The Minneapolis Hawala Operator

Ubah's Hawala moves more money than most banks.

A small office in Cedar-Riverside, but families across Minneapolis trust her to get money to Somalia. Fast, reliable, no questions asked.

I come with an emergency.

"My grandmother needs surgery. In Mogadishu. I need to send five thousand dollars tonight."

"Ilaahay." She looks at the clock. Nine PM. "Banks are closed. My Somalia contact is asleep."

"Please. She could die."

She studies me. Fifty-four years old. Two hundred and fifty pounds of financial power. Ebony skin, sharp eyes, the face of a woman who's seen everything.

"Sit. I'll make calls."

Two hours later, it's done.

"The money will reach her by morning." She slides me a receipt. "My rate for emergencies."

"Mahadsnid—thank you. I don't know how to repay you."

"You just did." She stands to make chai. "I started this business because my mother needed surgery too. No one would help. She died."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry. Be grateful. Your grandmother will live."

I come back to thank her.

With coffee. With food. With company.

"You don't have to do this," she says after a week.

"I want to."

"Why?"

"Because you saved my grandmother's life. And because—" I hesitate. "Because I like being here."

"Here? This office smells like stress and money."

"It smells like you." I meet her eyes. "You smell like someone who helps people."

She stares at me.

"My husband left me for money," she says one evening. "Not another woman. Money. He took everything we'd built together and started his own hawala. Left me with nothing."

"What did you do?"

"I rebuilt. Better. Bigger. Now I move ten times what he does." She smiles coldly. "Revenge is profitable."

"But lonely?"

"Haa." Yes. "Six years of building. Six years of proving I don't need him. Six years of going home to an empty bed."

"That's not revenge. That's punishment."

"Punishment for what?"

"For trusting someone." I take her hand. "Not everyone is him."

"Come home with me."

We're closing the office. The last customer left hours ago.

"Ubah—"

"I'm not asking for forever. I'm asking for tonight. One night where I remember I'm more than a businesswoman."

"You're more than that."

"Then show me."

Her apartment is simple.

Clean lines, minimal furniture. The home of someone who puts everything into work.

"This is what six years of success looks like," she says. "Empty."

"Not tonight."

I pull her close.

I worship the money mover.

Her body is wealth itself—ebony curves that could fund dynasties. She gasps as I undress her.

"Six years—" She's trembling. "I've transferred millions—never received anything—"

"Tonight you receive everything."

Her body is magnificent.

Breasts heavy with authority. Belly soft from long hours at her desk. Hips wide, thighs thick. She's been depriving herself of pleasure while giving everyone else security.

I kiss down her ebony flesh.

Kneel between her thick thighs.

"ILAAHAY!"

She screams as my mouth finds her. Her hands grip my head.

"Six years—" She's shaking. "Don't stop—dhakhso—"

I lick her through four orgasms.

She's crying when I rise up.

"Inside me—" She's pulling at me. "Ku soo gal—transfer yourself to me—"

I strip. She sees me and her business mind goes blank.

"Subhanallah—"

"This is free of charge."

I lay her back.

I push inside the hawala operator.

She cries out—six years of emotional bankruptcy filling.

"So good—" Her legs wrap around me. "Dhakhso—"

I pound her.

Her massive body bounces beneath me. She comes twice, three times.

"Ku shub—" She's begging. "Deposit inside me—"

I explode into her.

We lie tangled together.

"My grandmother is recovering," I tell her. "Because of you."

"The money helped."

"You helped." I kiss her forehead. "You help everyone. Let someone help you."

One Year Later

I work at Ubah's now.

Handling accounts, managing transfers. We're partners in business.

And partners in everything else.

"Macaan," she moans as I fill her. "My best investment ever."

The hawala operator who moves money.

The woman who moved my heart.

Interest compounding daily.