Market Value
"She sells traditional Somali spices at Borough Market—the only East African stall among the artisan cheese and organic bread. He's the chef who keeps buying everything she has. Professional interest becomes personal obsession."
"All of it."
He gestures at my entire spice display.
"All of what?"
"Everything. Your xawaash, your cardamom, everything." He pulls out cash. "I'll take it all."
His name is Suleiman.
Head chef at a restaurant I can't afford. Comes every Saturday for my spices.
"Why mine specifically?"
"Because yours are real." He smells the xawaash. "Most places cut corners. You don't."
"My hooyo would haunt me if I did."
"Good hooyo." He smiles. "Good daughter."
We talk every market day.
About spices, about cooking, about the things that make food more than sustenance.
"Come to my restaurant," he says one Saturday.
"I can't afford it."
"As my guest." He hands me a card. "Let me cook for you with your own spices."
He cooks just for me.
Empty restaurant, private tasting, my spices transformed into art.
"This is incredible."
"This is you." He sits across from me. "Your work, your family's recipes, I just assembled it."
"You did more than assemble."
"I did it for you." He holds my gaze. "I've been waiting to do something for you."
We kiss in his kitchen.
The same spices I sell now flavoring something different entirely.
"Suleiman—"
"You've been on my mind since the first purchase."
"I'm just a market trader."
"You're the best thing at that market." He lifts me onto the counter. "Let me taste you properly."
We make love among the spices.
Our bodies seasoned with everything we've been building.
"You're delicious—"
"We're delicious." He moves with me. "Better than anything I've ever created."
He makes me his partner.
Business and otherwise. The restaurant features my spices prominently.
"I want more," he says one day.
"More spices?"
"More you." He kneels. "Marry me. Be my partner in every recipe."
I say yes.
The market cheers when I tell them.