The Garbasaar Unveiling
"The garbasaar is the traditional Somali shawl worn over the head. His mother's best friend has worn one his entire life. When she asks him to help her try on a new one, she unveils more than just her hair—she unveils twenty years of hidden desire."
Sahra has been my mother's best friend for twenty years.
I've known her my entire life. She was at my birth. My graduation. Every aroos and Eid and celebration our families have shared.
I've never seen her hair.
She wears the garbasaar constantly—the traditional Somali shawl that covers everything from crown to shoulder. Even indoors. Even around family. The most modest woman I know.
Until today.
"Warya, I need your opinion."
She catches me in my mother's hallway. My mother is out—shopping, errands, the usual Saturday routine.
"Opinion on what, Eddo Sahra?"
"Don't call me that." She rolls her eyes. "It makes me feel ancient. I'm only forty-five."
"Mahadsnid—"
"I bought new garbasaars." She holds up a shopping bag. "For Fatima's wedding next month. But I can't decide which color. Help me."
"Where's my mother?"
"Out. Won't be back for hours." She grabs my hand. "Come. Quick. I want to try them before she returns."
She pulls me into the guest room.
Closes the door.
She unpacks the scarves.
Green. Blue. Gold. Purple. Each one silk, expensive, beautiful.
"I'll try them on," she says. "You tell me which looks best."
"Haa, Eddo—"
"Sahra." She fixes me with a look. "Just Sahra."
She reaches for her current garbasaar.
And pulls it off.
Her hair tumbles free.
Black, streaked with gray, falling in waves past her shoulders. I've never seen it before. In twenty years, not once.
"Subhanallah," I breathe.
"It's just hair, warya." But she's blushing. "Now—the green."
She drapes the green scarf over her head. It frames her face beautifully.
"Good?"
"Beautiful."
"Really?" She looks in the mirror. "You're not just saying that?"
"Wallahi, you're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen."
She freezes.
"You shouldn't say that," she whispers.
"Why not?"
"Because I'm your mother's friend. Because I'm old enough to be your mother." She turns to face me. "Because I've spent twenty years covering myself so men wouldn't look at me that way."
"What way?"
"The way you're looking at me now."
I cross to her.
"My husband left me five years ago," she says, not moving. "For a younger woman. Said I was too fat, too religious, too... covered."
"His loss."
"That's what everyone said. But do you know what I've done for five years?"
"What?"
"Nothing." Tears shine in her eyes. "Stayed covered. Stayed modest. Stayed alone. Because I believed that's what Allah wanted."
"And now?"
"Now I'm in a room with you." Her hand finds my chest. "And I want something different than what I've had."
"What do you want?"
"To be seen." She pulls off the green scarf. Lets her hair fall free again. "Really seen. By someone who thinks I'm beautiful."
"You are beautiful."
"Then show me."
I kiss her.
The first kiss she's had in five years. Maybe the first real kiss she's ever had.
She melts against me—twenty years of modesty collapsing. Her hands grip my shirt. Her mouth opens to mine.
"Xaaraan," she gasps.
"Everything worth having."
I reach for her dirac.
She's thick beneath the modest clothes.
Two hundred and forty pounds that she's been hiding. Heavy breasts. Soft belly. Wide hips that the loose fabric has concealed.
"I'm fat—"
"You're perfect."
I push her onto the guest bed.
I worship my mother's friend.
My mouth traces her body—every inch she's kept hidden. Her breasts. Her belly. Her thighs.
"No one has—" She gasps as I spread her legs. "My husband never—"
I bury my face in her pussy.
She screams.
"ILAAHAY—" Her hands grab my hair. "What are you—five years—ALLA—"
I lick her slowly. Unveil her the way I unveiled her hair.
"Coming—" She's shaking. "I'm coming—ALLA—"
She explodes.
I don't stop.
"Inside me—" She's pulling at me. "Ku soo gal—please—"
I strip.
Her eyes widen at my cock.
"Subhanallah." She reaches out. "My husband was—nothing—"
"I'm not your husband."
"Alhamdulillah." Thank God. She strokes me. "You're everything he wasn't."
I position myself.
I spread her thick thighs.
"Ready?"
"I've been ready for twenty years."
I thrust inside.
She screams.
The guest room—where she's probably slept dozens of times—shakes with her voice.
"Alla—so big—you're filling me—dhammaan—"
I start to move.
I fuck my mother's best friend.
In my mother's house. On the guest bed. While my mother shops unaware.
"Dhakhso—faster—" She wraps her legs around me. "Give me what I've been missing—"
I pound her.
The bed slams against the wall. She screams and screams.
"Coming—" Her eyes roll back. "Ku shub—fill me—"
I let go.
I flood Sahra.
Fill her where her husband never satisfied her. She moans as she feels it.
We lie tangled together, gasping.
"Macaan," she breathes. "Worth waiting twenty years."
"My mother will be home soon."
"I know." She pulls me for a kiss. "So I'll put my garbasaar back on. And we'll pretend this never happened."
"And next time she goes out?"
She smiles.
"Then I unveil again."
One Year Later
My mother still doesn't know.
She thinks Sahra and I are just friends. Thinks I help her with errands, check on her, make sure the lonely widow isn't too alone.
She has no idea what happens when she leaves.
"Macaan," Sahra moans, her garbasaar on the floor. "My secret. My sin."
She covers herself for the world.
She unveils for me.
Some things are better kept hidden.
Until they're not.