The Cleansing
"An old tradition says a widow must be 'cleansed' before she can remarry. The village chooses the cleanser. This time, they choose her nephew."
The elders call it kusafishwa.
Cleansing. An old tradition, older than Islam, older than memory. When a widow wants to remarry, she must first be "cleansed" by a man—not her future husband, but someone chosen by the village.
It's meant to remove the spirit of the dead husband. To prepare her for new love.
In practice, it's something else entirely.
My aunt Hadiya's husband died six months ago.
She's fifty-three, thick and beautiful, the kind of woman who should have suitors lining up. But in our village, no one will touch a widow who hasn't been cleansed.
"The elders have chosen," my mother tells me.
"Chosen what?"
"The cleanser. For Hadiya." She won't meet my eyes. "They've chosen you."
I refuse.
"She's my aunt. My father's sister."
"By marriage, not blood," the chief elder says. We're in the council hut, the weight of tradition pressing down. "Your father married into her family. There's no blood prohibition."
"But the—the nature of the ritual—"
"Is clear. You spend three nights with her. You cleanse her of her husband's spirit. Then she's free to marry again." He looks at me with ancient eyes. "It's an honor to be chosen, Omar. You're young, strong, unmarried. Perfect for the task."
"And if I refuse?"
"Then she remains unclean. Unmarriable. Alone for the rest of her life." He shrugs. "The choice is yours."
Hadiya comes to my hut that evening.
"They told me," she says. "That you've been chosen."
"I haven't agreed."
"But you will." She sits across from me, heavy in her widow's black. "Because you're kind. Because you won't condemn me to loneliness just to protect your own comfort."
"It's not about comfort. It's about—you're my aunt."
"I'm a widow who needs cleansing. And you're the man the village has chosen to cleanse me." She reaches out, takes my hand. "It doesn't have to be complicated, Omar. Three nights. Then it's done."
"What if—" I stop. Can't say what I'm thinking.
"What if what?"
"What if I want more than three nights?"
She's quiet for a long time.
"I've seen you watching me," she admits. "Since you were young. I always pretended not to notice."
"I couldn't help it."
"I know." She squeezes my hand. "Maybe the elders saw it too. Maybe that's why they chose you."
"To punish me?"
"To give us both permission." She stands, moves toward me. "Three nights, Omar. That's what the ritual demands. But what happens after—that's between us."
The first night.
The village prepares the cleansing hut—a small structure at the edge of the compound, decorated with herbs and smoke. Hadiya enters first, dressed in white. I follow.
We're alone.
"The ritual says you take me three times tonight," she whispers. "Once for each stage of cleansing. Dawn, midnight, and dawn again."
"And between?"
"Between, we talk. We prepare. We—" She takes a breath. "We learn each other."
I reach for her. "Then let's start learning."
I unwrap her slowly.
The white cloth falls away, revealing my aunt. Two-sixty of soft, heavy flesh. Breasts that have nursed children, now hanging to her waist. A belly round with years. Thighs thick and powerful.
"My husband barely touched me toward the end," she says. "I've been hungry for years."
"Then let me feed you."
The first cleansing is gentle.
I worship her body, learn her responses, make her come with my mouth before I enter her. She gasps as I fill her—it's been years since she's been taken—and clings to me as I move.
"Is this—is this right?" she pants.
"It's exactly right."
The cleansing, they call it. But what I'm doing feels more like worship.
The second cleansing is at midnight.
She wakes me with her hand on my cock, stroking, ready.
"I need more."
I give her more. Harder this time. She's adjusted, opened, and she takes me like she was made for it. Her moans fill the hut.
"Yes—na'am—cleanse me—cleanse me—"
The third cleansing is at dawn.
We've barely slept. We're exhausted, raw, wrung out.
But the ritual demands completion.
I take her from behind, watching the sun rise through the hut's opening. She comes with the first light, screaming into the pillows, and I follow—one last release, one last cleansing.
"One night done," she whispers.
"Two more to go."
The second night, we're bolder.
She rides me, her weight pressing down, her body in full control. I suck her breasts while she moves. We try positions neither of us have tried before.
"My husband never—" She gasps as I hit a particular spot. "He never made me feel like this."
"Good."
The third night, we're desperate.
It's the last night. After this, the cleansing is complete. She can remarry. I go back to being her nephew.
Unless.
"Stay," she begs. "After tonight. Stay with me."
"The village—"
"Won't care. The ritual says I can marry after cleansing. It doesn't say I can't marry the cleanser."
"You want to marry me?"
"I want to keep you." She pulls me down. "One more night. Make it count."
I make it count.
Every position. Every surface in the hut. Every way a man can take a woman, I take my aunt that final night.
By dawn, we're destroyed.
But we're also decided.
A month later, we marry.
The village is scandalized—and then, slowly, accepting. The cleanser and the cleansed. It's not unheard of. Just unusual.
"They'll talk," she warns me on our wedding night.
"Let them talk."
"They'll say you only married me because of the ritual."
"And you'll know the truth." I pull her close—my aunt, my wife. "I've wanted you since I knew what wanting was. The ritual just gave me permission."
"And now?"
"Now I have you. For more than three nights. For as long as you'll have me."
She kisses me. Deep. Possessive.
"Forever, then."
Kusafishwa.
Cleansing.
But what we built is anything but clean.
And I wouldn't have it any other way.