The Dowry Keeper
"She holds the dowries of Lamu's elite families in trust. Before any groom receives his bride's wealth, he must prove himself worthy. Her standards are high. Her tests are personal."
Bi Khadija holds my bride's dowry.
Two million shillings in gold, gems, and land deeds—the accumulated wealth of three generations, held in trust until I prove myself worthy. This is the tradition in Lamu's old families: the dowry keeper tests the groom before releasing the bride's fortune.
"Sit," she commands when I enter her house. "We have much to discuss."
Bi Khadija has been dowry keeper for thirty years.
Every elite family in Lamu trusts her with their daughters' futures. At sixty-four, she's managed fortunes worth hundreds of millions—and rejected dozens of grooms who failed her tests.
"You want to marry Amira bint Hassan," she says, studying me across her desk. She's massive—two-sixty at least—wrapped in expensive fabric that declares her status. "Do you know what that means?"
"It means I love her."
"Love is irrelevant." She waves dismissively. "Love fades. What matters is capability. Can you provide for her? Protect her? Satisfy her?"
"I can—"
"You say you can. Anyone can say." She opens a drawer, pulls out a thick file. "My job is to verify."
The file contains everything.
My family history. My education. My business dealings. She's investigated me more thoroughly than any bank, any government, any suspicious relative.
"Your finances are acceptable," she pronounces. "Your character seems sound. Your health is good." She closes the file. "But there's one thing I can't learn from paper."
"What's that?"
"Whether you can perform." Her eyes meet mine. "A wife has rights. One of those rights is satisfaction. If you fail to provide it, she has grounds for divorce—and the dowry stays with me."
"I can perform—"
"Again, you say. Anyone can say." She stands, moves around the desk. "My tests are practical, young man. I don't take anyone's word. I verify personally."
"You're suggesting—"
"I'm not suggesting anything. I'm telling you how this works." She stops in front of me. "Thirty years of keeping dowries. I've seen marriages fail because grooms couldn't satisfy their brides. I've seen fortunes wasted on men who lied about their capabilities."
"So you... test them."
"I verify them. There's a difference." She reaches for my face, tilts my chin up. "Tonight, you prove yourself to me. If you pass, the dowry transfers tomorrow. If you fail—"
"I won't fail."
"Then prove it."
Her private quarters are upstairs.
Rich fabrics, expensive furniture, the accumulated wealth of decades of dowry-keeping. She leads me to a massive bed—the testing ground, apparently—and begins to undress.
"The standards are simple," she explains. "Stamina. Skill. Attentiveness. If you can satisfy an old woman like me, you can certainly satisfy a young bride."
"This seems—"
"Traditional? It is. Unorthodox? Also true." The clothes fall away. She's heavy and soft, marked by age but powerful in presence. "The old families trust me because I'm thorough. Because the grooms I approve never disappoint."
"And the ones who fail?"
"Go home empty-handed. Try again elsewhere." She lies back on the bed. "Now. Show me what my client's daughter will be getting."
I show her.
I've been with women before—but never with the pressure of two million shillings watching. I force myself to focus, to perform, to treat this like the test it is.
I worship her body first. Take my time with her heavy breasts, her soft belly, the wetness I find between her thighs. When she comes on my tongue, she nods.
"Adequate start. Continue."
I continue. Enter her slowly, gauging her responses, adjusting my rhythm. She's tight—widowed for years—but she knows what she wants.
"Deeper. A young bride will want to feel filled."
I go deeper.
"Slower. Build anticipation."
I go slower.
"Now—harder—show me you can take what you want—"
I take what I want.
She comes three times before she's satisfied.
The final time, she cries out—surprising herself, I think—and her body clenches around me as I finally let go.
"Well," she gasps afterward. "That was—acceptable."
"Acceptable?"
"More than acceptable." She's breathing hard. "Amira is a fortunate girl."
"So I pass?"
"You pass." She pulls me down for a kiss—the first intimacy she's shown. "The dowry transfers tomorrow. But tonight—" Her hand finds me again. "Tonight I want to verify once more. Just to be certain."
Morning comes too quickly.
The dowry documents are signed. The gold, the gems, the land deeds—all transfer to my control. Amira will be mine.
"Remember what you learned here," Bi Khadija says at the door. "Your bride deserves the same attention you gave me."
"I'll remember."
"Good." She pauses. "And if you ever have concerns—about your performance, about your marriage—my door is open. For... consultations."
"Consultations?"
"The dowry keeper's work doesn't end at the wedding." Her smile is knowing. "I check on my investments. Make sure the grooms stay worthy."
I marry Amira.
She's everything I hoped—young, beautiful, delighted by the skills I demonstrate on our wedding night.
"Where did you learn—"
"Practice," I tell her. "Good preparation."
She doesn't ask more. Why would she?
And when, a year later, I visit Bi Khadija for a "consultation"—
She verifies that I'm still worthy.
Again.
And again.
Mweka mahari.
Dowry keeper.
Guardian of wealth.
Tester of grooms.
Still testing.