The Landlady of Stone Town
"She owns half the rental rooms in Stone Town. When a young student can't pay his rent, she offers an alternative arrangement. Some debts are paid in currency. Others in service."
The knock on my door is insistent.
"Rent is due."
I open to find Bi Mwanaisha herself—not one of her collectors, but the landlady of Stone Town in person. Fifty-seven years old, two-fifty of property-owning authority, wrapped in silk that costs more than my monthly payment.
"I don't have it," I admit. "Not all of it."
"I know." She pushes past me into my small room. "You've been short for three months. I've let it slide. Today, we settle."
Bi Mwanaisha owns half the rental rooms in Stone Town.
Students like me, young workers, anyone who needs a place to stay but can't afford the tourist prices—we all pay her. She inherited the properties from her husband, expanded them, turned herself into the most powerful landlady on the island.
No one crosses her.
No one fails to pay.
Except me, apparently.
"Forty thousand shillings," she says, looking around my sparse room. "That's what you owe. Plus interest."
"I can get it. My scholarship comes next month—"
"Next month isn't today." She sits on my bed—uninvited, but who would stop her? "Today, you either pay or you leave."
"I have nowhere to go."
"Not my problem." She studies me. "Unless you want to make it my opportunity."
"Opportunity?"
"I'm a businesswoman, Farhan. I don't throw away assets." She crosses her legs, silk rustling. "You're studying medicine. In three years, you'll be a doctor. You'll have money. But right now, you have nothing."
"So?"
"So I'm willing to invest in your future." She pulls a document from her bag. "A contract. I forgive your debt—current and future. All rent paid, until you graduate. In exchange..."
She trails off.
"In exchange for what?"
"For service." Her eyes meet mine. "Personal service. Weekly. Until your studies are complete."
I should refuse.
But I'm three months behind on rent, my scholarship is delayed, and the streets of Stone Town don't care about promising medical students.
"What kind of service?"
"The kind a young man can provide to a woman who hasn't been touched since her husband died." She says it matter-of-factly. Business. "My husband left me properties. He didn't leave me companionship. You have something I need. I have something you need. Simple exchange."
"That's—"
"That's economics." She stands, moves toward me. "Don't pretend you haven't looked at me. I've seen you watching when I come to collect. Wondering what's beneath the silk."
"I wasn't—"
"You were. Most young men do." She's close now, close enough to touch. "The difference is, you're in a position where your curiosity can benefit us both."
She kisses me before I can answer.
Her mouth is practiced, confident—a woman who knows what she wants and how to get it. Her body presses against mine, soft and heavy through the silk.
"Sign the contract," she murmurs against my lips. "And this continues."
"And if I don't sign?"
"Then I find a new tenant tomorrow. And you explain to your parents why their promising doctor son is living on the streets."
I sign.
The first payment is that night.
She stays in my room—her room, technically—and teaches me what service means. Her body is magnificent beneath the silk—heavy breasts, round belly, thighs thick with good living. The body of a wealthy woman who's been denied too long.
"Slowly," she instructs as I undress her. "I haven't had this in eight years. Don't rush."
I don't rush. I worship her the way valuable things deserve to be worshipped—carefully, thoroughly, with attention to every detail.
When I finally enter her, she sighs with relief.
"There. That's what I was missing."
Weekly payments become my schedule.
Every Friday, after prayers, I go to her house—a mansion on the waterfront, old money made visible in every carved door. Her servants know me now. They don't ask questions.
"My young doctor," she calls me. "Working off his debt."
The debt that never decreases, no matter how many payments I make. She finds new ways to extend it—fees here, charges there—keeping me bound until graduation and beyond.
But I stop minding.
"You're getting better," she tells me one night. We're in her massive bed, her weight pressed against me, her breath evening out. "More confident. More skilled."
"I've had good training."
"You've had expensive training. Every lesson costs you nothing in money but everything in time." She traces patterns on my chest. "Do you regret it?"
"Signing the contract?"
"All of it. Being my tenant. My debtor. My..." She pauses. "What are you, exactly?"
"Your investment." I pull her close. "And you're getting good returns."
I graduate three years later.
The contract is fulfilled. I'm free—a doctor now, with job offers and a future. I pack my bags, ready to leave the little room where my strange arrangement began.
Bi Mwanaisha appears at my door.
"You're leaving."
"The contract is complete. I've paid my debt."
"Yes." She enters, closes the door. "But I find myself unwilling to lose my investment."
"I have to start my career—"
"You'll start it here. Zanzibar needs doctors. I need—" She stops. "I've grown accustomed to your service. I don't want to find a replacement."
"What are you proposing?"
"Marriage." She says it like a business offer. "You become my husband. I become your wife. The properties become ours. And the service—" Her smile is thin. "The service continues. Indefinitely."
I should refuse.
Start fresh. Find a young wife. Build a normal life.
But three years of knowing Bi Mwanaisha have taught me something: normal is overrated. And what we have—strange as it began—has become something I don't want to lose.
"The contract terms?"
"The same as before. You service me. I support you. Except now it's legal." She reaches for my hand. "What do you say, Doctor? Will you marry your landlady?"
I marry her.
Stone Town whispers—the young doctor and the rich widow, the tenant who became the husband. But whispers don't pay rent. And rent, in our house, is paid in ways the neighbors will never understand.
"Good morning, husband." She wakes me with her weight on my chest. "Rent is due."
"I thought marriage ended the debt."
"Marriage extended the contract. Forever." She straddles me. "Now pay up."
I pay up.
Every morning.
Every night.
Mwenye nyumba.
Landlady.
Owner of property.
Owner of me.