The Somali Driving Teacher

Sahra's Driving School operates out of a converted van.

She's been teaching for twelve years—mostly Somali women who never had the chance to learn back home. Patient. Thorough. Everyone in Cedar-Riverside knows her number.

I call because I failed my test. Twice.

"Warya, come tomorrow. Six AM. Before the traffic."

Her voice is warm and commanding. I agree.

She's waiting by the van at dawn.

Fifty years old. Five foot two. Two hundred and forty pounds packed into jeans and a long tunic. Her skin is pure ebony—darker than the pre-dawn sky. She wears a bright orange hijab that catches the streetlights.

"You're the one who failed twice?"

"Yes."

"What's the problem?"

"I panic. During the test."

"Ilaahay." She shakes her head. "Get in. Let's see what we're working with."

We drive through empty streets.

She watches everything—my hands, my mirrors, my speed.

"You're tense," she says. "Your shoulders are by your ears."

"I told you. I panic."

"Why?"

"I don't know."

"Yes, you do." She points to a parking lot. "Pull in here."

I obey.

"Now tell me." She turns in her seat, her body taking up most of the front. "Why do you panic?"

And somehow, in that van at dawn, I tell her everything. The accident that killed my mother when I was ten. The fear that's followed me ever since.

She listens without interrupting.

"Subhanallah," she says quietly. "That's a heavy weight to carry."

"I need to drive. For work. For life."

"Then we'll get you there." Her hand finds my shoulder. "But first—we need to get you out of your head."

The lessons continue.

Every morning, six AM. We drive through Minneapolis as it wakes—Lake Street, Nicollet, the highways she makes me face.

"Breathe," she commands when I tense. "I'm here. Nothing bad will happen."

Slowly, I start to believe her.

"You divorced?" I ask one morning.

"Eight years now." She adjusts her mirror. "He wanted a wife who stayed home. I wanted to teach. We wanted different lives."

"Do you regret it?"

"Never." She smiles. "I've helped three hundred women get their licenses. Three hundred women with freedom they didn't have before. That's worth more than any husband."

"You're amazing."

"I'm practical." But she's blushing under that ebony skin.

The day before my test, she changes the route.

"Where are we going?"

"My house." She directs me to a small bungalow in Columbia Heights. "I want to show you something."

We park. She leads me inside.

The walls are covered with photos—women holding driver's licenses, smiling, triumphant.

"My students," she says. "Every one of them was scared. Every one of them thought they couldn't do it."

"And they all passed?"

"Eventually." She turns to me. "You will too. But first—you need to relax. Really relax."

"How?"

She takes off her hijab.

Her hair is gray and natural, cropped close to her head.

"Eight years since I showed a man my hair." She reaches for her tunic. "Longer since I showed them the rest."

"Sahra—"

"You're tense because you're afraid." She pulls the tunic over her head. "I'm going to show you there's nothing to be afraid of."

Her body is revealed.

Ebony perfection. Massive breasts in a white bra. Soft belly. Hips that strain against her jeans.

"I'm your instructor." She unclasps the bra. "Let me teach you one more thing."

I worship my driving teacher.

On her bed that smells like uunsi and fabric softener. My mouth on her breasts—heavy and dark, nipples thick as thumbs. She moans as I suck.

"Lower—" She pushes my head down. "Teach me what young men know—"

I spread her massive thighs.

Taste her.

"ALLAH!"

She screams louder than any of my mistakes ever made her. Her hands grip my hair, pull me closer.

"Eight years—" She's grinding against my face. "Eight years I've been alone—"

I make her come twice with my tongue.

She's shaking when I rise up.

"Inside me—" She's pulling at my clothes. "Ku soo gal—"

I strip. She stares at my cock.

"Weyn—big—" She reaches out. "My ex-husband was nothing like this."

"His loss."

I position myself.

Push inside.

She screams.

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

I pound my driving instructor.

Her massive body bounces on the bed. Ebony flesh rippling with every thrust. She comes twice more before I'm close.

"Ku shub—" She's begging. "Inside me—fill me—"

I explode.

We lie tangled together.

"You're going to pass tomorrow," she says, stroking my chest.

"How do you know?"

"Because now you know—" She kisses me. "There's nothing to be afraid of."

The Test

I pass.

The examiner comments on how calm I seem.

I don't tell him about my instructor's teaching methods.

That night, I drive to Sahra's house. My first solo drive.

"Mabruk—congratulations." She pulls me inside. "Now let me give you your reward."

Every lesson with her now happens in the bedroom.

I'm an excellent student.