The Somali Bakery Owner

Marwo's Bakery opens at six AM.

But the work starts at four. Sambusa to fold. Mandazi to fry. Bread to bake. The whole neighborhood depends on her.

I need a job.

"You know baking?"

"I can learn."

"Ilaahay." She looks me over. Fifty-six years old. Two hundred and sixty pounds of bakery authority. Ebony skin dusted with flour. "Four AM. Don't be late."

Four AM is brutal.

But Marwo makes it bearable. She teaches while she works—how to fold the perfect sambusa, how to know when oil is hot enough, how to knead bread until it's alive.

"You're not bad," she says after a month.

"High praise from you."

"Don't let it go to your head." But she's smiling. "You work hard. That's rare in young people."

"I had good teachers."

"Your mother?"

"My grandmother. Before she passed."

Her face softens. "That's why you know to respect old women."

"That's why I respect you."

We fall into a rhythm.

Four AM to noon. Baking, selling, cleaning. Then she teaches me her secrets—family recipes, techniques passed down for generations.

"Why me?" I ask one day.

"Why you what?"

"Why teach me everything? You have no children. No apprentice. Why trust me?"

"Because you remind me of my husband." She stops kneading. "He worked beside me for thirty years. Same hands. Same patience. Same—" She stops.

"Same what?"

"Same way of looking at me. Like I'm more than just a fat old baker."

"You are more."

"Waas." But her eyes are wet.

"I haven't been touched since he died."

We're closing the bakery. The last customer left hours ago. The smell of bread and sugar surrounds us.

"Eight years. Eight years of waking at four AM alone. Going to bed alone. Being alone."

"Marwo—"

"I know it's wrong. You work for me. You're young enough to—" She stops. "But I'm tired of being alone. Tired of being just the baker."

"You've never been just the baker."

"Then what am I?"

"A woman who deserves to be loved."

I worship the baker.

In the kitchen that smells like her life's work. Her body is dusted with flour, soft with years of tasting her own creations. She gasps as I undress her.

"Eight years—" She's trembling. "I've forgotten what it feels like—"

"Let me remind you."

Her body is nourishment itself.

Ebony skin warm from the ovens. Breasts heavy and sweet like her mandazi. Belly soft with years of bread. Hips wide as her mixing bowls.

I kneel before her.

Taste her secret recipe.

"ILAAHAY!"

She screams—eight years of need rising like dough. Her hands grip my head.

"Don't stop—" She's shaking. "Dhakhso—"

I lick her through three orgasms.

"Inside me—" She's pulling at me. "Ku soo gal—fill me like I fill my bread—"

I strip. She watches with hungry eyes.

"Subhanallah—"

"This is the secret ingredient."

I lift her onto the counter.

I push inside the baker.

She screams—eight years of emptiness filling.

"So good—" Her legs wrap around me. "Don't stop—dhakhso—"

I pound her among bags of flour and rising dough.

Her massive body bounces. She comes twice, three times.

"Ku shub—" She's begging. "Fill me—make me rise—"

I explode inside her.

We lie on the flour-dusted floor.

"Four AM comes early," she murmurs.

"I'll be here."

"For work?"

"For everything." I kiss her forehead. "For you."

One Year Later

I'm the co-owner now.

Marwo taught me everything—her recipes, her business, her body.

Every morning at four AM, we start together.

And every night, after the bakery closes, we finish together.

"Macaan," she moans. "Sweeter than any pastry."

The baker who feeds the community.

The woman who feeds my soul.

Fresh every day.