Rome Market Vendor
"She sells Somali goods at a Rome market—a thick ebony widow carving space in Italian commerce. When he becomes her regular customer, she offers samples. Some tastes are reserved for after closing."
Porta Portese is Rome's oldest market.
Among the Italian goods, Khadra has carved a corner—Somali spices, fabrics, incense. She's been there twelve years.
I find her stall by scent.
"Uunsi?" I breathe the familiar smell. "Real uunsi?"
"From Mogadishu." She emerges from behind her goods. Fifty-two years old. Two hundred and forty pounds of market savvy. Ebony skin, bright clothing, the haggler's smile. "You know it?"
"My grandmother used it."
"Mashallah." She wraps some for me. "Your grandmother had good taste."
I return every week.
Her stall becomes my connection to home in a city that doesn't understand home.
"Why Rome?" I ask one day.
"My husband's work. Then he died. Then I had nothing but this stall." She straightens her display. "Ten years of selling memories to people who need them."
"You're selling more than memories."
"Waas." But she's pleased.
"Come to the stall after close."
It's evening. The market is emptying.
"I have something special. Not for regular customers."
I stay.
She shows me her private collection.
Rare items, family heirlooms, things she can't sell but won't throw away.
"This is what I have left of Somalia," she says. "Ten years in Rome, and this is what remains."
"It's beautiful."
"It's sad." She touches an old photograph. "But sad and beautiful aren't opposites."
"Ten years alone in this city."
We're sitting among her goods after the market has closed.
"Italians don't understand us. Other Somalis are scattered. I sell all day and go home to nothing."
"I'm here now."
"Haa." She looks at me. "You are. Why?"
"Because your stall is the only place in Rome that feels like home."
"Home is gone."
"Then let's make new home. Together."
I worship the market vendor.
Among her goods from across the world. Her body is the rarest item—ebony curves, heavy breasts, soft belly.
"Ten years—" She gasps as I undress her. "Selling, selling—"
"Tonight I buy everything."
I lay her on Somali fabrics.
The finest in her collection. Her body is the best display.
I spread her thick thighs.
Sample her special goods.
"ILAAHAY!"
She screams—ten years of market isolation breaking. Her hands grip my head.
"Don't stop—non fermarti—"
I shop until she's satisfied. Three times.
"Inside me—" She's pulling at me. "Ku soo gal—purchase me—"
I strip. She watches with those vendor's eyes.
"Subhanallah—"
"Premium goods."
I push inside the vendor.
She screams.
"So full—così pieno—" Her legs wrap around me. "Don't stop—"
I complete the transaction.
Her massive body shakes among the fabrics. She comes twice more.
"Fill me—riempimi—"
I deliver inside her.
We lie among Somali goods in Rome.
"The market opens at dawn," she murmurs.
"I'll help you set up."
"Wallahi?"
"Every day."
One Year Later
Her stall is the most popular at Porta Portese.
And I'm more than a customer.
"Macaan," she moans. "La mia merce migliore—my best merchandise."
The vendor who sells memories.
The woman I'll treasure forever.
Sold.