The Qaran Day Queen
"Qaran Day is Somali Independence Day. At the community celebration, the thick former beauty queen who organized the event catches his eye. She was Miss Somalia 1985—before the war took everything. He helps her remember what she used to be."
July 1st. Qaran Day.
The park fills with Somalis celebrating independence—flags waving, food cooking, children running. The Minneapolis community comes out in force, remembering a homeland most of them can't return to.
The organizer is named Luul.
Fifty-eight years old. She's been running the Qaran Day celebration for twenty years, ever since she arrived as a refugee.
She's thick.
Two hundred and forty pounds of Somali matriarch. Wide hips beneath a flowing dirac. Heavy breasts. A round face that's still beautiful, despite everything.
But what catches my attention is the photo on the program.
A young woman. Thin. Gorgeous. Wearing a sash that says MISS SOMALIA 1985.
"That's me," says a voice behind me.
I turn.
Luul smiles sadly.
"Another lifetime."
"You were Miss Somalia?"
We're behind the stage, taking a break from the celebration. She's drinking water. I'm trying not to stare.
"1985. The last pageant before the war." She looks at the photo in my hands. "I was nineteen. Thin. Beautiful. Everyone said I would be famous."
"What happened?"
"The war." She takes the photo back. "Everything ended. My family fled. I spent ten years in refugee camps."
"I'm sorry."
"The camps are why I look like this." She gestures at her body. "Starvation, then food aid, then survival. My body never recovered."
"You're still beautiful."
She laughs—bitter.
"Wallahi, don't lie. I have a mirror. I know what I am."
"What are you?"
"Fat. Old. Forgotten." She turns away. "The queen is dead. This is what's left."
I catch her arm.
"I don't see that."
"Come to my apartment tonight," I say.
"Warya—"
"After the celebration. When everyone's gone." I meet her eyes. "Let me show you what I see."
"You're young enough to be my son."
"I'm not your son."
"This is—"
"Xaaraan. I know." I don't look away. "Come anyway."
She's silent for a long moment.
"Give me your address."
She arrives at eleven.
Still in her celebration dirac. Still wearing the weight of organizing a community event. Still carrying thirty-three years of believing she's no longer beautiful.
"I shouldn't be here," she says.
"But you are."
"Haa." She steps inside. "I am."
I close the door.
I treat her like a queen.
Wine—non-alcoholic, she's still Muslim. Music—old Somali songs from before the war. Conversation about 1985, about who she was, about the girl in the photograph.
"I miss her," she admits. "That girl. She had everything ahead of her."
"She's still here."
"Maya. She died in the camps."
"Show me."
She looks at me.
"Show you what?"
"Show me who you were. And who you are."
I reach for her dirac.
Her hands shake as she undresses.
The dress falls. Her body is nothing like 1985—heavy breasts, soft belly, wide hips. Stretch marks and scars and evidence of survival.
"This is what's left of Miss Somalia," she whispers.
"This is more than Miss Somalia."
I kneel before her.
I worship the former queen.
My mouth traces her body—every change, every year. Her breasts. Her belly. Her thighs.
"No one has—" She gasps as I spread her legs. "Since the camps—no one has—"
I bury my face in her pussy.
She screams.
"ILAAHAY!" Her hands grab my hair. "Thirty years—since anyone—ALLA—"
I lick her slowly. Crown her again.
"Coming—" She's shaking. "I'm coming—ALLA—"
She explodes.
I don't stop.
"Inside me—" She's pulling at me. "Ku soo gal—please—"
I stand.
Strip.
Her eyes widen at my cock.
"Subhanallah." She reaches out. "The men in the camps—nothing like this—"
"I'm not from the camps."
"No." She strokes me. "You're my kingdom."
I push her onto my bed.
I spread her thick thighs.
Position myself.
"Ready, Your Majesty?"
She laughs—genuine.
"Haa. Ready."
I thrust inside.
She screams.
Her walls grip me—tight, wet, thirty years tight.
"Alla—so big—you're filling me—dhammaan—"
I start to move.
I fuck the former Miss Somalia.
Her massive body bounces beneath me. Her breasts roll with every thrust.
"Dhakhso—faster—" She wraps her legs around me. "Make me feel beautiful again—"
I pound her.
The bed slams against the wall. She screams and screams.
"Coming—" Her eyes roll back. "Ku shub—fill me—"
I let go.
I flood the queen.
Fill her where thirty years of emptiness lived. She moans as she feels it.
We lie tangled together, gasping.
"Macaan," she breathes. "I feel like nineteen again."
"You're better than nineteen."
"Wallahi?"
"The girl in the photo hadn't survived anything. Hadn't built anything. Hadn't become this." I kiss her forehead. "You're the queen who rebuilt her kingdom."
Tears stream down her face.
"Can I be your queen?"
"You already are."
One Year Later
I help organize Qaran Day now.
The community sees us together—the young man and the former beauty queen. They think I'm her assistant. Her helper.
They don't know what happens after.
"Macaan," she moans, as I take her. "My king. My kingdom."
Miss Somalia 1985 found her crown again.
It just looks different now.