The Remittance Wife
"He helps his neighbor—a thick Somali woman whose husband is overseas—send money back home. The hawala system requires trust, and she trusts him with more than just her remittances. While her husband works in Dubai, she works out her frustrations closer to home."
The hawala business is built on trust.
No receipts. No paper trail. Just a handshake and a phone call, and money moves from Minneapolis to Mogadishu in hours. My uncle runs one of the biggest remittance operations in Cedar-Riverside, and I help out on weekends.
That's how I meet Sahra.
"Warya." She approaches the counter, clutching an envelope. "I need to send two thousand to Dubai."
"To Somalia?"
"Maya—Dubai." She slides the envelope across. "My husband. He works there."
I look at her properly for the first time.
Sahra is thirty-six years old. Thick—wallahi, she's thick. Wide hips straining against her dirac. Heavy breasts visible even through the loose fabric. A round, pretty face beneath her hijab. She's the kind of woman Somali men write poetry about.
"Your husband works in Dubai?" I repeat.
"Construction. He's been there three years." She sighs. "I send him money when I can. He sends less and less back."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be sorry." She meets my eyes. "Just send the money."
I process the transaction.
I try not to imagine what she looks like under that dirac.
I fail.
She comes back every month.
Sometimes two thousand. Sometimes three. Always to Dubai. Always for the husband who never calls anymore.
We develop a routine.
She arrives. I process. We talk. Small things at first—the weather, the children (she has two, both in school), the neighborhood gossip. But slowly, the conversations deepen.
"He has someone else," she tells me one day. Six months into our routine. "In Dubai. A younger woman. He thinks I don't know."
"How did you find out?"
"His phone bill. He called the same number two hundred times last month. A woman's name I don't recognize." She laughs bitterly. "I'm sending him money to spend on his girlfriend."
"Why don't you stop?"
"Because I'm a good Somali wife." The words are acid. "Because divorce is shameful. Because my children need their father, even if their father doesn't need them."
"Sahra—"
"I've been faithful for three years." She looks at me. "Three years of sleeping alone. Three years of burning. And for what? A man who spends my money on another woman?"
"What are you saying?"
"I don't know." She turns away. "I should go."
She leaves.
But I see the way she looks at me before she goes.
She invites me to her apartment.
"To fix the sink," she says. "It's been leaking. The landlord won't come."
I'm not a plumber.
We both know why I'm really there.
Her apartment is small but clean.
Photos of Dubai on the walls—her husband, smiling, before the distance killed whatever they had. The children are at school. The apartment is empty.
"The sink is in the kitchen," she says.
I don't move toward the kitchen.
"Sahra."
"I know." She turns to face me. "I know this is wrong. I know I'm married. I know—"
"Do you want me to leave?"
"Maya." No. She steps closer. "I want you to stay. I want—"
She stops.
"What do you want?"
"I want to feel something." Tears stream down her face. "I want to feel like a woman again. Not a wife. Not a mother. Not someone who sends money to a husband who doesn't love her anymore."
I close the distance between us.
I kiss her.
She melts against me—three years of loneliness collapsing in an instant. Her hands grip my shirt. Her mouth opens to mine.
"Xaaraan," she whispers against my lips.
"Everything worth having is xaaraan."
I reach for her hijab.
"Don't—" She grabs my hand. "I can't—he's still my husband—"
"Then keep it on."
Her eyes widen.
"You'd still want me? Even like this?"
"I want you. All of you. However you come."
She kisses me harder.
We don't make it to the bedroom.
She pushes me onto the couch—a worn piece that's seen better days—and straddles my lap. Her dirac rides up around her thick thighs.
"I've never done this," she confesses. "With anyone but him."
"Do you want to stop?"
"Maya." She grinds against me. "I want to start."
She reaches between us. Unzips my pants. Pulls out my cock.
"Subhanallah." Her eyes widen. "My husband is—nothing—"
"Forget your husband."
"Make me."
She pushes her underwear aside.
Sinks down.
She's tight.
Three years without will do that. Her walls grip me like a fist as she takes me inch by inch.
"Alla—" She throws her head back. "So big—you're filling me—dhammaan—"
She bottoms out.
Starts to move.
She rides me like a woman possessed.
Grinding. Bouncing. Rolling her thick hips in circles. Her dirac is bunched around her waist, her hijab still in place—the contrast of piety and sin making everything hotter.
"Dhakhso—faster—" I grip her hips—wide, soft—and pull her down harder.
"Haa—haa—I've needed this—" She's bouncing now, her heavy breasts swaying beneath her dress. "Three years—Ilaahay—three years—"
"Come for me."
"I can't—I've never—my husband couldn't—"
I reach between us. Find her clit. Circle it while she rides.
"ALLA—" She screams. "What are you—ILAAHAY—"
She comes.
Her whole body convulses. She screams into her hand, muffling the sound. Her pussy clamps down so tight I can barely move.
But I don't stop.
I grip her hips and thrust up into her, fucking her through it.
"Again—" She's shaking. "Make me come again—"
I give her what she needs.
She comes three more times before I finish.
When I finally let go—filling her where her husband hasn't in three years—she collapses onto my chest, gasping.
"Wallahi," she breathes. "I've never—he never—"
"Your husband doesn't deserve you."
"No." She looks at me, still wearing her hijab, still technically dressed. "He doesn't."
"What do we do now?"
"Now?" She shifts on top of me, and I feel myself stirring. "Now you come back. Every time I send money. Every time he reminds me that I'm alone."
"That's not—"
"I know what it is." She grinds against me. "It's xaaraan. It's wrong. It's sin."
"And?"
"And I don't care anymore." She pulls me for a kiss. "I've been good for too long. Let me be bad."
I let her be bad.
One Year Later
She still sends money to Dubai.
But now, after every transaction, she texts me. A simple emoji. A time. An address.
Her children are at school until three.
Her husband calls once a month, if that.
And in the hours between, in the apartment paid for by his remittances, I give her what he can't.
"Macaan," she whispers every time, her hijab still on, her dirac bunched around her waist. "My sweet boy."
Her husband works in Dubai.
I work right here.
Some jobs are more satisfying than others.