The Debt Collector

Uncle Salim borrowed two million shillings.

That was three years ago. A business deal gone wrong, desperation, and I—young, successful, stupid—said yes. Family helps family, I thought.

He's paid back nothing.

Now I'm standing in his Nairobi living room, watching him sweat.

"I don't have it, Hassan." His voice shakes. "The business collapsed. I have nothing."

"You have this house."

"It's mortgaged. I have no equity."

"Then what do you have?"

He looks at me. Then he looks at the hallway, where his wife and two daughters are listening from the shadows.

"I have... other assets."

We sit at the kitchen table.

Uncle Salim. Aunt Fatuma, his wife, fifty-three years old and built like a monument—two-sixty of Swahili womanhood, worry etched into her face. And their daughters: Asha, twenty-eight, thick like her mother, recently divorced. Zara, twenty-five, thicker still, never married.

Three generations of heavy women, all watching me like I'm the executioner.

"Two million shillings," I say. "Three years overdue. I've been patient. Too patient."

"We can pay in installments—" Aunt Fatuma starts.

"You've said that before. Nothing came."

"We're trying—"

"Try harder." I look at each of them in turn. "I want my money. Or something of equivalent value."

Silence.

Then Uncle Salim says, quietly: "What would you consider... equivalent?"

I should be ashamed.

Should walk out, forgive the debt, be the better man. But I've been the better man for three years, and it's gotten me nothing.

"You know what I want."

"Hassan—" My aunt's voice breaks. "You can't mean—"

"I want what Uncle Salim can't give. What he's never valued properly." I lean forward. "I want the women in this room. One night each. In exchange, the debt is cleared."

"That's—that's haram—"

"So is stealing two million shillings from your nephew." I stand. "Three nights. Three women. Then we're even. Or I go to the lawyers tomorrow and take everything you have left."

The silence stretches.

Then Asha speaks.

"What exactly would we have to do?"

I look at my cousin.

Divorced, bitter, thick in ways that make my mouth water. She's the first to engage. The first to calculate.

"Whatever I want," I say. "For one night each. Starting tonight."

"And the debt is cleared? Completely?"

"Completely."

She looks at her mother. Her sister. Her father, who can't meet anyone's eyes.

"I'll go first."

We use the guest room.

Away from her parents. Away from judgment. Just me and Asha, alone with what's about to happen.

"I always knew you wanted us," she says, undressing. "The way you looked at family gatherings. At me. At Mama. At Zara."

"I didn't hide it well."

"You didn't hide it at all." Her dress falls. Her bra. Her panties. "We just pretended not to notice."

She's magnificent. Two-forty of curves and softness, her divorce clearly hasn't diminished her appetite for anything. Her breasts are heavy, her belly round, her thighs powerful.

"You're paying for a night," she says. "What do you want?"

"Everything."

I take everything.

I make her kneel. Make her worship me with her mouth until she gags. Then I bend her over the bed and take her from behind, watching her massive ass ripple with every thrust.

"Harder—you're paying for this—harder—"

She comes screaming. I come inside her, marking her, claiming her.

Then I start again.

By dawn, she's lost count of how many times.

"That's one," I say as she dresses. "Send your mother tonight."

Aunt Fatuma comes at midnight.

"I've never done this," she whispers. "Not with anyone but Salim."

"Then I'll teach you."

I'm gentler with her. Not kind—kindness isn't what this is—but gentler. I undress her slowly. Worship her body the way my uncle clearly never did. Make her come with my mouth before I ever enter her.

"Ya Allah—I didn't know—I never knew it could—"

"Now you know."

I fuck her for hours. Positions she's never tried. Places she's never been touched. By dawn, she's a different woman.

"That's two," I say. "Send Zara tomorrow."

Zara is the youngest. The thickest. The one who's never been touched.

"I'm a virgin," she admits.

"Not after tonight."

She's nervous. Shaking. But when I undress her—when I worship her body, make her come twice before I even think about entering her—she relaxes.

"Please," she whispers. "I want to know what it feels like."

I give her what she wants.

I take her virginity slowly.

Inch by inch, letting her adjust, watching her face shift from pain to pleasure. And when I'm fully inside her—when she gasps and clutches me—I stay still.

"Okay?"

"More. Please—more—"

I give her more. All night. Every position her inexperience can handle, and a few it can't. By dawn, she's sore and satisfied and looking at me like I've opened a door she can never close.

"That's three," I say. "The debt is cleared."

I expect that to be the end.

Instead, a week later, Asha calls.

"We need to talk."

I meet her at a hotel. Neutral ground. She's dressed up—tight dress, full makeup, the works.

"The debt is cleared," I remind her.

"I know." She sits across from me. "But we've been talking. Mama, Zara, and me. About what happened."

"And?"

"We want more."

I stare at her.

"You want—"

"More of you. What you gave us." She leans forward. "Our father never touched Mama properly. My ex-husband was useless. Zara never had anyone at all. And then you came, and you showed us what it could be like, and we—" She takes a breath. "We want an arrangement."

"What kind of arrangement?"

"You come to us. Regularly. Not as payment. As... an agreement. We give you what you want. You give us what we need."

"All three of you?"

"All three." She smiles slowly. "Sometimes separately. Sometimes together."

It's been six months.

I visit the family home twice a week. Uncle Salim knows—he can't not know—but he says nothing. His guilt has become my leverage.

Aunt Fatuma greets me at the door like a lover. Asha leads me to her bedroom. Zara waits in the guest room when I'm done with the others.

Some nights, I take them together. Three generations of thick Swahili women, sharing me on the same bed, passing me between them like something precious.

The debt is long cleared.

But the payments continue.

And they're sweeter now than any two million shillings could ever be.

Deni.

Debt.

Paid in flesh.

Again and again.