The Spice Merchant's Wife

The warehouse smells of cardamom and cloves.

I've worked here for three years—managing inventory for Sheikh Abdullah's spice trading company. The old routes from Lamu to Oman, the same routes that have made fortunes for centuries.

The Sheikh himself is rarely here.

His wife is always here.

Mama Zahra runs the business while her husband sails.

Fifty-six years old, sharp as the ginger root we export, massive in her practical kanga—two-fifty of commercial authority. She knows every spice in the warehouse, every supplier, every buyer. The men who work here respect her more than they do her husband.

"Hamid." She finds me in the cardamom section, checking weights. "My office. Now."

I follow.

Her office overlooks the harbor.

Through the window, I can see the dhows that carry our spices to Arabia, to India, to anywhere with money and appetite. Sheikh Abdullah's ship left this morning—another three-month voyage. Another season of his wife alone.

"The books don't balance," she says, spreading ledgers across her desk. "Three shipments. Discrepancies."

"Theft?"

"If it were theft, I'd know." She sits, gestures for me to sit across from her. "What I don't know is how the numbers came out wrong."

"I can check—"

"You can explain." Her eyes are sharp. "You processed these shipments. You signed off."

"The weights were correct when I measured them."

"Then somewhere between your scale and the ship, thirty kilos of saffron disappeared." She leans back. "Saffron, Hamid. Do you know what that's worth?"

I know. Saffron is worth more than gold. Thirty kilos is a small fortune.

"I didn't take it."

"I know you didn't." Her voice softens, slightly. "You're too careful. Too honest. But someone is stealing from my husband, and I need to find out who."

We work late.

Combing through records, checking manifests, tracing every hand that touched the missing spices. The sun sets. The workers go home. The warehouse falls silent.

"There." I point at a signature I don't recognize. "This loading supervisor. I've never seen him."

"Because he doesn't exist." She pulls out another ledger, compares. "It's a phantom. Someone created a fake employee to cover the theft."

"Who has access to the employment records?"

"My husband's clerk. The one he brought back from Oman last year." She closes the book, sits back heavily. "I never trusted that man. Now I know why."

"You should tell the Sheikh."

"I should. When he returns in three months." She looks at me in the lamplight. "Until then, I need someone I can trust to help me clean this up. Quietly."

"I can help."

"I know you can." She stands, moves to a cabinet, pours two small glasses of something amber. "First, we drink. It's been a long day."

The drink is tembo—palm wine.

Sweet, deceptive, stronger than it seems. We drink in her office while the warehouse sleeps around us.

"You've worked here three years," she says. "You've never asked for a raise. Never complained. Never caused problems."

"I like the work."

"You like being invisible." She refills our glasses. "A man who doesn't draw attention. Who does his job and goes home."

"What's wrong with that?"

"Nothing. Unless you're hiding something." She studies me. "What are you hiding, Hamid?"

I'm hiding the way I look at her.

Three years of watching her move through the warehouse, commanding men twice her size. Three years of respecting her intelligence, her authority, her body that fills every room she enters.

"I'm not hiding anything."

"Liar." She sets down her glass. "I've seen the way you watch me. When you think I'm not looking."

"Mama Zahra—"

"Don't." She stands, comes around the desk. "Don't call me that. Not tonight."

"What should I call you?"

"Zahra. Just Zahra." She's in front of me now, close enough to touch. "My husband has been sailing for thirty years. He's home maybe four months out of twelve. What do you think I do with the other eight?"

"I wouldn't presume—"

"I stay faithful. That's what I do." Her voice is bitter. "Eight months of sleeping alone, of running his business, of being Mama Zahra to everyone while he trades spices and visits ports where women don't ask his wife's name."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry." She reaches for my face. "Be useful."

She kisses me in the lamplight.

Her mouth tastes like palm wine and decades of loneliness. Her body presses against mine—soft and heavy and hungry for something her husband hasn't provided in years.

"This is wrong," I manage.

"This is survival." She pulls at my clothes. "Three months until he returns. Three months of nights like this. And you—you've wanted me. I've known it."

"Yes."

"Then take what you want. What I want to give."

I take her on the desk.

The same desk where she runs her husband's empire. Ledgers scatter. The lamp flickers. She's beneath me, massive and magnificent, her legs spread wide.

"Yes—ndio—finally—"

I worship her first—her heavy breasts, her soft belly, the wetness between her thighs. She comes on my tongue, crying out in the empty warehouse.

"Inside me—now—I need to feel—"

I slide in. She's tight from months without, and she gasps as I fill her.

"He doesn't—he can't—" She clutches my shoulders. "Not anymore. Not for years. This is—oh—this is what I needed—"

We fuck in the warehouse for hours.

On her desk. Against the spice crates. In the cardamom section where she first summoned me. The smells of cinnamon and clove mix with sex, and she takes me in every position she's dreamed of during her lonely nights.

"More," she demands. "Give me more."

I give her everything.

Dawn comes.

The workers will arrive soon. We dress quickly, straighten the office, pretend nothing happened.

"The thief," she says. "We still need to catch him."

"We will."

"Tonight. Same time. We'll work on the investigation."

"The investigation."

"Among other things." Her smile is knowing. "Three months, Hamid. We have three months to solve this problem."

Three months becomes three years.

The thief is caught, dismissed, prosecuted. But my nights in the warehouse continue—every time the Sheikh sails, his wife calls me to her office. For inventory. For accounts. For things the ledgers never record.

"He's leaving again next week," she tells me one evening. "Six months this time. The Oman route, then India."

"Six months is a long time."

"It's never long enough." She pulls me toward the spice crates. "Make it count."

We count every night.

Count orgasms, count positions, count the ways a lonely wife and a careful clerk can find pleasure in a warehouse full of valuable things.

"You're worth more than all this saffron," she whispers one night. We're surrounded by crates worth fortunes. "Worth more than any spice on the market."

"I'm just an inventory manager."

"You manage more than inventory." She straddles me, takes me inside her. "You manage my sanity. My needs. Everything my husband ignores."

I manage her until the Sheikh returns.

And when he leaves again—as he always does—I manage her some more.

Viungo.

Spices.

The trade that keeps him sailing.

The trade that keeps her mine.