Mke wa Kaka
"His older brother works offshore oil rigs—gone for months. His thick Swahili wife is left alone. The repairs become visits. The visits become everything."
My brother calls once a week.
Saturdays, if the satellite connection holds. He asks about the family, about business, about whether I've found a wife yet. He never asks about Zuhura.
Zuhura—his wife of six years. Zuhura—who he leaves alone for months while he works the oil platforms off the Tanzanian coast. Zuhura—who sits in their Mombasa apartment, thick and lonely and increasingly present in my thoughts.
"The shower is leaking again," she tells me one Thursday evening. "Can you come look at it?"
I can look at it.
I can look at everything.
Zuhura is thirty-four.
My brother married her when she was twenty-eight—a late marriage by Swahili standards, but she was worth waiting for. Dark skin smooth as silk. Eyes that hold secrets. And a body that my brother clearly doesn't appreciate.
She's thick.
Not the kind of thick that apologizes for itself. The kind that fills doorways, that strains fabrics, that makes men forget what they were saying. Her breasts are heavy, her hips are wide, her ass is legendary among my brother's friends—though none dare mention it to him.
When I arrive at her apartment, she's wearing a house dress that hides nothing. Thin cotton. No bra. The shadow of her nipples visible through the fabric.
"The bathroom is this way," she says.
I know where the bathroom is.
I've been here before.
The shower head drips steadily.
I tighten it. Check the seals. It's a five-minute fix that I stretch to twenty while Zuhura stands in the doorway, watching.
"Hassan never fixes things," she says. "He says that's what maintenance is for."
"Maintenance takes weeks."
"I know." She steps closer. The bathroom is small. Her body fills the space. "You always come when I call."
"You're family."
"Am I?" She's close enough now that I can smell her—jasmine oil and something warmer beneath. "Is that what this is? Family obligation?"
"Zuhura—"
"I see how you look at me." Her hand finds my arm. "When you come for dinner. When you pass me in the corridor. When you think I don't notice."
"You're my brother's wife."
"Your brother's wife." She laughs, but there's no humor in it. "Your brother is on an oil rig six hundred kilometers offshore. He calls once a week for ten minutes. He comes home for one month every four. And when he's here—"
She stops.
"When he's here, what?"
"He's tired. Always tired. Works himself unconscious during the day, falls asleep the moment he touches the bed." Her hand slides up my arm. "Do you know how long it's been since someone touched me? Really touched me?"
"Zuhura—"
"Two years." Her voice cracks. "Two years since my husband made love to me. Two years since anyone looked at me like I was worth desiring."
"You are worth desiring."
"Then prove it."
She kisses me.
Her lips are soft, desperate, tasting like tea and loneliness. Her thick body presses against mine, and I feel everything—her breasts against my chest, her belly against mine, her hips pushing me back against the bathroom sink.
"We can't—" I manage between kisses.
"We can." She's pulling at my shirt. "We can and we will. Hassan doesn't want me. You do. Why should both of us suffer for his neglect?"
"He's my brother—"
"And you're a man who wants me." She gets my shirt off, runs her hands over my chest. "Stop pretending, Karim. Stop acting like this isn't what you came here for."
She's right.
I've been coming for months. Every repair request, every dinner invitation, every excuse to be near her. I told myself it was family duty. I lied.
"The bedroom," I say.
She smiles.
"Finally."
She undresses slowly.
The house dress comes off first, revealing a body that takes my breath away. Her breasts are massive—heavy, dark-nippled, swaying as she moves. Her belly is round and soft, stretch marks tracing silver patterns. Her hips flare wide, her thighs are thick and powerful, and the dark thatch between them is already glistening.
"Touch me," she commands. "Touch me like he never does."
I cross the room.
My hands find her waist—soft, yielding, overflowing my grip. I pull her close, feel her breasts press against me, her belly warm against my stomach.
"Karim—"
I silence her with a kiss.
Then I pick her up—all two-sixty of her—and carry her to my brother's bed.
I worship her.
My mouth on her neck, her collarbone, the heavy swell of her breasts. I suck her nipples while she moans, while she grabs my head and pulls me closer.
