The Mogadishu Memory
"She remembers Mogadishu before the war—a thick widow who tells stories of beaches and nightclubs. When he asks to hear more, she shows him the passion that once filled the city. Some memories are meant to be relived."
Barni remembers the Mogadishu that tourists visited.
The beaches of Lido. The Italian architecture. The nightclubs where Somalis danced until dawn. Before the war destroyed everything.
She tells stories every Thursday at the community center.
Fifty-eight years old. A widow. The last generation that knew the old Somalia.
She's thick.
Two hundred and forty pounds of living history. Wide hips. Heavy breasts. Eyes that have seen both paradise and hell.
I come every week to listen.
"You always stay after," she observes one night. "Why?"
"Your stories are incredible."
"My stories are sad." She sighs. "A city that no longer exists. A woman who no longer belongs."
"You belong here."
"Do I?" She looks at me. "I'm a relic. An old woman talking about the past."
"You're beautiful."
She freezes.
"No one has called me that in fifteen years," she whispers. "Since my husband died. Since anyone saw me as more than a storyteller."
"I see you."
"As what?"
"A woman with fire." I take her hand. "The same fire that filled Mogadishu."
"That fire died with the city."
"No. It's still there." I pull her close. "Let me find it."
I take her home.
Her apartment is filled with photos of old Mogadishu. A shrine to what was lost.
"I used to dance," she says. "Every weekend. The clubs on Maka Al-Mukarama..."
"Dance with me now."
She laughs. "There's no music."
I hum an old Somali song. She recognizes it. Tears fill her eyes.
We dance.
And then we do more.
Her body remembers what her mind has mourned.
Heavy breasts. Soft belly. Wide hips that once moved in nightclubs.
"Fifteen years," she gasps as I worship her. "Fifteen years—"
I taste her.
She screams.
"ILAAHAY!" The fire returning. "ALLA—"
"Coming—" She's shaking. "I'm coming—"
She explodes.
"Inside me—" She's pulling at me. "Ku soo gal—let me feel alive—"
I position myself.
"Ready?"
"Haa."
I thrust inside.
She screams with the passion of old Mogadishu.
"Alla—dhammaan—"
I start to move.
I make love to the storyteller.
Bringing the old city back to life.
"Dhakhso—faster—like the old days—"
I pound her.
"Coming—" Her eyes roll back. "Ku shub—"
I let go.
I flood Barni.
Fill her with fire she thought was gone.
We lie tangled together.
"Macaan," she breathes. "I feel like Mogadishu again."
"Then the city lives."
"In me?"
"In us." I kiss her. "Every Thursday, I'll come for stories. Every night, I'll come for this."
She cries.
Then she dances in my arms.
One Year Later
She still tells stories.
But now, they have hope.
"Macaan," she moans, as I take her. "My memory. My future."
Mogadishu died.
What we have is resurrection.