The Somali Henna Master
"Every Somali bride in Minneapolis knows her henna. A thick ebony widow whose designs are legendary. When he needs a gift for his sister's wedding, she offers a private demonstration. Some art is meant for intimate places."
Nasteho's henna is famous.
Every Somali bride in the Twin Cities wants her designs—intricate patterns that take hours to apply. She works from her apartment in Seward, a small studio filled with the smell of henna paste and rose water.
I come looking for a gift.
"My sister's getting married. I want to pay for her henna."
Nasteho looks up from her work table.
Fifty-four years old. Ebony skin that shows no wrinkles. Two hundred and sixty pounds of artistic elegance wrapped in a burgundy dirac. Her hands are stained with years of henna, the designs permanent now.
"Mashallah—a good brother." She smiles. "Come, sit. Tell me about your sister."
We talk for hours.
About my sister, about her work, about the weddings she's decorated over thirty years.
"I started in Mogadishu," she says, mixing paste. "Before the war. I was the youngest henna artist in Hodan district."
"And your husband?"
"Died in '91. The war." She doesn't flinch. "I raised four daughters alone. Taught them all henna. Now they work with me."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be sorry. Be proud." She meets my eyes. "I survived. I built this. I'm still here."
"You're extraordinary."
"I'm stubborn." But she's smiling. "Same thing."
I book my sister's henna.
Then I keep coming back.
To watch Nasteho work. To bring her coffee. To sit in her studio while she transforms ordinary hands into works of art.
"You're here again," she says one evening. "Your sister's wedding isn't for three weeks."
"I like watching you work."
"Or you like watching me." She sets down her cone. "I'm old, warya. Old and fat. Don't waste your time."
"You're beautiful."
"Waas." She waves dismissively. "I'm practical. I know what I am."
"Then let me show you what I see."
She stares at me.
"Come here," she says finally.
I approach her work table.
"Give me your hand."
She takes it. Dips her cone in paste.
Begins to draw.
The henna is cool against my skin.
She works in silence, her touch precise. Swirls and loops form on my palm—a design I've never seen her use on brides.
"This is private pattern," she murmurs. "Very old. From my grandmother."
"What does it mean?"
"Desire." She doesn't look up. "Passion. Things I haven't thought about in decades."
"Think about them now."
She sets down the cone.
"The henna needs to dry," she says. "Thirty minutes."
"What should we do for thirty minutes?"
"I have ideas." She stands—her body rising like the sun. "Come."
She leads me to a back room.
A bedroom I didn't know existed.
"No one knows about this room," she says. "My daughters think I sleep at home."
"How often do you stay here?"
"Every night." She turns to face me. "It's quieter than my memories."
"Let me give you new memories."
She reaches for her dirac.
Her body is art itself.
Ebony skin covered in faded henna—designs that have become part of her. Massive breasts with patterns around the nipples. Her belly soft and marked, hips wide enough to hold continents.
"Thirty-three years since my husband." She stands unashamed. "I've decorated a thousand brides for their wedding nights. Never thought I'd have another of my own."
"This isn't a wedding night."
"No." She pulls me close. "It's better."
I worship the artist.
My mouth traces her designs—the henna patterns that map her body. She gasps as I kiss her breasts, as I follow the lines down her belly.
"Lower—" She pushes my head. "Fadlan—please—"
I kneel between her thick thighs.
Find designs I've never seen.
Taste them.
"ILAAHAY!"
She screams loud enough to echo through the studio. Her hands grip my hair, her hips grinding against my face.
"Thirty-three years—" She's shaking. "No one has—ever—"
I make the artist come until she's speaking languages I don't understand.
"Inside me—" She's pulling at me. "I want to feel what the brides feel—"
I strip. She sees my cock and breathes something reverent.
"Subhanallah—my husband was never—"
"Your husband isn't here."
I lay her down on the bed.
I push inside the henna artist.
She wails—thirty-three years of emptiness filling with me.
"So deep—" Her legs wrap around me. "Dhakhso—make me feel young—"
I pound her.
Her massive body shakes beneath me. Ebony flesh marked with decades of art, rippling with every thrust. She comes twice before I'm close.
"Ku shub—" She's begging. "Inside me—make me yours—"
I flood her.
We lie tangled together.
The henna on my hand has dried—her grandmother's pattern, permanent now.
"Your sister's wedding," she murmurs. "I'll do it for free."
"Why?"
"Because you gave me something priceless." She kisses the design on my palm. "You made me feel beautiful again."
Three Weeks Later
My sister's henna is the most beautiful anyone has ever seen.
Nasteho works for six hours, covering her in intricate designs.
No one notices the matching pattern on my hand.
Or the matching smile on the artist's face.
Every night after, I visit her studio.
She decorates me with her body.
The most beautiful art of all.