The Ramadan Revelation
"During Ramadan, he helps serve iftar at the community center. The thick widow who runs the kitchen has been fasting from more than food. After the final prayers of the month, she breaks her longest fast—with him."
Ramadan tests everyone differently.
The hunger is easy. The thirst is manageable. But the loneliness—that's what breaks Sagal Osman.
She runs the community center kitchen. Fifty-two years old. A widow—her husband passed four years ago. Every Ramadan, she cooks iftar for hundreds, breaking the fast of an entire community.
She's thick.
Two hundred and forty pounds of service. Wide hips beneath her apron. Heavy breasts. A round face lined with exhaustion and devotion.
I volunteer to help.
Chopping. Stirring. Serving. Thirty days of work beside her in the kitchen.
"Mahadsnid," she says every evening. "I couldn't do this alone."
"You shouldn't have to."
By the end of Ramadan, we've become something more than coworkers.
The last night of Ramadan.
Eid begins tomorrow. The kitchen is clean. The community has gone home.
Only we remain.
"Another year survived," she says, washing the final pot.
"You say it like that's all life is. Survival."
"For me, it has been." She sets down the pot. Turns to face me. "Four years of cooking for others while starving myself."
"Starving?"
"Not for food." Her eyes meet mine. "For touch. For connection. For anything that reminds me I'm still alive."
"Sagal—"
"The Prophet said that whoever feeds a fasting person will receive their reward." She steps closer. "But who feeds the one who feeds everyone else?"
"I could."
She inhales sharply.
"This kitchen has been my life for four years. My xaaraan life." She grips my apron. "But Ramadan is over. It's time for celebration."
She kisses me.
The community center is empty.
The kitchen is dark except for emergency lights.
We make our way to the storage room—the only space with a lock.
"This is wrong," she whispers as I close the door.
"Eid is about celebration."
"Not this kind."
"Every kind." I reach for her apron. "Let me feed you."
She undresses in the darkness.
Heavy breasts. Soft belly—rounder than usual from a month of evening feasting. Wide hips.
"I've thought about this," she confesses. "Every night during Ramadan. After prayers. Touching myself. Thinking of you."
"That's xaaraan."
"Everything about me is xaaraan now." She pulls me close. "Break my fast. The one that's lasted four years."
I worship the kitchen supervisor.
My mouth traces her body—every inch that's served others while denying itself.
"No one has—" She gasps as I kneel before her. "Since my husband—"
I bury my face between her thick thighs.
She clamps a hand over her mouth.
"ILAAHAY!" Muffled screaming. "Four years—ALLA—"
I lick her slowly. The first real nourishment she's had.
"Coming—" She's shaking. "I'm coming—ALLA—"
She explodes.
"Inside me—" She's pulling at me. "Ku soo gal—please—"
I strip.
Her eyes widen at my cock.
"Subhanallah." She wraps her hand around me. "My husband was never—"
"This is your Eid gift."
I push her against the storage shelves.
I spread her thick thighs.
"Ready?"
"I've been ready for four years."
I thrust inside.
She screams into her hand.
Her walls grip me—tight, wet, four years tight.
"Alla—so big—you're filling me—dhammaan—"
I start to move.
I fuck the community center cook.
In the storage room. Surrounded by Ramadan supplies. Her massive body bounces against the shelves.
"Dhakhso—faster—" She wraps her legs around me. "Give me what I've been fasting from—"
I pound her.
The shelves rattle. She screams into her hand.
"Coming—" Her eyes roll back. "Ku shub—fill me—"
I let go.
I flood Sagal.
Fill her where four years of emptiness lived. She moans as she feels it.
We slide to the floor, gasping.
"Macaan," she breathes. "Eid Mubarak."
"Eid Mubarak."
"This changes everything."
"I know."
"But I don't want to go back." She pulls me close. "To being alone. To fasting from everything that matters."
"Then don't."
"Wallahi?"
"I'll be here. Every Ramadan. Every Eid. Every ordinary night."
She cries.
Then she kisses me.
Then she shows me what four years of hunger looks like satisfied.
One Year Later
Ramadan comes again.
We cook iftar together. Serve the community. Break the daily fast.
And after everyone goes home, we break the other fast.
"Macaan," she moans, as I take her. "My favorite blessing."
She fed hundreds during Ramadan.
I feed her every night after.
Different nourishment.
Same devotion.