Nairobi Eastleigh Shop
"She runs a shop in Eastleigh, Nairobi's Little Mogadishu—a thick ebony widow who sells everything Somalis need. When he passes through on business, she offers hospitality. Some business becomes pleasure."
Eastleigh never sleeps.
The Somali district of Nairobi buzzes with commerce—shops stacked on shops, money flowing like water. Hawa's General Store has been there for twenty-two years.
I pass through on a logistics job.
"American Somali?" She sizes me up from behind the counter. Fifty-three years old. Two hundred and fifty pounds of Eastleigh business savvy. Ebony skin, shopkeeper's apron, the sharpness of someone who's survived Nairobi's chaos.
"Minneapolis."
"Mashallah." She starts pulling items. "You'll need these. The hotels here are garbage. Take real food."
Her shop becomes my base.
Between meetings, between trips, I end up there. Her chai is the best in Eastleigh.
"Why do you always come here?" she asks.
"The tea."
"Waas." She pours another cup. "I've sold tea for twenty-two years. No one comes just for tea."
"Then maybe it's the company."
"My husband opened this shop."
Eastleigh buzzes outside, but her back room is quiet.
"1999. We came from Mogadishu with nothing. Built this together." She touches the shelves. "He died in 2012. Heart attack during a police raid."
"A raid?"
"Kenya criminalizes Somalis." Her voice is bitter. "Papers, questions, harassment. The stress killed him."
"But you stayed."
"Where would I go? This is my life. These shelves. These customers. This chaos."
"You're not like other diaspora."
We're sharing dinner in her back room. Eastleigh roars outside.
"Most come, take what they need, leave. You sit. You listen. You see."
"There's a lot to see."
"There's a lot to feel too." She looks at me. "Twelve years alone. Running this shop. Feeding everyone but myself."
"Let me feed you."
I worship the shopkeeper.
In her back room while Eastleigh never sleeps. Her body is the best merchandise—ebony curves, heavy breasts, soft belly.
"Twelve years—" She gasps as I undress her. "Labo iyo toban—"
"Tonight you're not selling. You're receiving."
I lay her among her inventory.
Boxes and goods surrounding us. Her body is the most valuable stock.
I spread her thick thighs.
Sample her selection.
"ILAAHAY!"
She screams—twelve years of shopkeeping finally being served. Her hands grip my head.
"Don't stop—" She's shaking. "Dhakhso—"
I supply her needs until she's satisfied. Three times.
"Inside me—" She's pulling at me. "Ku soo gal—fill my inventory—"
I strip. She watches with those merchant's eyes.
"Subhanallah—premium goods."
"Exclusive stock."
I push inside the shopkeeper.
She screams.
"So full—" Her legs wrap around me. "Don't stop—"
I complete the transaction.
Her massive body shakes. Eastleigh roars outside, unaware. She comes twice more.
"Fill me—" She's begging. "Close the sale—"
I release inside her.
We lie among her merchandise.
"Your business trip," she murmurs. "How long?"
"I was supposed to leave tomorrow."
"And now?"
"Now I think I need to renegotiate."
One Year Later
I have a logistics hub in Eastleigh.
And a partner in everything.
"Macaan," she moans in the back room. "My best customer."
The shopkeeper who sells everything.
The woman I bought with my heart.
Sold.