"Yes—like that—he never—"
I kiss down her belly. Every fold. Every stretch mark. Every inch of flesh my brother takes for granted. She's trembling by the time I reach her thighs.
"Please—"
I part her thick thighs and lower my mouth to her pussy.
She screams.
She tastes like salt and honey.
I lick her slowly, finding every sensitive spot, learning the rhythms that make her gasp. Her thick thighs clamp around my head. Her hands grip the sheets of my brother's bed.
"Right there—don't stop—"
I don't stop.
I eat her like I've imagined for months. Deep strokes, soft flicks, circling her clit until she's bucking against my face. She comes hard—flooding my mouth, screaming my name—but I push through it, driving her toward the next one.
"Too much—I can't—"
"You can." I climb up her body. "And you will."
I enter her in one thrust.
She's tighter than I expected.
Wet, hot, gripping me like she's afraid I'll disappear. Her legs wrap around my waist, pulling me deeper into my brother's wife, into the forbidden heat of her.
"Ya Allah—you're so—"
I start to move.
Slow at first. Savoring. Her breasts bounce gently, her belly ripples, her whole body responds to every stroke.
"Faster—please—"
I give her faster.
The bed slams against the wall—my brother's wall, in my brother's apartment. She's crying out with every thrust, her thick body shaking beneath me.
"Harder—I need—"
I grab her hips and let go.
I fuck my brother's wife while he sleeps six hundred kilometers away. I make her scream his name, then my name, then just wordless cries of pleasure. She comes three times before I feel myself getting close.
"Inside me—" She pulls me deeper. "Give me what he can't—"
I explode.
Fill her with everything while she screams through one final orgasm. Pump into her until I'm empty, until I collapse onto her soft body, until we're both gasping in my brother's bed.
We lie there for a long time.
Her thick arm across my chest. My head on her shoulder. The sheets tangled around us, soaked with evidence of what we've done.
"He calls on Saturdays," she finally says.
"I know."
"Don't answer."
"Why not?"
"Because I want you here." She shifts, throws a thick leg over mine. "Every Saturday. While he tells us about the platform and the weather and how hard he's working. I want you inside me while I listen to his voice."
"That's—"
"Wrong?" She laughs. "He abandoned me, Karim. Six years of marriage, and he's spent four of them on that platform. I tried to be patient. I tried to be the dutiful wife. But I'm done waiting."
"What are you saying?"
"I'm saying that you're mine now." She pulls me on top of her. "Whenever you want. However you want. My husband can have the phone calls. You can have everything else."
Saturday comes.
The phone rings at exactly 4 PM—Hassan is nothing if not punctual. Zuhura answers while I'm inside her, her thick legs wrapped around my waist, my cock buried deep.
"Hello, husband." Her voice is steady, betraying nothing. "Yes, I'm well. And you?"
I thrust slowly.
She bites her lip.
"The apartment is fine. Your brother fixed the shower."
I thrust harder.
Her eyes flutter.
"Yes, he's very helpful. Very... thorough."
I find her clit with my thumb.
She almost breaks—almost moans—but recovers.
"I miss you too, husband. Come home soon."
She hangs up.
Throws the phone across the room.
Grabs my ass with both hands.
"Now," she commands. "Make me forget I was ever his wife."
I obey.
Hassan comes home one month later.
I'm at the family dinner, playing the dutiful brother. Zuhura is the perfect wife—modest, attentive, invisible. No one suspects.
But under the table, her foot finds my leg.
And later, when Hassan falls asleep on the couch—exhausted from travel, just like she said—she leads me to the spare bedroom.
"Quiet," she whispers. "He's a heavy sleeper. But not that heavy."
We fuck in silence.
Her hand over her mouth. My thrusts slow and deep. The springs barely creaking as I take her while my brother snores in the next room.
She comes without making a sound.
I fill her without making a sound.
And when I leave, I kiss her at the door—a family goodbye, chaste and appropriate.
"Same time tomorrow?" she breathes.
"Same time tomorrow."
My brother is home for a month.
It's going to be a very long month.
In all the best ways.