screams—seven years of academic isolation breaking. Her hands grip my head.
"Don't stop—" She's shaking. "Dhakhso—"
I research her pleasure until she publishes three times.
"Inside me—" She's pulling at me. "Ku soo gal—cite yourself in me—"
I strip. She watches with those scholarly eyes.
"Subhanallah—"
"Primary source."
I push inside the professor.
She screams.
"So full—" Her legs wrap around me. "Don't stop—"
I give her a full lecture.
Her massive body shakes among the books. She comes twice more.
"Ku shub—" She's begging. "Complete the thesis—"
I conclude inside her.
We lie on her academic desk.
"This is highly inappropriate," she murmurs.
"Peer reviewed?"
"Waas." She laughs. "Perhaps an ongoing study."
One Year Later
Dr. Osman is writing a new book.
About love. About late-life connection. About me.
"Macaan," she moans in her office. "My favorite subject."
The professor who knows everything.
The woman still learning love.
Graduate studies.