The Somali Tea House | بيت الشاي الصومالي
"A Somali tea house in Minneapolis. A regular customer who comes for the spiced tea. The owner who gives him something stronger than cardamom."
The Somali Tea House
بيت الشاي الصومالي
Hoyo's Tea House is an institution.
Cedar-Riverside, Minneapolis—Little Mogadishu. I've been serving shaah here for fifteen years.
Marcus has been drinking it for three.
I'm Halima.
Fifty-one, widow, mother of four. I opened this place with my husband's death benefits. Built something from nothing.
Marcus shouldn't be here.
But he keeps coming.
He's forty-eight.
White, from Iowa. Teaches Somali kids at the community center. Somehow found my tea.
"The usual?" I ask.
"The usual." He smiles. "And conversation?"
"You talk to everyone here."
"I talk to you. There's a difference."
"What difference?"
"They're learning English. I'm learning... something else."
Our community is tight.
Somali women don't date outside. Especially not widows. Especially not with white men.
But Marcus isn't dating me.
He's just... present.
Months pass.
He helps carry supplies. Fixes the broken cooler. Plays with my grandchildren when they visit.
"Why do you do this?" I ask.
"Do what?"
"Spend time here. You have no reason."
"I have you. Is that not a reason?"
"People talk."
"People always talk."
"They say you're trying to... convert me."
He laughs. "Convert you to what? Iowans? We're a terrible religion. Too much corn."
"This isn't funny."
"It's a little funny."
"Marcus, what do you actually want?"
It's closing time. My employees have left.
"I want to know you. Really know you."
"You know me."
"I know the tea house owner. I want to know Halima."
"Halima is tired. And old. And has responsibilities."
"Halima is brilliant. And beautiful. And deserves something for herself."
"You don't know what I deserve."
"I know what you've given. I've watched it for three years."
The first kiss happens in my kitchen.
The same kitchen where I've made thousands of cups of shaah. He tastes like cardamom and sincerity.
"Astaghfirullah," I whisper.
"Sorry?"
"Forgive me, God."
"Do you need forgiveness?"
"Probably."
"Then let me be worth it."
We start seeing each other.
Privately. Carefully. The community can't know—not yet.
"This is exhausting," he admits.
"It's necessary."
"For how long?"
"For as long as it takes to figure out what this is."
He comes to my apartment after closing.
Discreet. Respectful. And utterly dedicated.
"You're beautiful," he says.
"I'm fat—"
"You're Somali. In the best possible way."
He undresses me slowly.
The widow who built a tea house, now letting herself be seen.
"Beautiful."
"Marcus—"
"Let me show you."
He worships me.
With the patience of a man who's been waiting three years. When I come, I'm crying—not from sadness.
"Mahadsanid," I whisper. Thank you.
"What does that mean?"
"It means... you're worth forgiving myself for."
Two years later
We told the community.
The reaction was... mixed. Some accepted. Some judged. My children were the hardest.
"He's white, Hoyo."
"He's also kind. And patient. And here."
We married at the tea house.
Both cultures blending. Somali dishes and Iowan relatives and shaah for everyone.
"Happy?" he asks.
"Happier than I thought this life could give."
"Want more shaah?"
"Always."
He helps run the tea house now.
The white man who learned Somali for a widow. The community has mostly accepted him.
"Best husband?" he asks.
"Best risk."
"Same thing."
Alhamdulillah.
For tea houses that bring strangers.
For risks that become love.
For Minneapolis, unlikely home.
The End.