Qurbaha Nights
"Qurbaha means the diaspora in Somali. When he returns from America to visit Hargeisa, his father's thick second wife welcomes him home. His father is busy with business, but she's not busy at all. The diaspora boy learns what Somali hospitality really means."
Hargeisa hits different when you've been gone ten years.
The city sprawls across the highlands—new buildings mixing with old, the smell of dust and diesel, the chaos of a place rebuilding itself. I left when I was fifteen. Now I'm back, a qurbaha kid with an American accent and no idea where I fit.
My father waits at the airport.
So does his new wife.
"Soo dhawow!" My father pulls me into a hug. "Welcome home, my son!"
"Mahadsnid, Aabo."
"This is Kawsar." He gestures to the woman beside him. "Your new mother. We married two years ago."
Kawsar smiles.
She's thirty-eight years old—ten years younger than my father, fifteen years older than me. His second wife, taken after my mother passed in America. She's thick—wallahi, she's thick—with wide hips and heavy breasts that strain against her dirac. Her face is round and pretty beneath her garbasaar.
"Soo dhawow, my son." She takes my hands. "I've heard so much about you."
"Mahadsnid... Hooyo."
The word feels strange. Calling her mother. But my father beams.
"Come," he says. "Let's go home."
Home is a new villa in the fancy part of Hargeisa.
My father has done well—import/export business, connections to the UAE. The house has marble floors, air conditioning, a generator that runs twenty-four hours.
And Kawsar.
"Your father is very busy," she explains, showing me my room. "Meetings every day. Travels to Berbera twice a week. He won't be home much."
"And you?"
"I'll be here." She smiles. Something in it I can't read. "Whatever you need, macaan. Just ask."
She leaves.
I try not to watch her hips as she goes.
I fail.
My father leaves for Berbera on my third day.
Business. Shipping containers. He'll be gone a week.
"Kawsar will take care of you," he says, clapping my shoulder. "She's a good woman."
"I know, Aabo."
"Make yourself at home. This is your house too."
He drives off in his Land Cruiser.
The villa falls silent.
Just me and Kawsar.
She comes to my room that night.
"Soo gal?" I call when I hear the knock.
She enters.
She's wearing a nightgown—thin silk, clinging to every curve. Her hair is loose, falling past her shoulders. In the dim light, she looks like a vision.
"I couldn't sleep," she says. "I've been thinking about you."
"About me?"
"About how you looked at me at the airport." She crosses to my bed. Sits on the edge. "I know that look, warya. I've seen it before."
"Kawsar—"
"Your father is a good man." Her hand finds my leg through the sheet. "But he's old. Busy. He doesn't look at me anymore. Doesn't touch me."
"You're his wife."
"His second wife. His trophy. Something to show his business partners." Her hand slides higher. "Not a woman. Not something with needs."
"What needs?"
"Two years." She leans close. "Two years of marriage, and I've never—not once—" She breaks off. "Your father is quick. Small. Finished before I feel anything."
"Kawsar—"
"You're not him." Her hand finds my cock through the sheet. "Subhanallah, you're not him at all."
"This is xaaraan," I say.
"Everything good is."
"You're my father's wife."
"And you're his son." She pulls the sheet away. "Which one of us is more forbidden?"
She stares at my cock—hard, straining against my shorts.
"Weyn," she breathes. Big. "Show me what the qurbaha boys learn in America."
She pulls my shorts down.
I should stop her.
I should push her away, call my father, confess everything.
Instead, I watch as she takes me in her mouth.
She's not experienced.
Two years of marriage to a man who doesn't care about her pleasure. But she's eager—so eager—making up for lost time with every bob of her head.
"Like this?" She pulls off, gasping.
"Deeper."
She takes me to the throat.
Gags.
Pushes through.
I grab her hair and guide her.
"Enough." I pull her up. "Take off the nightgown."
"Warya—"
"Now."
She obeys.
Her body is everything I imagined.
Breasts heavy and soft, brown flesh with thick dark nipples. Belly round and warm, the curve of it catching the light. Hips wide enough to get lost in. Thighs thick and warm.
"I'm fat," she whispers.
"You're perfect."
I pull her onto the bed.
I worship my father's wife.
My mouth on her breasts. Her belly. Her thighs. She gasps and moans—sounds she probably hasn't made in years.
"No one has—" She's shaking. "Your father never—"
I find her pussy.
Lick.
She screams.
"ILAAHAY—" Her thighs clamp around my head. "What are you—ALLA—"
I lick her slowly. Learn her. Two years of marriage, and no one has ever done this for her.
"Coming—" She's shaking. "Two years—and now—ALLA—"
She explodes.
I don't stop.
"Inside me—" She's pulling at my shoulders. "Ku soo gal—please—"
I position myself between her thick thighs.
"Say it."
"I want my stepson inside me." Tears stream down her face. "I want you to fuck me where your father never could."
I thrust inside.
She screams.
Her walls stretch around me—tight, hot, wet. I fill her completely, more than my father ever has.
"Alla—so big—dhammaan—completely—"
I start to move.
I fuck my father's wife in his house.
On his sheets. In his bed. While he does business in Berbera.
"Dhakhso—faster—" She claws at my back. "Give me what he can't—"
I pound her.
The bed slams against the wall. She screams and screams—no neighbors close enough to hear.
"Coming—" Her eyes roll back. "Ku shub—fill me—"
I let go.
I flood my stepmother.
Pump her full while she shakes and moans. My father's wife. My father's bed.
We lie tangled together, gasping.
"He'll be gone a week," she whispers.
"I know."
"A week of nights." Her hand finds my cock, already stirring. "A week of this."
"And when he comes back?"
"Then I'll be his good wife. His trophy. The woman who welcomes his business partners." She pulls me on top of her. "But in my heart, I'll be yours. Every time he touches me, I'll wish it was you."
"Xaaraan."
"The best kind." She guides me inside her again. "Now show me what else they teach in America."
One Week Later
My father returns from Berbera.
He looks tired. Satisfied. His business deals have gone well.
"How was your week?" he asks me.
"Good, Aabo. Kawsar took excellent care of me."
"I knew she would." He beams at his wife. "She's a good woman."
Kawsar smiles demurely.
Under the table, her foot traces up my leg.
Three Months Later
I extend my visa.
My father is delighted—his qurbaha son reconnecting with his roots. He brags to all his business partners about how I'm learning the family trade.
I am learning.
Just not from him.
Every time he travels—Berbera, Dubai, Djibouti—I learn something new. About Somali hospitality. About what happens when a young man and his stepmother are left alone.
"Macaan," she moans every time. "My sweet stepson. My qurbaha boy."
The diaspora brought me home.
She's the reason I stay.