The Dhiig Connection
"Dhiig means blood in Somali—the family bonds that tie everything together. His distant cousin's thick divorced mother hosts a family gathering. After everyone leaves, she shows him that some family connections are closer than others."
The family tree is complicated.
Her son is my third cousin—connected through great-grandparents I've never met. In Somalia, this would matter. In Minneapolis, we're barely acquainted.
But she hosts the family gathering anyway.
Rahma. Fifty years old. Divorced. Her son lives in Toronto now, leaving her alone in a house meant for a family.
She's thick.
Two hundred and forty pounds of hospitality. Wide hips. Heavy breasts. The kind of woman who cooks for fifty and never sits down to eat.
"Soo dhawow," she says when I arrive. "It's been too long since dhiig gathered."
The gathering is chaos.
Relatives I've never met, all connected by blood thin as water. Food and gossip and the desperate maintenance of connections that distance has weakened.
I help Rahma in the kitchen.
"You're the only one who notices," she says. "That I'm here. Working."
"I notice everything about you."
She pauses, pot in hand.
"Warya—"
"You're beautiful. Hardworking. Invisible to everyone except me."
She sets down the pot.
The relatives leave after midnight.
Promises to visit more. To call. Lies that everyone tells and no one believes.
Only I remain.
"Help me clean?" she asks.
"Haa."
We clean. We talk. About her divorce—a husband who took a younger wife. About her son—too busy to visit. About the loneliness of hosting family gatherings for a family that doesn't see her.
"I'm tired," she says finally. "Of being invisible."
"I see you."
"Do you? Or do you see a fat old cousin's mother?"
"I see you."
I cross to her.
"This is wrong," she whispers. "We're—"
"Barely related."
"But still—"
"Dhiig doesn't control everything." I touch her face. "Sometimes we choose our connections."
She closes her eyes.
"I haven't been touched in eight years."
"Then let me touch you."
I lead her to her bedroom.
The bed where she sleeps alone. Where she used to have a husband, a family, a purpose.
She undresses slowly.
Heavy breasts. Soft belly. Wide hips.
"I'm old—"
"You're perfect."
I worship my distant relative.
My mouth traces her body—every neglected curve.
"No one has—" She gasps as I kneel. "Eight years—"
I taste her.
She screams.
"ILAAHAY!" Her hands grab my hair. "ALLA—"
I lick her slowly. Family takes care of family.
"Coming—" She's shaking. "I'm coming—"
She explodes.
"Inside me—" She's pulling at me. "Ku soo gal—please—"
I position myself.
"Ready?"
"Haa."
I thrust inside.
She screams.
"Alla—so big—dhammaan—"
I start to move.
I fuck my distant cousin's mother.
Dhiig. Blood. Family.
"Dhakhso—faster—" She wraps her legs around me.
I pound her.
"Coming—" Her eyes roll back. "Ku shub—"
I let go.
I flood Rahma.
Fill her where eight years of family neglect lived.
We lie tangled together.
"Macaan," she breathes. "Best family gathering I've ever hosted."
"I'll visit more often."
"Wallahi?"
"Family takes care of family." I kiss her. "I take care of you."
One Year Later
I visit monthly now.
The family thinks I'm being dutiful. Checking on the lonely divorcee.
They don't know what kind of visits these are.
"Macaan," she moans, as I take her. "My favorite dhiig."
Blood is thicker than water.
What we have is thicker still.