The Somali Quran Teacher
"She teaches Quran to children in Cedar-Riverside—a thick ebony widow who memorized the entire holy book. When he signs up for adult lessons, she offers private instruction. Some knowledge requires intimate study."
Macallimad Waris has taught Quran for thirty-five years.
Children come to her apartment every afternoon—Cedar-Riverside kids learning the holy book in Arabic. Her voice is patient, her corrections gentle.
I come as an adult.
"You want to learn? At your age?"
"It's never too late."
"Mashallah." She studies me. Fifty-eight years old. Two hundred and fifty pounds of spiritual authority. Ebony skin, peaceful eyes. "Most adults are too proud. Or too busy."
"I'm neither."
"Good. Sunday mornings. After the children."
Sunday mornings become sacred.
She teaches me letters first. Then words. Then verses. Her patience never wavers.
"Alif, baa, taa—again."
"I'm trying."
"Don't try. Listen. The Quran is meant to be heard." She closes her eyes. Recites. Her voice is music—ancient, perfect.
"How did you memorize it all?"
"Forty years of devotion. And a husband who believed in me." She opens her eyes. "He's been gone twelve years now."
"I'm sorry."
"He's with Alla." She touches her heart. "And the Quran keeps him close."
I keep coming.
Not just for the lessons. For her. Her wisdom, her peace, her presence.
"You're distracted today," she says one Sunday.
"I'm struggling with a verse."
"Which one?"
"The one about desires of the heart."
She's quiet for a long moment.
"That's a difficult verse. It speaks of what we want but cannot have."
"What do you want that you cannot have?"
Her eyes meet mine.
"I am a teacher of the holy book."
We're alone. The children won't come until afternoon.
"And I am a woman who has been alone for twelve years. These two things—they fight inside me."
"What does your heart say?"
"My heart says—" She takes a breath. "My heart says I've been devotional long enough. That Alla would not begrudge me one moment of human comfort."
"And your mind?"
"My mind says this is xaaraan. Sin."
"What does your soul say?"
"My soul says—show me what I've been missing."
I worship the teacher.
In the room where she teaches the holy book. Her body is sacred text itself—ebony curves written with years of faith.
"Twelve years—" She gasps as I undress her. "I've taught thousands of verses—never been touched—"
"Let me write new verses on you."
Her body is scripture.
Heavy breasts with nipples dark as Arabic ink. Soft belly that's fasted countless Ramadans. Hips wide as her generosity. Thighs thick with years of kneeling in prayer.
I kneel before her now.
For a different kind of worship.
"ILAAHAY!"
She screams as my mouth finds her. Her hands grip my head.
"Xaaraan—" She's shaking. "This is xaaraan—but don't stop—"
I lick her through three orgasms.
"Inside me—" She's pulling at me. "Ku soo gal—make me feel human—"
I strip. She sees me and breathes something that sounds like prayer.
"Subhanallah—"
"Is this permissible?"
"Nothing about this is permissible." She pulls me close. "And I don't care."
I push inside the Quran teacher.
She cries out—twelve years of devotion breaking.
"So full—" Her legs wrap around me. "This feeling—dhakhso—"
I make love to her.
Slowly. Reverently. She deserves reverence.
She comes twice, three times, each one a prayer.
"Ku shub—" She's crying now. "Fill me—please—"
I release inside her.
We lie tangled together.
"Xaaraan," she whispers.
"Human."
"Haa." She kisses my chest. "Human. Finally human."
One Year Later
I've memorized three chapters now.
She's still the best teacher I've ever had.
Sunday mornings are for Quran.
Sunday nights are for everything else.
"Macaan," she moans. "My sweetest student."
The woman who taught me scripture.
The woman who taught me love.
Both sacred in their way.