Nashville Taxi Dispatcher

Somali Cabs runs Nashville's Somali community.

Layla dispatches from midnight to eight AM—the hardest shift, when drunk tourists need rides and tired workers head home. She's been doing it for sixteen years.

My car dies at 2 AM.

"Where are you?" Her voice crackles through the phone.

"Broadway and 5th."

"Ilaahay—tourist district. Stay put. Driver coming."

Ten minutes later, I'm rescued.

My car stays dead.

I call Somali Cabs every night for a week. Each time, Layla's voice guides me.

"You again?" She sounds amused. "Fix your car."

"It's in the shop. Extended repairs."

"Waas. Where to tonight?"

"Dispatch office. I want to meet the voice."

Silence. Then: "That's not protocol."

"Neither is calling the same dispatcher every night."

Another pause. "Fine. Sending a car."

She's not what I expected.

The office is small—monitors, radios, maps. But she fills it with presence. Fifty-five years old. Two hundred and fifty pounds of command. Ebony skin illuminated by screen glow.

"The regular." She looks me over. "You look different than your voice."

"Better or worse?"

"Different." She gestures to a chair. "Sit. I'm working."

I watch her work.

Calls coming in, drivers reporting, routes adjusting. She manages it all with effortless authority.

"You're amazing," I say during a lull.

"I'm efficient." She doesn't look up. "Sixteen years of this. You learn the rhythms."

"Do you ever leave?"

"When my shift ends." She finally meets my eyes. "Then I go home. Alone. Sleep. Come back."

"That sounds lonely."

"Lonely is quiet. Quiet is peaceful." She shrugs. "My husband died fourteen years ago. Peace is all I wanted."

"Is peace all you want now?"

She doesn't answer.

I keep coming.

Night after night. Bringing coffee, bringing food, keeping her company during the quiet hours.

"Why are you here?" she asks one night.

"Your voice. I heard it for a week through the phone. I wanted to know the woman behind it."

"Now you know. Old, fat, widowed."

"Experienced, beautiful, resilient."

"Waas." But her eyes soften.

"My husband drove for this company."

It's 4 AM. The calls have slowed.

"Fourteen years ago, he picked up a fare who robbed him. Shot him." Her voice is steady—too steady. "I took his shift the next week. Been here ever since."

"Why?"

"Because someone has to protect the drivers. I know every street, every danger, every pattern. I send them safe routes."

"You're protecting his memory."

"I'm protecting his brothers." She looks at me. "And staying close to where I lost him."

"You can mourn and live. Both at once."

"I don't know how to live anymore."

"Let me show you."

"Come to the back room."

There's a small break area—couch, mini fridge, the place where tired dispatchers rest.

"No one comes here during my shift," she says. "Just me."

"And now me."

"And now you."

I worship the dispatcher.

Her body has commanded thousands of trips. Now I take her somewhere new.

"Fourteen years—" She gasps as I undress her. "I've sent everyone where they needed to go—"

"Now it's your turn to arrive."

I lay her on the couch.

Radio silent, screens glowing, the night outside oblivious. Her body is coordinates I want to map.

I spread her thick thighs.

Navigate to her pleasure.

"ILAAHAY!"

She screams—fourteen years of directing others finally receiving direction. Her hands grip my head.

"Don't stop—" She's shaking. "Dhakhso—"

I dispatch her pleasure until she comes three times.

"Inside me—" She's pulling at me. "Ku soo gal—complete my route—"

I strip. She watches with those all-seeing eyes.

"Subhanallah—"

"Destination reached."

I push inside the dispatcher.

She cries out.

"So full—" Her legs wrap around me. "Don't stop—"

I drive into her.

Her massive body shakes. The radio crackles unnoticed. She comes twice more.

"Ku shub—" She's begging. "Arrive inside me—"

I complete my journey.

We lie tangled on the break room couch.

"Shift's almost over," she murmurs.

"I'll drive you home."

"Wallahi?"

"Wallahi." I kiss her. "Then maybe I'll come inside too."

One Year Later

My car works fine.

I still call Somali Cabs.

"Your regular wants a ride," she tells the drivers. To me: "Macaan, where to tonight?"

"Your place."

"Sending myself."

The dispatcher who guides everyone home.

The woman who finally found hers.