Meher Macaan
"Meher is the bridal payment in Somali weddings. His friend's mother—a thick Somali widow—jokes that he should pay her meher someday. When he shows up at her door with gold, she realizes he wasn't joking. Some traditions can be reinvented."
The joke started at my best friend's wedding.
His mother—Saynab—was explaining the meher to the American guests. The bridal payment. The gold and money that a groom gives to secure his bride.
"Back home, my meher was twenty camels," she laughed. "Now I'd settle for a nice dinner."
"I'd give you a hundred camels," I said.
Everyone laughed.
But Saynab looked at me differently after that.
Yusuf's wedding was beautiful.
Traditional Somali ceremony in Minneapolis, five hundred guests, enough food to feed twice that. His new wife was everything he'd wanted—young, thin, from a good family.
But I spent the whole night watching his mother.
Saynab is forty-nine years old. A widow—her husband died of a heart attack when Yusuf was fifteen. She'd raised him alone, worked two jobs, never remarried.
She's also thick.
Two hundred and forty pounds of Somali woman, dressed in a purple dirac that strained against every curve. When she danced—the traditional wedding dances—her whole body moved. Hips swaying. Breasts bouncing. Every Somali grandmother's nightmare.
"Stop staring at my mom, bro." Yusuf appeared beside me, grinning.
"I wasn't—"
"You were. You've been staring all night." He shrugged. "She's been alone a long time. Maybe she needs someone to stare."
I didn't know what to say to that.
Three months later, I knock on her door.
I'm holding a jewelry box.
"Warya!" She opens the door, surprised. "What are you doing here?"
"I brought your meher."
"My what?"
I open the box.
Gold. A necklace. The most expensive thing I've ever bought.
"You said you'd settle for a nice dinner." I meet her eyes. "I thought I'd do better than that."
She stares at the gold.
Stares at me.
"Come inside."
Her apartment is small but clean.
Photos of Yusuf on the walls. A prayer rug by the window. The smell of uunsi burning somewhere.
"This is xaaraan," she says, still holding the box. "You're my son's friend."
"I know."
"You're half my age."
"I know."
"Why?" She looks at me with something desperate in her eyes. "Why me? You could have any young girl—"
"I don't want young girls." I step closer. "I want you. I've wanted you since the wedding. Since before that."
"Wallahi?"
"Wallahi."
She sets down the box.
"I accept your meher."
She kisses me.
Soft at first. Hesitant. Then hungry—nine years of widowhood pouring through her lips.
"Macaan," she whispers against my mouth. "My sweet boy."
"Show me what I'm buying."
She laughs. Reaches for her zipper.
"You're buying a lot."
Her dirac falls.
Underneath, she wears plain cotton—white bra straining against massive breasts, white panties stretched across wide hips. Nine years alone haven't diminished anything.
"I'm fat," she says. "I'm old. I'm your best friend's mother."
"You're beautiful."
I unclasp her bra.
Her breasts spill free.
Heavy. Soft. Brown flesh with nipples dark as chocolate. I cup them, feel their weight, and she moans.
"No one has touched me," she gasps. "Nine years. Not since—"
"Let me touch you."
I pull her to the couch.
I worship her the way a meher deserves.
My mouth traces down her body—throat, breasts, belly. I pull off her panties. Her thighs are thick and warm. Between them, dark curls glistening.
"Warya—what are you—"
My tongue finds her clit.
She screams.
"ILAAHAY—" Her hands grab my hair. "No one has ever—my husband never—"
I lick her slowly. Learn her. Nine years she's been waiting, and I taste every one of them.
"Haa—haa—don't stop—ha joogin—"
I slide two fingers inside her. Tight. Wet. I curl them upward.
"Coming—" She's shaking. "Nine years and now—ALLA—"
She explodes.
Her thighs clamp around my head. She screams—loud enough for the neighbors to hear. I don't stop.
I give her another one.
"Inside me—" She's pulling at my shoulders. "Ku soo gal—please—"
I stand.
Strip.
Her eyes widen at my cock.
"Subhanallah." She wraps her hand around me. "My husband was nothing like this."
"I'm not your husband."
"Maya." She strokes me. "You're my meher."
I push her onto her back.
I spread her thick thighs.
Position myself.
"Ready?"
"I've been ready for nine years."
I thrust inside.
She screams.
Her walls stretch around me—tight, hot, wet. Nine years of nothing make her grip me like she never wants to let go.
"Alla—so big—you're filling me—dhammaan—"
I start to move.
I fuck my best friend's mother.
Her massive body bounces beneath me. Her breasts roll with every thrust. She screams with abandon—nine years of silence shattering.
"Dhakhso—faster—" She wraps her legs around me. "Give me everything—"
I pound her.
The couch slides across the floor. She screams and screams, coming again and again.
"Inside me—" She's begging. "Ku shub—I need it—"
I let go.
I flood her.
Pump her full while she shakes and moans. When I'm empty, I collapse onto her soft body.
"Macaan," she whispers. "Worth more than a hundred camels."
"Is the meher accepted?"
"Accepted and paid." She pulls me for a kiss. "But this isn't a one-time purchase. You understand that?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean you come back. Tomorrow. Next week. Every chance you get." Her hand finds my cock, already stirring. "You bought me, warya. Now you use me."
"And Yusuf?"
"Yusuf has his wife. He doesn't need to know about ours."
One Year Later
Yusuf calls me his mother's "helper."
The young man who checks in on her, fixes things around the apartment, makes sure she's not lonely.
He has no idea how I help.
How I check in every night after he goes to bed.
How I fix her loneliness with my body.
"Macaan," she moans every time, as I take her. "My meher. My sweet boy."
Traditional Somali marriages require witnesses.
Ours has none.
Some traditions are better reinvented.