The Fadhi Kudirir
"Fadhi kudirir is the Somali term for sitting around chatting—a beloved pastime. She hosts the neighborhood women's gathering at her house. When everyone leaves and he stays to help clean, she shows him a different kind of conversation."
Asha's house is always full.
Fadhi kudirir—the Somali art of sitting and talking—happens here every Thursday. Women gather to gossip, drink shaah, complain about husbands and children and life.
I'm the only man who's ever invited.
"You're different," Asha told me once. "You listen. Most men don't."
She's fifty-one. A widow. Her husband died in a car accident six years ago. Now she fills her house with conversation to keep the silence away.
She's thick.
Two hundred and forty pounds of hostess. Wide hips. Heavy breasts. Always cooking, always serving, always making sure everyone is comfortable.
Tonight, the women finally leave.
Only I remain.
"Mahadsnid for staying," she says, collecting tea cups. "Clean-up is always the hardest part."
"I'll help."
"You always help." She pauses. "Do you know why I let you come to fadhi kudirir?"
"Because I listen?"
"Because you see." She sets down the cups. "The women talk about their husbands. Their lovers. Their lives. They don't see me sitting there, alone. Serving. Invisible."
"You're not invisible to me."
"I know." She crosses to me. "That's why you're still here."
She kisses me.
Among the tea cups and empty plates.
"Xaaraan," she gasps.
"Everything good is."
I pull her toward the bedroom where the coats were stored.
Her bedroom is simple.
The bed where she sleeps alone. Where she hosts conversations but never has them herself.
She undresses with practiced efficiency.
Heavy breasts. Soft belly. Wide hips.
"Six years," she says. "Six years of listening to other women talk about love. About touch. About what they have and I don't."
"You have me."
I worship the hostess.
My mouth traces her body—every curve that serves others.
"No one has—" She gasps as I spread her thighs. "Since my husband—"
I taste her.
She screams.
"ILAAHAY!" Her hands grab my hair. "Six years—ALLA—"
I lick her slowly. Finally, someone serving her.
"Coming—" She's shaking. "I'm coming—ALLA—"
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 the fadhi kudirir hostess.
On the bed where coats pile during gatherings.
"Dhakhso—faster—" She wraps her legs around me.
I pound her.
"Coming—" Her eyes roll back. "Ku shub—"
I let go.
I flood Asha.
Fill her where six years of conversation couldn't reach.
We lie tangled together.
"Macaan," she breathes. "Best conversation I've ever had."
"Fadhi kudirir every Thursday?"
"And this. Every Thursday after." She kisses me. "Finally, something worth talking about."
One Year Later
The women still gather at Asha's house.
They still gossip, still complain, still don't notice the way she smiles now.
But I notice.
"Macaan," she moans, after they leave. "My favorite guest."
Some conversations happen with words.
The best ones happen without.