The Silal Secret
"Silal are the traditional Somali woven baskets—art passed from mother to daughter. She teaches the craft, a thick widow keeping tradition alive. When he stays late to learn, she weaves something new between them. Some patterns are meant for two."
The silal are works of art.
Woven baskets in bright colors, patterns that tell stories. Nafisa has been making them for forty years, learned from her grandmother in Mogadishu.
She teaches classes now.
Fifty-four years old. A widow. Keeping the old skills alive.
She's thick.
Two hundred and forty pounds of artistic tradition. Wide hips. Heavy breasts. Hands that weave magic.
I sign up to learn.
"A man?" She raises an eyebrow. "Men don't weave silal."
"I want to learn."
"Wallahi. Sit."
I sit. She teaches. Her hands guide mine through the patterns—over, under, pull tight.
"You're not terrible," she admits after weeks.
"I have a good teacher."
"Mahadsnid." She pauses. "Why do you really come?"
"To see you."
She stops weaving.
"My husband made me feel invisible," she says quietly. "Even before he died. I was just the woman who made baskets."
"You're more than that."
"Am I?" She looks at me. "Eight years since he passed. Eight years of weaving alone."
"You're not alone now."
"Wallahi?"
I take her hand—the one that's woven thousands of baskets.
"Let me weave something with you."
The students leave.
Only we remain, surrounded by colored fibers and half-finished baskets.
"This is xaaraan," she whispers.
"Everything beautiful is."
I kiss her among the silal.
Her body is thick and warm.
Heavy breasts. Soft belly. Wide hips. The body of an artist.
"Eight years," she gasps. "No one has touched me—"
I worship the weaver.
My mouth traces her body like thread through a pattern.
"No one has—" She gasps. "Since my husband—"
I taste her.
She screams.
"ILAAHAY!" Among the baskets. "ALLA—"
"Coming—" She's shaking.
She explodes.
"Inside me—" She's pulling at me. "Ku soo gal—weave into me—"
I position myself.
"Ready?"
"Haa."
I thrust inside.
She screams.
"Alla—dhammaan—"
I start to move.
I make love to the basket weaver.
Among her art. Her tradition.
"Dhakhso—faster—"
I pound her.
"Coming—" Her eyes roll back. "Ku shub—"
I let go.
I flood Nafisa.
The final thread in her pattern.
We lie tangled together among the silal.
"Macaan," she breathes. "Best weaving I've ever done."
"I'll come every class."
"To learn silal?"
"To weave with you." I kiss her. "Our own pattern."
One Year Later
I'm the only man who makes silal in Minneapolis.
The community finds it strange.
They don't know about what we weave after class.
"Macaan," she moans, as I take her among the baskets. "My partner."
Some patterns require two hands.
Ours is the most beautiful.