The Bakhoor Seller
"Bakhoor is the incense that fills Somali homes with sacred smoke. She sells it at the Cedar-Riverside market—a thick widow whose fragrance lingers. When he becomes her regular customer, she offers him a private sampling. Her shop stays open late."
The bakhoor smoke curls through the market.
Frankincense and oud, the sacred scents that make every Somali home feel complete. Hawo has been selling them for fifteen years—the best incense vendor in Cedar-Riverside.
She's thick.
Two hundred and forty pounds of tradition. Wide hips behind her market stall. Heavy breasts. A face weathered by years of tending coal and incense.
"Soo dhawow," she says when I approach. "What do you seek?"
"Uunsi. For my grandmother."
"Mashallah." She selects premium chips. "A good grandson."
I become her regular customer.
Every week, I return.
Not just for incense. For conversation. For the way her eyes crinkle when she laughs. For the loneliness I see beneath her merchant's smile.
"Your grandmother must burn much bakhoor," she observes one evening.
"She does."
"Liar." She smiles. "You come for something else."
"What do I come for?"
"Me." She sets down her tongs. "Don't you?"
After the market closes, she invites me to her back room.
Where she blends her incenses. Where the smoke is thickest.
"My husband taught me this business," she says. "Before he died. Nine years now."
"Nine years alone?"
"Nine years of smoke and sales." She turns to face me. "No warmth. No touch. Just the memory of what was."
"I could be warmth."
"Wallahi?"
I answer by kissing her through the smoke.
The back room fills with more than incense.
Her body is thick and fragrant. Heavy breasts. Soft belly. Wide hips.
"I smell like bakhoor," she says.
"I love that smell."
I worship the incense seller.
My mouth traces her scented skin.
"No one has—" She gasps. "Nine years—"
I taste her.
She screams through the smoke.
"ILAAHAY!" Her hands grab my hair. "ALLA—"
"Coming—" She's shaking. "I'm coming—"
She explodes.
"Inside me—" She's pulling at me. "Ku soo gal—"
I position myself.
"Ready?"
"Haa."
I thrust inside.
She screams.
"Alla—dhammaan—"
I start to move.
I fuck the bakhoor seller.
Surrounded by sacred smoke.
"Dhakhso—faster—"
I pound her.
"Coming—" Her eyes roll back. "Ku shub—"
I let go.
I flood Hawo.
Fill her where nine years of smoke lived.
We lie tangled together, the bakhoor still burning.
"Macaan," she breathes. "Better than any incense."
"I'll come every week."
"For bakhoor?"
"For you." I kiss her. "Always for you."
One Year Later
My grandmother has more incense than she can burn.
Hawo doesn't mind.
"Macaan," she moans, in the back room. "My best customer."
Some things are sacred.
What we have is holier than smoke.