The Podcast Host
"She runs a podcast about Somali diaspora experiences. He's the guest she's been trying to book for months—a rising author who finally said yes. The interview goes off-script when he asks about her experiences, and the mics catch everything."
I've been trying to book Dalmar Warsame for eight months.
His debut novel—about a Somali family in Bristol—has been everywhere. Longlisted for the Booker. Praised by reviewers who usually ignore diaspora voices. He's the guest that would put my podcast on the map.
And now he's sitting across from me in my home studio, microphone between us.
"Ready when you are," I say.
"I've been listening to your episodes," he replies. "You're good at this."
"I'm adequate."
"You're good." His eyes hold mine. "Better than you give yourself credit for."
I start the recording before he can make me blush more.
The interview goes perfectly.
For forty-five minutes, he talks about immigration, identity, the weight of writing about your own community. He's articulate, thoughtful, everything I expected.
Then he turns the interview around.
"Can I ask you something?"
"That's not usually how this works."
"Humor me." He leans back. "Why did you start this podcast?"
"I—it's in my intro—"
"The official version. I want the real one."
I should keep things professional.
Instead, I find myself talking. About feeling invisible in British media. About my own stories never being told. About starting this podcast because if no one would give us a platform, I'd build one myself.
"That's the answer I wanted," he says when I finish.
"Why?"
"Because now I know who you really are." He leans forward. "You're not just a host. You're the person who should be telling these stories."
"I'm not a writer."
"You're a storyteller. Same thing, different medium."
The recording is still running. I should edit this out later.
I don't touch the stop button.
"Can I be honest?" he asks.
"We've been honest for an hour."
"More honest." He sets down his headphones. "I didn't come here just for the interview."
"What do you mean?"
"I've been listening to your voice for months. Driving, cooking, falling asleep. Your voice got me through the hardest part of writing my book." He stands. Walks around the table. Stops in front of me. "I came here because I wanted to meet the woman behind that voice."
"Dalmar—"
"Tell me to leave and I'll leave. Tell me to keep this professional and I will." He crouches to my eye level. "But if you want something else—"
"I don't do this."
"Neither do I."
"The interview—"
"Is over." He glances at the recording. "Unless you want this on tape."
I hit stop.
Then I kiss him.
We don't make it out of the studio.
He lifts me onto my desk—the one where I've recorded a hundred episodes—and kisses me like he's been saving it.
"I imagined this—" he murmurs. "Your voice in my ears while I—"
"While you what?"
"Touched myself. Thinking about you."
"That's—"
"Honest." He pushes my shirt off my shoulders. "I told you I'd be honest."
He's a writer.
He uses words the same way in bed—deliberate, careful, building toward something. Tells me what he's going to do before he does it. Narrates his hands sliding down my body, his mouth following.
"I'm going to taste you now—"
"God—yes—"
"And then I'm going to—"
"Stop talking and do it—"
He laughs against my skin.
Then does exactly what he promised.
He eats me out on my podcast desk.
Where I've interviewed activists and artists and ordinary people with extraordinary stories. Now my own story is unfolding, and I can barely form sentences.
"Dalmar—please—"
"Not yet." He adds his fingers. "I want to feel you come on my hand first."
"I'm going to—"
"Then let go."
I shatter.
Cry out in the soundproofed room, where no one can hear, where the microphones are off but his words are still recording in my memory.
"Inside me—now—"
He rises. Enters me on the desk.
He writes with his body the way he writes with words.
Every thrust a sentence. Every moan a paragraph. Building toward a climax that feels like the ending of a story that started eight months ago when I first sent that booking email.
"You feel—"
"Tell me—"
"Like home." He speeds up. "Like everything I've been looking for."
"That's too much—"
"It's the truth."
We come together.
Collapse on the desk.
Breathing hard in the silence of the soundproofed room.
"The interview needs editing," I say eventually.
"Probably." He's still inside me. "The ending was off-script."
"Way off-script."
"Best interviews are." He kisses my forehead. "Can I take you to dinner?"
"After what we just did?"
"After what we just started." He pulls back, looks at me. "This isn't a one-time thing, Amira. I don't operate that way."
"Neither do I."
"Then let me take you to dinner. Let me court you properly." He grins. "I promise to stay on-script this time."
"I don't want you on-script."
"Then off-script it is."
We date through the release of my episode.
Everyone praises the interview—authentic, intimate, groundbreaking. They don't know how intimate it got after we stopped recording.
"You should write your own book," he tells me one night.
"I'm a podcaster."
"You're a storyteller." He pulls me close. "Same thing, different medium. Remember?"
"I remember."
"Then remember this too: you have a story worth telling. And I'll spend as long as you need helping you find the words."
I write the book.
He edits it. We fight about commas and fall into bed to make up. It's the most productive and chaotic year of my life.
When it publishes, it's dedicated to him.
To D—who heard my voice and wanted to know more.
This is more. This is everything.
The best interviews ask questions that matter.
His question—why did you start this?—led me here.
To this book.
To this life.
To him.