The Madrasa Teacher

Mwalimu Khadija hasn't changed.

That's my first thought when I see her at the madrasa reunion—twenty years after she taught me to recite Al-Fatiha, and she looks exactly the same. Same stern face. Same hijab wrapped tight around her head. Same massive body that used to terrify us children when she moved between our rows, checking our Quran recitations.

She's sixty-three now. I'm twenty-five. And I still feel seven years old when she looks at me.

"Yusuf." Her voice is exactly as I remember—deep, commanding, the voice of a woman who has spent forty years teaching children to fear Allah. "You've grown."

"Mwalimu." I bow my head instinctively. Old habits. "You look well."

"I look old." She says it without self-pity. "Come. Sit with me. Tell me what you've become."

We sit apart from the other reunion guests.

The madrasa courtyard is full of former students—now doctors, engineers, businessmen—but Mwalimu Khadija has no interest in them. She wants to talk to me.

"Your mother tells me you're not married."

"Not yet."

"Not yet, or not ever?" Her eyes are sharp. "She says you've refused every girl she's suggested. Says you have... particular tastes."

I feel my face heat. My mother talks too much.

"I'm just... waiting for the right person."

"Mm." She sips her chai. "And what does the right person look like, Yusuf?"

I don't answer. Can't answer. Because the truth is sitting across from me—sixty-three years old, two hundred and eighty pounds, wrapped in black abaya, the most forbidden thing I've ever wanted.

"You were always quiet," she says. "Even as a child. Watching. Thinking. I used to wonder what was happening in that head of yours."

"Nothing appropriate."

The words escape before I can stop them. She goes very still.

"Explain."

"Mwalimu—"

"I'm not your teacher anymore, Yusuf. I'm an old woman at a reunion." She sets down her cup. "Explain what you mean by 'not appropriate.'"

The courtyard noise fades. It's just us.

"I used to watch you," I say quietly. "When you walked between the rows. When you bent to correct someone's recitation. I was seven, and I didn't understand what I was feeling, but I knew it was... wrong."

"And now? Now that you're twenty-five?"

"Now I understand exactly what I was feeling." I meet her eyes. "And it's still wrong."

She's quiet for a long time.

Then she stands, gathers her abaya around her.

"My house is three streets from here. The green door with the jasmine vine." She doesn't look at me. "If you're still feeling inappropriate in one hour, you know where to find me."

She walks away.

I watch her go—the sway of her hips beneath the black fabric, the weight of her moving through the crowd like a ship through water.

I last forty-five minutes.

The green door opens before I knock.

"I saw you from the window." She steps aside. "Come in. Quickly."

Her house is small, traditional. Swahili carved furniture. Quran verses on the walls. The smell of oud and something cooking.

"I've never done this," she says, locking the door. "In sixty-three years of life. Forty years of teaching. I've never—"

"Neither have I."

"You're twenty-five. You've had women."

"Not like you." I move closer. "Never anyone like you."

"I'm old enough to be your grandmother."

"I know."

"I taught you to read the Quran. I'm supposed to be—"

"I know, Mwalimu." I cup her face in my hands. She's trembling. "Tell me to leave and I will."

"I should tell you to leave."

"But you won't."

"No." Her voice breaks. "Allah forgive me, I won't."

I kiss her.

She tastes like chai and decades of restraint.

Her hands grip my shirt—not pushing away, pulling closer. Her body presses against mine, and I feel all of her—the massive breasts, the round belly, the hips that strain against her abaya.

"The bedroom," she gasps. "Not here—not where the neighbors might—"

I follow her.

Her bedroom is simple. A large bed. A prayer rug in the corner. A window overlooking the jasmine vine.

She turns to face me, and her hands go to her hijab.

"Let me," I say.

She nods.

I unwrap her slowly. First the hijab, revealing grey hair cropped short. Then the abaya, button by button, layer by layer. Beneath it, a simple cotton dress. Beneath that, practical underwear.

And beneath that—

"Ya Allah."

