Riverside Plaza Secrets
"Everyone in Riverside Plaza knows Hawa—the thick ebony divorced Somali woman who runs the informal daycare. When he needs childcare advice for his niece, she offers private consultations. Some lessons are for adults only."
Riverside Plaza towers over Cedar-Riverside like a fortress.
The Somali mothers call it dhagaxtuur—the stacked rocks. Eighteen floors of families, gossip, and community. Everyone knows everyone.
Everyone knows Hawa.
Fifty-one years old. Divorced for three years. She watches the children of working mothers—an informal daycare in her ground-floor apartment. The kids adore her. The mothers trust her.
I need her help.
"My sister's daughter," I explain at her door. "She's staying with me for the summer. I don't know anything about kids."
Hawa laughs—a rich, warm sound.
"Warya, come in. Let me teach you."
She is magnificent.
Dark ebony skin that gleams like polished wood. Two hundred and fifty pounds of maternal authority. Wide hips that sway as she moves through her apartment, stepping over toys and around small chairs.
"Children need routine," she says, making tea. "Breakfast at the same time. Naps at the same time. They feel safe when they know what comes next."
"What else?"
"Patience." She hands me a cup. "Endless patience. And love. Even when they drive you crazy."
"You make it sound easy."
"It's not easy." She sits across from me—the chair creaking under her weight. "But it's worth it. I raised four children alone after my husband left. Now I help other mothers do the same."
"He left you?"
"Found a younger wife in Nairobi." She shrugs. "His loss. I kept the apartment and my dignity."
"His loss indeed."
She looks at me. Something shifts.
"Your niece," she says slowly. "How old?"
"Seven."
"Bring her tomorrow. I'll show you both how it's done."
"Mahadsnid."
"Don't thank me yet." She leans forward. "Children are exhausting. You'll earn my help."
"How?"
"My ceiling fan is broken. My sink drips. My door sticks." She smiles. "You look like a man who knows how to fix things."
"I can try."
"Good." She stands, and I try not to watch her hips. "Come early. Stay late. We have much to teach each other."
The summer becomes a rhythm.
Mornings with my niece among Hawa's chaos of children. Afternoons fixing things in her apartment. Evenings talking on her balcony, watching the sun set over the Mississippi.
"You're good with her," Hawa says one night. "Your niece. She loves you."
"I love her too."
"But you're lonely." She turns to look at me. "I see it. The way you look at families in the hallway. The way you stay late even when there's nothing to fix."
"Hawa—"
"I'm lonely too." Her hand finds mine on the balcony railing. "Three years since my husband left. Three years of being strong for everyone else."
"You don't have to be strong tonight."
She squeezes my hand.
"The children are gone," she says. "Your niece is with your sister. We're alone."
"What are you saying?"
"I'm saying—" She turns to face me fully. "I'm saying I'm tired of being the helper. The caretaker. The one everyone needs but no one wants."
"I want you."
"Wallahi?"
"Wallahi."
She kisses me.
Her mouth tastes like the chai we've been drinking all summer.
I pull her close—her body soft and warm against mine. She moans as she feels my hardness.
"Ilaahay—" She breaks the kiss. "It's been so long—"
"Let me remind you what you've been missing."
I guide her inside.
Her bedroom is small but neat.
African prints on the walls. The smell of incense. A bed that's been empty too long.
She undresses with shaking hands.
I watch her ebony body reveal itself—heavy breasts with dark nipples, soft belly, wide hips, thick thighs. She's beautiful in a way that fashion magazines will never understand.
"My husband said I was too fat," she whispers. "That's why he left."
"Your husband was blind."
I drop to my knees.
I worship her.
My mouth between her thick thighs, tasting what her husband abandoned. She screams as my tongue finds her clit.
"ALLA!" Her hands grab my head. "Three years—three years—"
I lick her slowly. Deeply. She grinds against my face.
"Coming—" She's shaking. "I'm coming—"
She floods my mouth.
"Inside me—" She's pulling at me. "Ku soo gal—I need you—"
I stand. Strip. Her eyes widen at the sight of me.
"Subhanallah." She reaches out. "He was never—you're so—"
"Forget him."
I lay her down on the bed.
I push inside.
She screams—three years of emptiness filling with me.
"So full—" She wraps her legs around me. "Don't stop—dhakhso—"
I pound her.
The bed slams against the wall. Her massive body bounces beneath me—ebony flesh rippling with every thrust.
"Coming again—" Her walls clamp down. "Ku shub gudaha—fill me—"
I explode inside her.
We lie tangled together.
Through the walls, we can hear families—children laughing, mothers calling, the sounds of Riverside Plaza at night.
"They'll talk," she murmurs. "The neighbors. They'll say I seduced you."
"Let them talk."
"You're young enough to be—"
"I'm old enough to know what I want." I pull her closer. "And I want you."
She smiles against my chest.
"Then stay."
One Year Later
My niece calls her Eedo Hawa—Auntie Hawa.
The neighbors stopped talking months ago. Now they just smile when they see us together in the hallways, in the elevators, at community events.
"Macaan," she whispers every night. "My sweet man."
The daycare lady of Riverside Plaza.
The woman who taught me about children.
And so much more.