Mpishi
"Madam travels for work three weeks every month. The thick live-in cook stays behind—cleaning, cooking, waiting. When the master is home alone, she serves more than food. Much more."
My wife travels for work.
Three weeks every month, she's somewhere else—Dubai, London, Johannesburg. Important meetings. Important deals. She's building an empire.
I'm building something too.
With the cook.
Amina has been our live-in cook for five years.
Fifty-one years old, widowed, no family to return to. She lives in the servant's quarters behind our Nairobi house. She cooks, cleans, maintains everything while my wife is away.
She's also thick.
Massively so. Heavy breasts that strain her uniform. Wide hips that make navigation through our narrow kitchen a performance. A belly that speaks of years of testing her own cooking.
For four years, I pretended not to notice.
In the fifth year, I stopped pretending.
It started with dinner.
My wife had just left for a three-week trip to Dubai. Amina served dinner as usual—exceptional, as always—but instead of returning to her quarters, she sat across from me.
"Sir seems lonely," she said.
"I'm fine."
"Sir is always fine." Her eyes held mine. "But fine is not happy. Fine is not satisfied."
"What are you suggesting?"
"I'm suggesting Madam is gone for three weeks." She stood, moved around the table. "And I'm here. Every night. Cooking for one is wasteful."
"Amina—"
"Just talk." She sat beside me, closer than any servant should. "Just company. Unless you want more."
I wanted more.
That night, she came to the master bedroom.
Knocked softly at midnight, wearing a thin nightgown, her thick body visible through the fabric.
"I couldn't sleep," she said. "Knowing you're alone."
"You're in the servant's quarters—"
"I'm in your house." She stepped inside. "I've been in your house for five years. Watching you. Wanting you. Waiting for courage."
"Amina, my wife—"
"Is in Dubai." She locked the door. "And I'm here."
She undressed in my marital bedroom.
The nightgown falling away, revealing everything I'd been pretending not to see. Her breasts were magnificent—heavy, dark, pendulous. Her belly cascaded in waves. Her hips were wider than my wife's entire body.
"This is what I am," she said. "Old. Fat. Your servant. If you want me to leave—"
I crossed the room and took her in my arms.
I fucked the cook in my marriage bed.
Spread her across the sheets my wife had chosen, entered her in the space my wife occupied every night she was home. Amina was tight—five years of watching without touching had built something that exploded now.
"Ya Allah—finally—I've wanted this since I came here—"
I thrust deeper.
"Harder—give me what I've been dreaming—"
I gave her everything.
Pounded into her thick body while the bed shook, while she screamed, while somewhere far away my wife slept in a Dubai hotel, oblivious.
Three weeks of Amina.
Every night in my bed. Every morning waking to her thick body pressed against mine. Every meal served with a look that promised more.
"Madam returns tomorrow," she said on the last night.
"I know."
"This ends." She straddled me one last time. "Until she leaves again."
"And if she stays?"
"She won't." Amina smiled. "She never does. And when she's gone, I'll be here. Cooking. Cleaning. Waiting."
My wife returned.
For one week, everything was normal. Amina was professional, invisible, the perfect servant. Then my wife left for London.
Amina was in my bed before the car reached the airport.
"Three more weeks," she said, mounting me. "Three more weeks of having you to myself."
This has been our arrangement for two years now.
When my wife is home, Amina is the cook. Professional. Discrete. Invisible.
When my wife travels, Amina is mine.
"Your wife called," Amina tells me one afternoon. She's in my bed, covered in sweat, thoroughly satisfied.
"What did she want?"
"To say she's extending the trip. Two more weeks." Amina mounts me again. "Two more weeks of us."
"She'll suspect—"
"She doesn't see servants." Amina starts riding. "She sees me every day and doesn't notice anything. The uniform makes me invisible."
"But you're not invisible."
"No." She comes on me, shaking. "I'm not. Not to you."
My wife promoted Amina last month.
"She's exceptional," my wife said. "I'm giving her a raise. Making her household manager."
"That's generous."
"She deserves it." My wife smiled. "I don't know what I'd do without her."
Neither do I.
For completely different reasons.
Amina moved from the servant's quarters to a room in the main house.
"Closer," she explained. "For efficiency."
Closer means she can come to my room faster when my wife travels.
Closer means I can go to her room on nights my wife is home but exhausted.
"You came to me," she whispers when I appear at her door. "Madam is sleeping?"
"Madam took a pill."
"Then you have hours." She pulls me inside. "Use them."
I use them.
Take my cook in her room while my wife sleeps down the hall. Bury myself in her thick body, muffle her screams with pillows, fill her while the house stays silent.
"This is dangerous—" I gasp.
"This is everything—" she counters.
She's right.
My wife builds an empire.
I build moments with Amina.
Some empires, it turns out, aren't worth what you sacrifice for them.
Some cooks are worth any risk.
My wife is away again.
Dubai this time. Three weeks. Amina is in my bed before sunset.
"Three weeks," she says, straddling me. "Every night. Every morning. Every afternoon."
"The house—"
"The house can wait." She sinks onto me. "I've been waiting long enough."
She has.
And so have I.
Some meals, it turns out, are worth more than money.
Some cooks serve everything you need.
And I've never been more satisfied.