Mississauga Grocery Store
"She owns the biggest Somali grocery in Mississauga—a thick ebony widow who supplies half of Ontario. When he starts wholesale buying for his restaurant, she offers special deals. Some negotiations happen in the back room."
Tawakal Foods is the Somali Costco of Ontario.
Wholesale quantities, warehouse prices, everything shipped from Somalia, Kenya, and Dubai. Bilaal—the founder—died five years ago. His wife Hawo runs it now.
I need supplies for my restaurant.
"New business?" She reviews my order. Fifty-four years old. Two hundred and fifty pounds of wholesale authority. Ebony skin, store apron, calculator always in hand. "Bulk rice, bulk spices, bulk meat—this is serious."
"I'm serious about my restaurant."
"Mashallah." She calculates. "I'll give you wholesale rates. But you buy exclusively from me."
"Deal."
She becomes my supplier.
Every week, I'm at Tawakal loading my truck. Every week, she helps me choose the best products.
"This rice is better," she says, switching my order. "Same price, better quality."
"Why tell me? More expensive rice means more profit for you."
"Repeat customers are more valuable than quick profits." She meets my eyes. "My husband taught me that. Twenty-five years of business together."
"He sounds smart."
"He was. And I was his star student."
The restaurant takes off.
Lines out the door, reviews that glow, success I never expected. And through it all, Hawo supplies me.
"You're my best customer," she says one delivery day.
"You're my secret weapon."
"Waas." But she's pleased. "I'm just a grocery lady."
"You're the foundation of everything I've built."
She looks at me differently after that.
"Five years since my husband."
We're in her office after hours. The warehouse is quiet.
"Five years of running this alone. Suppliers think they can cheat me. Competitors think they can outlast me. Everyone thinks a widow can't handle business."
"They're wrong."
"They are." She stands. "But being right is exhausting. Fighting is exhausting. Coming home to an empty house is exhausting."
"Then don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't go home to an empty house." I stand too. "Come home to me."
I worship the grocery queen.
In her warehouse office surrounded by inventory. Her body is abundance—ebony curves, heavy breasts, soft belly.
"Five years—" She gasps as I undress her. "Business, business, business—"
"Tonight is pleasure."
I lay her on her desk.
Where she manages millions in product. Her body is the most valuable inventory.
I spread her thick thighs.
Wholesale my devotion.
"ILAAHAY!"
She screams—five years of business-only breaking. Her hands grip my head.
"Don't stop—" She's shaking. "Dhakhso—"
I supply her needs until she's overstocked. Three times.
"Inside me—" She's pulling at me. "Ku soo gal—deliver inside me—"
I strip. She watches with those business eyes.
"Subhanallah—"
"Premium goods."
I push inside the grocery owner.
She screams.
"So full—" Her legs wrap around me. "Don't stop—"
I deliver in full.
Her massive body shakes. She comes twice more.
"Ku shub—" She's begging. "Complete the shipment—"
I release inside her.
We lie in her office.
"My restaurant is closed Mondays," I tell her.
"My warehouse is closed Sundays."
"Then we have time."
"Haa." She smiles. "We have time."
One Year Later
Tawakal Foods supplies restaurants across Ontario.
And Hawo supplies my heart.
"Macaan," she moans. "My best deal ever."
The grocery owner who feeds businesses.
The woman I fed with love.
Wholesale happiness.