Soo Dhawoow
"'Soo dhawoow' means welcome in Somali. When he's placed with a Somali foster family at seventeen, the thick foster mother makes him feel more welcome than any family he's ever had. Her welcome goes far beyond what the system intended."
The system placed me here.
Seventeen years old. White kid from the suburbs. No family left. The social worker said the Abdis were "experienced foster parents" who could "provide cultural enrichment."
What she meant was: they were the only ones who'd take me.
"Soo dhawoow—welcome!" The door opens, and a thick Somali woman pulls me into a hug. "You must be hungry. Come, come, I made hilib."
Her name is Shamsa. Forty-two years old. Married—her husband works nights at the airport, home only on weekends. Two biological children, both grown and gone. And a parade of foster kids over the years, all now moved on.
I'm her latest project.
The first weeks are awkward.
I don't speak Somali. She barely speaks English. We communicate through gestures, broken phrases, and the universal language of food.
She cooks like she's trying to save my life.
Bariis every night. Hilib ari—goat meat—when her husband gets paid. Canjeero for breakfast, served with honey. She watches me eat with the intensity of a woman who's decided I'm too skinny.
"Cun—eat!" She piles more on my plate. "Yar yahay—too small!"
I'm not small. Six feet tall, one hundred and eighty pounds.
But she sees what she sees.
Her husband Jaamac is a shadow.
Night shifts at baggage handling. Sleeps through the day. On weekends, he grunts at me and retreats to the bedroom to watch Somali TV.
"He's tired," Shamsa explains. "He works hard."
"He doesn't talk to you."
"He doesn't talk to anyone." She laughs, but there's no humor in it. "Thirty years of marriage. Now we're just... roommates."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be sorry." She touches my cheek. "You're here now. I'm not alone anymore."
It happens in the fourth month.
I'm showering—middle of the afternoon, Jaamac at work—when the water suddenly goes cold. I curse, fumble for the faucet.
The bathroom door opens.
"Shamsa!"
She stands in the doorway, eyes wide. Not looking at my face.
"I heard—I thought something was wrong—"
"The water went cold."
"Biyo qabow. Cold water. Yes." But she doesn't move. "I should have knocked."
"Yes."
"I'm sorry." Still not moving. "Waxaan ka xumahay."
She's staring at my cock.
I'm hard.
I don't know why—the cold water, the surprise, the way she's looking at me—but I'm hard.
"Shamsa—"
"Subhanallah." The word slips out. She claps a hand over her mouth.
Then she runs.
Dinner that night is silent.
She won't meet my eyes. Won't speak except to pass dishes. The air between us is thick with something neither of us will name.
After I've eaten, after Jaamac has called to say he's working overtime, after the house is dark and quiet, I hear a knock on my door.
"Soo gal?" I call softly.
She enters.
She's wearing a nightgown—thin cotton, white, doing nothing to hide her curves. Her hijab is gone. Her hair falls loose around her shoulders.
"I can't stop thinking about it," she whispers. "What I saw. What you—"
"Shamsa—"
"I know it's wrong." She crosses to my bed. Sits on the edge. "You're my foster son. I'm supposed to protect you. But I haven't been touched in—" She breaks off. "Jaamac doesn't touch me anymore. Hasn't in years."
"How long?"
"Five years. Maybe six." Her hand finds my leg through the sheet. "I thought that part of me was dead. And then I saw you, and I—"
"What do you want?"
"I want to feel alive." She looks at me with desperate eyes. "Just once. Just tonight. And then we never speak of it."
"Xaaraan."
"Everything good is." She grips the sheet. "Say no and I'll leave. I'll never mention it again."
I don't say no.
I pull the sheet away.
I'm wearing only boxers, and she can see what she does to me. Her eyes go wide.
"Weyn," she breathes. Big. "Jaamac is... nothing like this."
"Forget Jaamac."
"Haa." She reaches out. Wraps her hand around me through the cotton. "Teach me. What women do for men like you."
"You don't know?"
"I know what my husband wanted. Quick. In the dark. Under the covers." She squeezes me. "I want to know everything else."
I guide her.
She's clumsy at first.
Forty-two years old and she's never properly touched a man. Never used her mouth. Never seen it done.
"Like this," I murmur, guiding her hand. "Slower. Good."
She strokes me with increasing confidence. Then I push her head down.
"Warya—"
"With your mouth."
She stares at my cock. Licks her lips.
Takes me in.
She gags at first. Pulls back.
"I can't—"
"You can." I grip her hair. "Relax your throat. Breathe through your nose."
She tries again.
This time, she takes me deeper. Her eyes water, but she doesn't stop. She moans around my cock—a surprised sound, like she didn't know she could enjoy this.
"That's it—" I guide her head. "Just like that—"
She sucks me like she's learning a new language. Eager. Determined. Making sounds that would shame her in any Somali community.
"I'm close—"
She pulls off. Gasping.
"Inside me." She stands, pulls the nightgown over her head. "I need you inside me."
Her body is everything I imagined.
Thick. Soft. Brown flesh marked by years of living—stretch marks, soft belly, breasts that hang heavy. She's two hundred and forty pounds of forbidden fruit.
"I know I'm fat—"
"You're perfect."
I pull her onto the bed.
I worship her the way no one has.
My mouth on her breasts. Her belly. Her thighs. She gasps and moans, sounds she didn't know she could make.
"No one—" She's shaking. "Jaamac never—"
I find her pussy. Lick.
She screams.
"ILAAHAY—" Her thighs clamp around my head. "What are you—ALLA—"
I lick her slowly. Find her clit. Circle it. Suck it into my mouth.
She comes.
Explosively. Her whole body shaking. Sounds pouring from her that probably carry through the walls.
I don't stop.
I give her another one.
"Inside me—" She's pulling at my shoulders. "Ku soo gal—please—"
I position myself between her thick thighs.
"Say it," I tell her. "Say what you want."
"I want my foster son's cock." Tears stream down her face. "I want you to fuck me where my husband never could."
I push inside.
She's tight.
Five years without will do that. She cries out as I fill her—pain and pleasure mixing.
"So big—" She's clawing at my back. "You're filling me—dhammaan—"
I start to move.
I fuck my foster mother.
In the room they gave me. On the bed the system provided. Her massive body bounces beneath me, breasts rolling, belly shaking.
"Dhakhso—faster—" She wraps her legs around me. "Give me everything—"
I pound her.
The headboard slams against the wall. She screams into her hand—muffling the sound, but not enough.
"Coming—" Her eyes roll back. "Coming again—ku shub—fill me—"
I let go.
I flood her.
Pump her full while she shakes and moans. My foster mother. My caregiver. Now something else entirely.
We lie tangled together, gasping.
"This was wrong," she whispers.
"I know."
"We can never do this again."
"I know."
She's quiet for a moment.
"Tomorrow night," she says. "After Jaamac leaves for work. Come to my bedroom."
"Shamsa—"
"We'll stop after that." Her hand finds my cock, already stirring. "Just one more time."
Six Months Later
I age out of the system at eighteen.
The social worker is surprised that I want to stay in Minneapolis. Stay with the Abdis—not as a foster child, but as a renter. They have an extra room. The price is right.
The system doesn't question it.
Jaamac doesn't question it.
And every night, after he leaves for work, Shamsa comes to my room.
"Soo dhawoow," she whispers every time. Welcome.
I've never felt more welcome anywhere.