The Language Tutor
"She's learning Somali to reconnect with her roots. He's the tutor her mother hired—too young, too handsome, and way too patient. When the lessons move from vocabulary to something more physical, she discovers some things don't need translation."
My mother's disappointment knows no bounds.
"Twenty-six years old and you can't speak your own language," she sighs. "What will you tell your children? That their grandmother doesn't matter?"
"Hooyo—"
"Don't 'hooyo' me in that broken accent." She pulls out her phone. "I'm hiring you a tutor."
The tutor is Jamal.
And Jamal is a problem.
He arrives the next Tuesday.
Twenty-eight years old. Masters in linguistics from SOAS. Eyes that crinkle when he laughs and a voice that makes Somali sound like music.
"You must be Deka," he says, and even my name sounds different when he says it.
"I should warn you—I'm terrible at this."
"Everyone says that." He sits across from me at the kitchen table, pulls out textbooks and worksheets. "By the end, they're reciting poetry."
"Poetry?"
"Somali is a poetic language. That's where we'll end up." He opens a notebook. "But first—the basics. Repeat after me: Maalin wanaagsan."
"Maalin wanaagsan."
"Not bad. Now: Magacaagu waa maxay?"
"Maga... caa... gu... waa maxay?"
He smiles. "We have work to do."
Lessons are every Tuesday and Thursday.
Two hours each, in my mother's kitchen, with her checking on us every twenty minutes like we're teenagers who can't be trusted.
She's not wrong.
Because somewhere between conjugating verbs and practicing pronunciation, I've started noticing things. The way Jamal's hands move when he explains something. The way he leans closer when I'm struggling. The way his cologne lingers after he leaves.
"You're distracted," he says on lesson eight.
"I'm tired."
"You're not looking at the textbook."
"Maybe I'm looking at something else."
He goes quiet. I've crossed a line. I should take it back, laugh it off, blame my terrible Somali skills for the misunderstanding.
Instead, I hold his gaze.
"Deka—"
"Say something in Somali."
"What?"
"Something... not from the textbook."
He's quiet for a moment. Then, softly: "Waxaan kuu jeclahay."
"What does that mean?"
"You tell me. Use what you've learned."
I break it down. Waxaan—I. Kuu—to you. Jeclahay—love.
I love you.
"Jamal—"
He kisses me.
My mother chose this moment to check on us.
Of course she did.
The scream could be heard in Hargeisa. The accusations that followed—at me, at him, at the universe that would allow such a betrayal in her own kitchen—lasted longer.
"I trusted you!" she shouts at Jamal. "To teach my daughter, not to—"
"Hooyo, I kissed him first."
"You kissed—" She clutches her chest. "Allah save me from this child."
Jamal gathers his books. "I should go."
"No." I grab his arm. "You should stay."
"Deka—"
"Hooyo." I turn to my mother. "I'm twenty-six years old. I've spent my whole life doing what you wanted—school, job, everything. Now I want something for myself."
"Him? The tutor?"
"Him." I look at Jamal. "If he wants me too."
The kitchen is silent. My mother is red-faced. Jamal is frozen.
Then he says, quietly: "I want you too."
My mother leaves the room.
We hear her bedroom door slam. We hear her on the phone with my aunt, voice rising and falling in Somali too fast for me to follow.
"I should go," Jamal says again.
"Not yet." I pull him toward my room. "Give her time to calm down."
"In your room?"
"She's already furious. Might as well earn it."
My room is small.
A single bed. Posters from university I never took down. A prayer rug I should use more often.
Jamal sits on the edge of the bed. I sit next to him. The energy between us is electric—months of lessons and lingering looks finally finding their outlet.
"We should talk about this," he says.
"Or we could not talk."
"Deka—"
I kiss him.
Properly this time. No interrupting mothers. Just his lips and mine and the revelation that some languages don't need words.
"We should—"
"Shut up," I murmur against his mouth. "Maalin wanaagsan."
He laughs. "That means 'good day.'"
"Then teach me something better."
He teaches me.
With his hands, his mouth, his body. He undresses me slowly, naming each part in Somali, making me repeat after him until I'm gasping and forgetting everything.
"Jamal—please—"
"Af Soomaali," he teases, even now. "Somali, Deka."
"Fadlan," I manage. "Fadlan, waan ku doonayaa."
"Better." He kisses down my stomach. "Though your accent needs work."
His mouth finds me.
I stop caring about accents.
He's thorough in this, too.
Like teaching vocabulary. Methodical. Patient. Building toward something, step by step, until I'm gripping the sheets and trying not to scream while my mother is two rooms away.
"Jamal—I'm going to—"
"Waxaad dareemaysaa maxay?" He lifts his head. "What do you feel?"
"I can't—I don't know the words—"
"Then learn." He slides up my body, positions himself. "I'll teach you."
He pushes inside.
The lesson continues.
Each thrust accompanied by a word, a phrase, a piece of the language I've been neglecting my whole life. Love. Pleasure. Need. Want. The Somali words for everything I'm feeling.
"Waan ku jeclahay—" I gasp.
"Good." He speeds up. "What else?"
"Waxaan kuu baahanahay—I need you—"
"More—"
"Ha joojin—don't stop—Jamal—fadlan—"
I come with Somali on my lips.
He follows, filling me, murmuring words I don't understand but feel in my bones.
After, we lie in silence.
"Your mother is going to kill me," he says.
"She'll get over it."
"Will she?"
"Eventually." I curl against him. "She wants me to reconnect with my heritage. What's more Somali than falling for my tutor?"
"I don't think that's what she had in mind."
"Probably not." I look up at him. "Do you regret it?"
"Not for a second." He kisses my forehead. "Waan ku jeclahay. And I'll say it in any language you want."
"English is fine sometimes."
"I love you, Deka."
"I love you too."
My mother takes two months to forgive us.
Two months of slammed doors and pointed silence and prayers she makes sure we can hear. But eventually, grudgingly, she accepts that her plan worked—just not the way she expected.
"He's a good boy," she admits finally. "Even if his methods are... untraditional."
"Hooyo!"
"What? I'm not blind. I know what happens when young people—" She waves her hand. "Just give me grandchildren who speak proper Somali."
"We're working on it."
We marry a year later.
The ceremony is in Somali. I understand every word.
"Show-off," my mother whispers, but she's crying.
Jamal takes my hand. Leans close.
"Waan ku jeclahay."
"Waan ku jeclahay," I reply.
The words come easy now.
Everything comes easy with him.