The Halal Market Owner

Barwaaqo's Halal Market has been on Lake Street for fifteen years.

The shelves are packed tight—bariis from Thailand, spices from Aden, frozen goat from New Zealand. The smell hits you when you walk in: cardamom, frankincense, and something cooking in the back.

Barwaaqo herself sits behind the counter.

Fifty-three years old. Widowed for seven. Built like a Somali queen—two hundred and seventy pounds of authority packed into a flowing baati dress. Her skin is deep ebony, darker than anyone else in the store. Her eyes miss nothing.

"Soo dhawow," she calls as I enter. "New face. What brings you to my store?"

"I moved to the neighborhood. Looking for real food."

"Real food." She laughs—a sound like honey. "American boys think they know real food. What do you want?"

"Whatever you recommend."

She smiles.

She leads me through the aisles herself.

"Basmati rice—not that garbage they sell at Cub." She hands me a bag. "Xawaash—you know xawaash? Somali spice mix. Essential."

"I don't know how to cook Somali food."

"Then you'll learn." She adds more items to my basket. "Hilib—goat meat. Muufo flour. Suugo paste."

"How do I—"

"Come back tomorrow." She meets my eyes. "I'll teach you."

I come back tomorrow.

And the next day.

And every day after.

Barwaaqo teaches me to cook. Shows me how to make canjeero—the spongy bread. How to spice hilib ari. How to brew shaah with cardamom and cloves.

"You're a good student," she says one evening, watching me stir a pot in the back room. "Most young men don't have patience."

"I like learning."

"What else do you like?"

She's standing close. Too close. Her body radiates heat.

"Barwaaqo—"

"My husband taught me this business." She takes the spoon from my hand. "Thirty years together. Then cancer took him. Seven years I've run this store alone."

"That's a long time to be alone."

"Too long." She sets down the spoon. "I'm tired of being strong. Tired of being everyone's hooyo. I want to be a woman again."

"What does that mean?"

"It means—" She takes my hand. Places it on her hip. "It means I close early tonight."

The back room has a small bed.

"For inventory nights," she explains, locking the front door. "When shipments come late."

"Is that all it's for?"

"It was." She turns to me. "Until you."

She reaches for her baati.

Her body is extraordinary.

Ebony skin that gleams in the fluorescent light. Breasts massive and heavy, hanging to her navel. Her belly soft and round, years of sampling her own cooking. Hips wider than the doorframe, thighs thick enough to crush.

"Subhanallah," I breathe.

"Seven years." She stands before me, unashamed. "Seven years since a man has seen me. Since a man has touched me."

"Can I touch you?"

"Fadlan—please."

I worship the market owner.

My hands learn her body like I learned her spices—every curve, every fold, every inch of ebony flesh. She gasps as I kneel before her.

"No man has ever—my husband never—"

"Then he missed the best part."

I spread her thick thighs.

Taste her.

"ILAAHAY!"

She screams so loud I'm sure the whole block can hear. Her hands grip my head, pull me deeper.

"Seven years—" She's shaking. "Seven years—"

I lick her until she comes.

Then I lick her again.

"Ku soo gal—" She's pulling at me. "Inside—I need you inside—"

I strip. Her eyes widen.

"My husband was small." She wraps her hand around me. "You are not."

"Is that a problem?"

"It's a blessing."

She pulls me onto the bed.

I sink inside her.

She wails—seven years of emptiness filling with me.

"Dhammaan—all of it—" She wraps her massive legs around me. "Dhakhso—don't be gentle—"

I pound the widow.

The bed screams against the floor. Her body ripples beneath me—two hundred and seventy pounds of flesh shaking with every thrust. She comes twice before I'm close.

"Inside me—" She's begging. "Ku shub—fill your Barwaaqo—"

I explode.

We lie on the inventory bed.

Through the walls, we can hear Lake Street—cars passing, people talking, the sounds of the neighborhood at night.

"Come tomorrow," she murmurs. "And every day after."

"For cooking lessons?"

"For everything." She kisses my chest. "I'll feed you. Teach you. Love you."

"Macaan."

"The sweetest."

Two Years Later

I work at Barwaaqo's now.

Help her run the store. Stock the shelves. Handle the heavy lifting she can no longer manage.

The customers think I'm her employee.

At night, on the inventory bed, I'm so much more.

"Macaan," she moans as I fill her. "My sweet, sweet man."

The halal market owner.

The woman who fed my body.

And starved my loneliness.