The Garowe Connection
"His company sends him to Garowe, Puntland, for a tech project. The thick Somali project coordinator assigned to him is a divorced mother who hasn't had a real man in years. Their professional relationship becomes very unprofessional after hours."
Garowe is dusty and hot and nothing like Minneapolis.
The capital of Puntland sprawls across the desert—low buildings, dirt roads, camels wandering through traffic. My company sent me here to set up their new East Africa tech hub. Three months of work. Three months away from everything I know.
At least the coordinator is interesting.
"Soo dhawow," she says when I step off the plane. "Welcome to Garowe."
Her name is Nasteho. Thirty-nine years old. Divorced. Two teenage children who live with her mother while she works. She's been managing projects in Puntland for a decade—one of the few women in the business who can navigate both traditional culture and modern tech.
She's also thick.
Two hundred and thirty pounds of Somali woman, dressed professionally in a loose blouse and long skirt. Wide hips. Heavy breasts. A round, pretty face beneath a carefully pinned hijab.
"Mahadsnid," I say, shaking her hand. "Thank you for meeting me."
"It's my job." But her eyes linger on me—my height, my shoulders, my American clothes. "The hotel is this way. I'll show you the office tomorrow."
I follow her.
I try not to watch her hips as she walks.
I fail.
The first week is professional.
Meetings. Site surveys. Contracts. Nasteho handles everything with brisk efficiency—translating, negotiating, smoothing over the cultural gaps between my American directness and Somali hospitality.
We're good together.
Too good.
I catch her watching me during meetings. Feel her hand linger on my arm when she passes documents. Smell her perfume—oud and something floral—every time she leans close.
"You're different," she says one evening, after the workers have gone home.
"Different how?"
"The men they usually send—fat, old, rude. They treat Somali women like servants." She looks at me. "You treat me like a person."
"You are a person."
"Not everyone sees it that way." She sighs. "My ex-husband certainly didn't."
"Tell me about him."
"He was traditional. Wanted a wife who cooked, cleaned, stayed quiet." She laughs bitterly. "When I started working, making more money than him—he couldn't handle it. Found a younger woman. Left me with two children and a mortgage."
"He was a fool."
"Haa." She meets my eyes. "He was."
The air between us changes.
It happens in the third week.
We're working late—just the two of us—reviewing contracts in the small office we've rented. The generator hums. The AC sputters. Outside, Garowe sleeps.
"You need to sign here," she says, leaning over my shoulder.
I smell her perfume. Feel her breath on my neck.
"Nasteho—"
"And here." She points to another line. Her breast brushes my arm.
I turn.
She's inches away.
"What are we doing?" I ask.
"I don't know." Her voice is barely a whisper. "I haven't done anything in five years. Since the divorce. I've been... good."
"And now?"
"Now I'm tired of being good." Her hand finds my chest. "I'm tired of being alone. I'm tired of lying in my bed at night, thinking about..."
"About what?"
"About you." She closes her eyes. "About what you would do if I let you."
"Show me."
She kisses me.
Her mouth is soft and hungry and desperate—five years of loneliness pouring through her lips. I grab her hips, pull her onto my lap. She gasps as she feels my hardness.
"Ilaahay weyn—" She breaks the kiss. "You want me? Even like this?"
"I've wanted you since the airport."
"But I'm—"
"Perfect." I find the buttons on her blouse. "Take it off."
Her hands shake as she complies.
The blouse falls.
Her bra is plain—white cotton, functional—but her breasts strain against it. I unhook it. Let them spill free.
"Subhanallah." I cup them—heavy, soft, nipples dark against brown skin. "You're beautiful."
"No one has told me that in years."
"Then everyone is blind."
I suck a nipple into my mouth.
She moans.
"I need—" She's gasping as I worship her breasts. "I need more—"
I stand. Lift her onto the desk. Papers scatter. Contracts fall.
I don't care.
I unzip her skirt. Pull it down along with her underwear. Her belly is soft and round. Her thighs are thick. Between them, dark curls glisten with wetness.
"Five years," I murmur, dropping to my knees. "Let me make up for that."
My tongue finds her clit.
She screams.
"ALLA—no one has ever—my husband never—"
I lick her slowly. Learn her. Find every spot that makes her shake. She grabs my hair, pulls me closer.
"Haa—haa—ha joogin—don't stop—"
I slide two fingers inside. She's tight—so tight—and soaking. I curl them upward.
"Coming—" She's shaking. "Five years and now—ILAAHAY—"
She explodes.
Her thighs clamp around my head. She screams in Somali—words I don't understand, but the meaning is clear. I drink her down.
I give her another one.
"Inside me—" She's pulling at my shoulders. "I need you inside me—"
I stand.
Unbuckle my pants.
Her eyes widen at my cock.
"Weyn." Big. She wraps her hand around me. "My husband was nothing like this."
"Forget your husband."
"Make me."
I push inside.
She screams.
Her walls stretch around me—tight, hot, wet. Five years of nothing make her grip me like she never wants to let go.
"Alla—you're filling me—dhammaan—completely—"
I start to move.
She wraps her legs around me, pulls me deeper. Her heels dig into my ass.
"Dhakhso—faster—" She's clawing at my back. "I've waited so long—"
I fuck her on the desk.
Contracts fall. Papers scatter. The generator hums. Her screams echo through the empty office.
"Coming—" Her eyes roll back. "Coming again—"
She shatters beneath me.
But I don't stop.
I fuck her through it. Fuck her until she's begging.
"Inside me—" She's barely coherent. "Ku shub—fill me—"
I let go.
I flood the project coordinator.
Pump her full in the office where we're supposed to be professional. She moans as she feels it—hot and thick, filling her womb.
We lie tangled on the desk.
Gasping. Papers sticking to sweaty skin.
"This is unprofessional," she whispers.
"Very."
"We should stop."
"Should we?"
She's quiet for a moment.
"Maya." No. Her hand finds my cock, already stirring. "We should continue. Often. Every night."
"And the project?"
"Will still get done." She pulls me down for a kiss. "I'm an excellent multitasker."
Three Months Later
The project launches on time.
The tech hub is operational. The client is happy. My company calls it a success.
They don't know about the nights.
The nights in my hotel room. In her apartment. In the office after everyone leaves. Three months of professional collaboration by day, and this by night.
"You're leaving tomorrow," she says on my last night. We're tangled in her bed, her thick body warm against mine.
"Yes."
"Will you come back?"
"I'll try."
"Try hard." She pulls me on top of her. "Puntland needs good tech people. And I need..."
"What do you need?"
"Adigaa." You. She guides me inside her. "Come back to me. Wallahi, come back."
I promise.
And six months later, when the company asks for volunteers for the Garowe expansion project, I'm the first to raise my hand.
Some connections are worth keeping.