The Somali Wedding Planner

Nasra has planned five hundred weddings.

Every major Somali wedding in Minneapolis for the past fifteen years. She knows every venue, every caterer, every musician. Her weddings are legendary.

My sister wants the best.

"Your budget?" Nasra asks, pen ready.

"Whatever it takes."

"Good answer." She smiles. Fifty-three years old. Two hundred and fifty-five pounds of wedding expertise. Ebony skin glowing, style impeccable. "Tell me about your sister."

We meet every week.

Nasra handles everything—venues, flowers, food, entertainment. She's a conductor orchestrating a symphony of celebration.

"You're incredible," I tell her one evening.

"I'm experienced." She flips through fabric samples. "Five hundred weddings. You learn things."

"What have you learned?"

"That everyone deserves a perfect day." She looks up. "And that I've never had my own."

"You've never been married?"

"I was married. Twenty years. He died of cancer." She sets down the samples. "We never had a big wedding. Just the nikah and a small party. I always planned to give him a proper celebration. Then he was gone."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry. Be grateful." She meets my eyes. "You get to give your sister what I couldn't give my husband."

I start helping more.

Not just paying—actually working. Setting up venues, coordinating deliveries, handling crises.

"You're good at this," Nasra says one night. We're alone in a hotel ballroom, testing the lighting.

"I learned from the best."

"Waas." She adjusts a centerpiece. "You learned from desperation. The bride's brother always gets pulled in at the end."

"Is that all I am? The bride's brother?"

She freezes.

"What else would you be?"

"Someone who cares about you. Not just the wedding."

"Nine years."

We're sitting in the ballroom now. The lights dimmed. Romantic, despite everything.

"Nine years since my husband died. Nine years of creating romance for everyone else."

"No one has—"

"No one." She laughs bitterly. "The widow wedding planner. Who would want her?"

"I would."

She stares at me.

"We can't. Your sister's wedding is next week—"

"My sister would want this."

"Xaaraan—"

"Human." I take her hand. "Not sinful. Human."

She's crying now. Nine years of tears finally falling.

I worship the wedding planner.

In the ballroom she's designed for love, I show her love.

Her body is meant for celebration—curves like decorations, ebony skin like the finest fabric. She gasps as I undress her.

"Nine years—" She's shaking. "I've watched a thousand couples—"

"Now watch yourself."

I lay her down on the head table.

Kiss down her body—past her heavy breasts, her soft belly. She spreads her thick thighs.

"Alla—" She gasps as my mouth finds her. "Right here—in the wedding venue—"

I lick her through three orgasms.

Her screams echo through the empty ballroom.

"Inside me—" She's pulling at me. "Ku soo gal—make me feel like a bride—"

I strip. She watches with wonder.

"Subhanallah—my husband was never—"

"Tonight you're not a widow. Tonight you're a woman being loved."

I push inside her.

She screams.

Nine years of emptiness filling. Her legs wrap around me.

"So good—" She's crying and coming at the same time. "Dhakhso—"

I make love to the wedding planner.

On the table where couples will soon celebrate. Among the flowers she arranged. Under the lights she chose.

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

I explode inside her.

We lie tangled on the head table.

"The wedding is in five days," she whispers.

"And it will be perfect."

"How do you know?"

"Because you planned it." I kiss her. "And because I'll be there. With you."

The Wedding

It's the most beautiful ceremony anyone has ever seen.

My sister cries happy tears. The family dances until dawn.

And when it's over, I find Nasra in the empty ballroom.

"Thank you," my sister tells her. "For everything."

But she's looking at me when she says:

"Mahadsnid—thank you."

The wedding planner who creates perfect days.

The woman who finally got her own.

Macaan.