She's massive. Sixty-three years of Swahili cooking and sedentary teaching. Her breasts hang to her waist, dark-nippled, heavy as fruit. Her belly is an ocean of soft flesh, rippling when she breathes. Her thighs are tree trunks, marked with the veins and spots of age.

She's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.

"I'm old," she whispers. "And fat. And—"

"You're everything." I drop to my knees. "Let me worship you."

I start at her feet.

Kissing her ankles. Her calves. Her knees. Working my way up those massive thighs, feeling her shake above me. When I reach the apex, she's already wet—I can smell her, decades of denied desire.

"Yusuf—you don't have to—"

"I want to." I spread her with my fingers. "I've wanted to for eighteen years."

I taste her.

She screams.

Her cunt is heaven.

Sixty-three years old, and she tastes like salvation. I eat her with eighteen years of suppressed hunger, my tongue learning every fold, my fingers sliding inside to find the places that make her shake.

"Astaghfirullah—" She's sobbing. "Astaghfirullah, it feels so—I never knew—"

I don't stop. I push her to the edge and over, feeling her come on my tongue, her thighs crushing my head, her voice breaking on prayers that are half plea and half sin.

When she finally pushes me away, she's weeping.

"No one has ever—in sixty-three years—my husband never—"

"You were married?"

"For thirty years. He died a decade ago. And he never—" She can't finish. "Not once."

"Then he was a fool."

"He was a good Muslim man."

"He was still a fool." I climb up her body, kiss her tears. "You deserve to be worshipped."

"I deserve hellfire for this."

"Then we'll burn together."

I strip.

Her eyes go wide—wider than when she used to catch us misbehaving in class.

"That's—you're—"

"Is it too much?"

"It's—" She laughs, disbelieving. "Subhanallah. It's perfect."

I position myself between her thighs. She's still wet, still swollen from coming.

"Are you sure?" I ask.

"I've been sure since you walked into that reunion." She pulls me down. "Take me, Yusuf. Make me forget I'm supposed to be pious."

I push inside my teacher.

She's tight.

Ten years without a man, and her body has forgotten. She gasps as I fill her, her nails digging into my back, her legs wrapping around my waist.

"Slowly—please—it's been so long—"

I go slowly. Inch by inch, letting her adjust. And when I'm finally buried to the hilt, I pause—feeling her pulse around me, seeing tears stream down her face.

"Okay?"

"More than okay." She pulls me closer. "Now move. Show me what I've been missing."

I show her.

I fuck Mwalimu Khadija on the bed where she's prayed every night for sixty years. I make her scream loud enough that the neighbors will wonder. I take her through position after position—on her back, on her belly, on all fours with her massive ass in the air.

"Yes—na'am—harder—I never knew—"

She comes three more times before I let myself finish. And when I do—buried deep, filling her while she sobs my name—I feel like I'm finally completing a lesson I started eighteen years ago.

After, we lie in the wreckage of her piety.

"I'll have to repent," she murmurs.

"Will you?"

"Probably not." She traces patterns on my chest. "Not if you keep coming back."

"I'll come back."

"Yusuf—"

"Every week. Every day, if you want." I tilt her face up. "You've spent sixty-three years teaching everyone else. Let me teach you something."

"What could you teach me?"

"How it feels to be wanted. Really, truly wanted." I kiss her softly. "I'm an excellent student, Mwalimu. You taught me yourself."

She laughs—the first genuine laugh I've ever heard from her.

"You were always my favorite."

"I know."

"Arrogant boy."

"You made me that way."

I visit her every Friday after Jummah.

The neighbors see a devoted former student, checking on his elderly teacher. They see me carrying groceries, fixing things around her house, sitting with her on the veranda.

They don't see what happens after dark.

They don't see her screaming my name while I bury my face between her thighs.

They don't see the sixty-three-year-old Quran teacher, spread beneath her former student, taking his cock like she was made for it.

Some lessons are private.

Some teachers are unforgettable.

And some students never stop learning.

Alhamdulillah.

Praise be to God.

For everything He's taught me.