The Nairobi Connection
"Nairobi has a large Somali population in Eastleigh. When he visits for business, his thick Somali-Kenyan translator shows him around. She knows all the hidden spots—and she shows him the most hidden spot of all: her apartment after dark."
Eastleigh is Little Mogadishu in Nairobi.
The Somali quarter. Shops and restaurants and money changers, all staffed by refugees and immigrants who've made Kenya their home. My company sends me here for textile sourcing—the Somali traders have the best connections to the factories.
My translator is named Hawa.
Forty-three years old. Somali-Kenyan—born in a refugee camp, raised in Nairobi. She speaks Somali, Swahili, English, and Arabic. She knows every trader in Eastleigh.
She's also thick.
Two hundred and thirty pounds of bilingual beauty. Wide hips that sway when she walks through the crowded streets. Heavy breasts beneath her professional blouse. A round face with sharp eyes that miss nothing.
"Karibu Nairobi," she says when she meets me at the airport. "Welcome to Nairobi."
"Mahadsnid, Hawa."
"You speak Somali?"
"Some. My mother taught me."
She smiles.
"Good. It will make my job easier."
We spend the days in meetings.
Textile traders. Factory owners. Quality inspectors. Hawa navigates every conversation, switching between languages seamlessly, negotiating deals I could never manage alone.
"You're incredible," I tell her after one particularly difficult session.
"I'm experienced." She laughs. "Fifteen years of this. I know every trick."
"Where did you learn?"
"Survival." Her smile fades. "When you grow up in Dadaab—the refugee camp—you learn fast. Languages. Negotiation. How to make yourself useful."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. It made me who I am." She looks at me. "Strong. Independent. Able to take what I want."
"What do you want?"
Her eyes meet mine.
"Tonight, I'll show you Eastleigh properly. The real places. The hidden spots."
"Hidden spots?"
"Haa." She smiles. "The ones the tourists never see."
The hidden spots include her apartment.
Small but comfortable. A view of the Eastleigh skyline. Somali art on the walls, Kenyan furniture, a mix of cultures that reflects her life.
"Karibu," she says, pouring drinks. "Welcome to my world."
"It's beautiful."
"It's mine." She hands me a glass. "The first thing I ever owned that no one could take from me."
"The camp took things?"
"Everything." She sits beside me on the couch. "But I built this from nothing. My languages. My skills. My body."
"Your body?"
"Men underestimate fat women." She gestures at herself. "They think we're desperate. Grateful for any attention. They don't expect us to be smart. To negotiate. To win."
"They're wrong."
"Haa." She sets down her drink. "They're very wrong."
She kisses me.
Confident. Commanding. A woman who's used to getting what she wants.
"I've been watching you all week," she says against my mouth. "The way you treat me. Like a partner. Not a servant."
"You are a partner."
"I'm also a woman." She grips my shirt. "A woman who hasn't been touched in two years. Who's tired of being alone."
"Then don't be."
"Adigaa." She pulls at my clothes. "That's the plan."
She strips me efficiently.
Years of negotiation have made her direct. No games. No pretense.
Then she strips herself.
Her body is a survivor's body.
Heavy breasts that sag with weight and years. Soft belly marked with stretch marks. Wide hips and thick thighs built for endurance.
"I know I'm not—"
"You're everything."
I push her onto her bed.
I worship the translator.
My mouth traces her body—every curve earned through survival. Her breasts. Her belly. Her thighs.
"No one has—" She gasps as I spread her legs. "Kenyan men don't do this—"
I bury my face in her pussy.
She screams.
"MUNGU WANGU!" My God—in Swahili. "ILAAHAY!" In Somali. "What are you—ALLA—"
I lick her slowly. Learn her. Both her languages.
"Coming—nakuja—ALLA—"
She explodes.
I don't stop.
"Inside me—ndani yangu—ku soo gal—" She pulls at me, mixing languages. "Please—tafadhali—"
I position myself between her thick thighs.
"Ready?"
"Ndio. Haa. Yes."
I thrust inside.
She screams in two languages.
Her walls grip me—tight, wet, two years tight.
"So big—kubwa sana—weyn—you're filling me—unanijaza—dhammaan—"
I start to move.
I fuck the translator.
Her massive body bounces beneath me. Her breasts roll with every thrust.
"Haraka—dhakhso—faster—" She claws at my back. "Give me everything—kila kitu—"
I pound her.
The bed slams against the wall. She screams in Somali and Swahili and English, a babel of pleasure.
"Coming—nakuja—" Her eyes roll back. "Ku shub—nijaze—fill me—"
I let go.
I flood the Somali-Kenyan translator.
Fill her where she hasn't been filled in years. She moans as she feels it.
We lie tangled together, gasping.
"Asante," she breathes. Thank you. "Mahadsnid."
"My Swahili isn't good enough for what I want to say."
She laughs.
"Say it in Somali."
"Waan ku jeclahay." I love you.
She goes still.
"That's... not what I expected."
"Is it unwelcome?"
"Maya." She pulls me close. "Come back to Nairobi. Often. I'll translate that feeling into reality."
One Year Later
I return to Nairobi quarterly.
The textile business is booming. My company thinks it's my negotiation skills.
It's Hawa.
Every deal. Every connection. Every success traces back to her.
And every night, after the business is done—
"Macaan," she moans, as I take her. "Mpenzi wangu." My love.
She translates that in every language she knows.
I understand every word.