Mother and Daughter

Farida meets me at the airport with a kiss that promises everything.

"Welcome to Dar," she whispers against my mouth. "Mama can't wait to meet you."

I've been dating Farida for six months—long distance, Nairobi to Dar es Salaam, stolen weekends and endless video calls. She's twenty-eight, beautiful, thick in all the ways I love. We met at a conference, and I've been obsessed ever since.

Now I'm finally meeting her mother.

God help me.

Mama Rehema is Farida in twenty-five years.

That's my first thought when she opens the door. Same wide hips. Same heavy breasts. Same warm brown skin. But more—more weight, more curves, more presence. She must be two-seventy, maybe more, filling the doorway like a queen receiving a subject.

"So this is the man who's been stealing my daughter's attention." She looks me up and down. "Handsome. But too skinny. We'll fix that."

"Mama!" Farida protests.

"What? I speak the truth." She pulls me into a hug, and I'm engulfed—soft flesh everywhere, the smell of sandalwood and cooking spices. "Welcome, Hamisi. Our home is your home."

Our home. I'm staying here for a week. In the same house as this woman.

I'm not going to survive.

The first two days are torture.

Farida and I share a room—her childhood bedroom, narrow bed, creaking springs—but we can't do anything. Not with Mama Rehema right next door. Not with these thin walls.

"She'll hear," Farida whispers when I try to touch her.

"Then we'll be quiet."

"You've never been quiet with me."

She's right. She's annoyingly right.

So I lie awake, hard and frustrated, listening to Mama Rehema's bedtime prayers through the wall.

Day three.

Farida goes to work—she couldn't take the whole week off—and I'm left alone with her mother.

"Breakfast?" Mama Rehema asks.

We eat together. Mandazi and chai, just like at home. But here, she's wearing a thin house dress that shows everything—the swell of her breasts, the round of her belly, the shadow of her nipples through the fabric.

I try not to stare.

"You're looking," she says.

"I'm sorry—I didn't mean—"

"Relax. I'm not offended." She sips her chai. "I've seen you watching me. Since you arrived."

My blood freezes. "Mama Rehema—"

"My daughter told me about you. About your... preferences." Her eyes meet mine. "She says you like big women. Really like them. That you worship her body in ways her previous boyfriends never did."

"She told you that?"

"She tells me everything. We're close." She sets down her cup. "She also told me you stare at me when you think no one's watching. That you get hard when I hug you. That last night, you said my name in your sleep."

I want to die. I want the floor to open up and—

"I'm not angry," she says softly. "I'm... curious."

"Curious?"

"My husband died when Farida was twelve. Fifteen years, Hamisi. Fifteen years of being alone, of watching my body grow, of thinking no one would ever want me again." She stands, moves around the table. "And then you come into my house, and you look at me like I'm something precious. Something desirable."

"You are."

"Show me."

I should say no.

This is Farida's mother. Farida, who I love, who I flew across the country to see. This is betrayal. This is wrong.

But Mama Rehema is standing in front of me, pulling that thin dress over her head, and I'm only human.

"Bismillah."

She's naked underneath. Massive breasts, hanging heavy. A belly that rounds forward like a promise. Thighs that press together, leading to a darkness I can see glistening.

"Touch me," she commands. "Before I lose my nerve."

I worship her like I worship Farida.

Maybe more. She's older, softer, more. My hands find curves that don't end. My mouth finds places that make her gasp. When I drop to my knees and spread her thighs, she cries out like she's never been touched there before.

"Hamisi—ya Allah—"

I eat her on the kitchen table. Make her come twice before she begs me to stop.

"Inside me—please—I need to feel—"

I take her right there. Her back on the table, her legs around my waist, her screams echoing off the walls.

She's tighter than Farida. Fifteen years of nothing will do that.

"Yes—na'am—don't stop—never stop—"

I come inside my girlfriend's mother while she sobs my name.

After, the guilt hits.

"We can't tell Farida," I say.

"Obviously."

"This can never happen again."

"Obviously."

We look at each other.

"Tonight," she says. "After she sleeps. My room."

"This can never happen again."

"One more time. Then never."

I nod. Because I'm weak. Because I want her. Because I'm already damned.

The door opens.

We freeze. Mama Rehema is still naked. I'm still inside her. And Farida is standing in the kitchen doorway, home early from work.

"Mama? Hamisi? What are you—"

She sees.

She sees.

I expect screaming. Tears. Violence.

Instead, she closes the door behind her.

"You started without me?"

I don't understand.

"Started—what do you mean—"

"Mama called me this morning." Farida moves closer, and she's smiling. "She told me how you look at her. How you said her name in your sleep. We talked about what to do."

"You planned this?"

"We planned to see if you wanted us both." She reaches her mother, and Mama Rehema pulls her close—mother and daughter, standing together, looking at me with identical hunger. "Do you, Hamisi? Want us both?"

I'm still inside Mama Rehema. My cock hasn't softened at all.

"Yes."

Farida starts to undress.

They're the same but different.

Farida at two-twenty, Mama Rehema at two-seventy. The daughter tighter, the mother softer. The same dark skin, the same wide hips, the same heavy breasts.

And they want to share me.

"Mama first," Farida says. "You already started. Finish."

She sits in a chair. Watches. Her hand slides between her thighs.

I fuck her mother while she touches herself.

"My turn."

Mama Rehema slides off me, satisfied, and Farida takes her place. She's wetter than I've ever felt her—watching has done something.

"Did you like it?" she gasps as I fill her. "Watching you fuck her?"

"Yes—God help me—yes—"

"Good. Because this is just the beginning."

Behind us, Mama Rehema recovers. Moves to the table. And when Farida's moans reach a peak, her mother leans in and kisses her.

I nearly come on the spot.

They pass me between them.

Mother and daughter, taking turns. Sometimes I'm in one while I finger the other. Sometimes they're both on their knees, mouths sharing my cock. Sometimes they're pressed together, kissing, while I take them from behind in turns.

It's the most forbidden thing I've ever done.

It's perfect.

"Stay," Farida says afterward.

We're in a pile—me, her, Mama Rehema, tangled on the master bed. I can't tell whose limbs are whose.

"Move here. Live with us." Her mother's voice. "We'll share you. No jealousy. No secrets."

"That's—"

"Crazy? Haram?" Farida laughs. "Probably. Do you care?"

I think about it. A life with these two women. Mother and daughter, both mine, both wanting me.

"No. I don't care."

I move to Dar es Salaam a month later.

To the neighbors, I'm Farida's devoted boyfriend, helping around her mother's house. They see me carry groceries, fix the roof, sit with both women on the veranda.

They don't see what happens at night.

They don't see me moving between their bedrooms—or both of them in mine.

They don't see the mother-daughter duo, bent over the same bed, taking me in turns while they hold hands.

Some families are close.

Some are closer.

And some hospitality goes far beyond chai and mandazi.

Karibu.

Welcome, indeed.