Nyumba ya Wageni | NEON LIT

The bus breaks down twenty kilometers from Malindi.

Engine failure. No repairs until morning. The driver points toward a dirt road: "There's a guest house. Mama Aisha. She'll take care of you."

I walk through the darkness toward a light in the distance.

I have no idea how well I'll be taken care of.

Mama Aisha is not what I expected.

Fifty-four years old, widowed three years ago. She runs the guest house alone—ten rooms, usually empty, on the outskirts of Malindi. She's thick in ways that her house dress can't contain, and her smile when she sees me is almost predatory.

"A guest!" She claps her hands. "Finally! It's been weeks since anyone came."

"The bus broke down—"

"Allah's will." She takes my bag, leads me inside. "One room left. The best room. I'll prepare it personally."

"I just need somewhere to sleep—"

"You need much more than that." Her eyes travel over me. "But we'll start with dinner."

Dinner is elaborate.

Far too much food for one person. She sits across from me, watching me eat, asking questions about my journey, my life, my situation.

"No wife?"

"No wife."

"No girlfriend?"

"Not currently."

"Hmm." Her eyes glitter in the lamplight. "A handsome man like you. Traveling alone. It's unusual."

"Work doesn't leave time for relationships."

"Work." She stands, moves around the table. "Work is important. But so is... hospitality."

"The dinner is excellent—"

"Dinner is just the beginning." She's behind me now, her hands on my shoulders. "I take care of my guests. Completely."

She leads me to my room.

The best room, she said. It's simple—a bed, a lamp, a window overlooking the garden. She lingers at the door.

"Is there anything else you need?"

"I think I'm fine—"

"You think." She steps inside, closes the door. "Let me show you what you need."

She undresses without ceremony.

Her house dress falls away—nothing beneath. Her body is overwhelming. Heavy breasts, dark and pendulous. Belly soft and round. Hips that could fill a doorway. Three years of widowhood have made her desperate.

"My husband died," she says simply. "Three years. No man since. Do you understand?"

"I understand."

"Then understand this too." She approaches the bed. "You're not leaving until morning. The bus won't be fixed. There's nowhere to go."

"What are you suggesting?"

"I'm not suggesting anything." She climbs onto the bed. "I'm telling you. You're my guest. I'm going to take care of you. All night."

She takes me in her mouth first.

Doesn't ask permission, doesn't wait. Just pulls down my trousers and swallows me. Three years of hunger in her technique—desperate, thorough, relentless.

"Mama Aisha—"

She doesn't stop.

Works me with her mouth, her hand, her throat. I grip the sheets, try to hold back, but she's too good—too hungry—and I explode in her mouth.

She swallows everything.

"That's the appetizer," she says, climbing up my body. "Now the main course."

She rides me while the night deepens.

Her thick body bouncing, her massive breasts in my face. The bed creaks—old wood, old springs—but she doesn't slow down.

"Three years—do you know what three years feels like?"

"Show me—"

"I'll show you everything—"

She comes on me.

Screams loud enough to wake anyone nearby—but there's no one nearby, just empty rooms and darkness. She clenches around me, shakes, then starts riding again before I can recover.

"More—I need more—"

She takes more.

All night. Every position she can remember from her marriage—and positions she's only imagined since. She's insatiable in the way only the truly starved can be.

"Fill me—please—give me what I've been missing—"

I fill her.

Again. And again. Each time, she recovers faster than me—mounts me, takes me, rides me until I'm empty.

By dawn, I'm exhausted.

She's still hungry.

"Breakfast," she announces.

She's already dressed, already cheerful. I can barely move.

"The bus—"

"Still broken." She sets a tray on the bed. "Won't be fixed until tomorrow. Maybe the day after."

"I have to get to Mombasa—"

"Mombasa will wait." She sits beside me. "Eat. You'll need your strength."

"For what?"

"For the rest of the day." She smiles. "And tonight. And tomorrow night. However long it takes for that bus to be fixed."

The bus is fixed on the third day.

By then, I've barely slept. Mama Aisha has used me for every hour I've been in her guest house. Dinner, breakfast, lunch—all excuses for her to visit my room. All visits ending the same way.

"You're leaving," she says at the door.

"I have to."

"I know." She kisses me softly. "But you'll come back."

"Will I?"

"The road to Mombasa passes through Malindi." She presses a card into my hand. "And I always have rooms available. For my special guests."

I've stopped at that guest house six times since.

The bus never breaks down anymore. I just... miss my connection. Find myself walking that dirt road. Finding Mama Aisha waiting with dinner and everything else.

"My favorite guest," she says each time.

"Your only guest?"

"The only one that matters." She's already pulling me toward the bedroom. "The only one who gives me what I need."

She's sixty now.

Still thick. Still hungry. Still running that guest house alone.

"I've been thinking," she says one night. "About selling this place."

"Why?"

"It's too much work. I'm getting older." She traces a finger down my chest. "Unless I had help."

"What kind of help?"

"A partner." Her eyes hold mine. "Someone to run it with me. Someone to share my bed every night instead of just passing through."

"Are you asking—"

"I'm not asking anything." She mounts me, sinks down slowly. "I'm showing you what you could have. Every night. Forever. If you stayed."

I've been staying for two years now.

Run the guest house with her. Sleep in her bed every night. Wake to her thick body every morning.

"You're not a guest anymore," she says.

"What am I?"

"Home." She pulls me inside her. "You're finally home."

She's right.

The bus to Mombasa stopped waiting a long time ago.

I stopped caring even longer.

Some guest houses, it turns out, you never want to leave.