The Toronto Tango
"Toronto's Somali community is massive. When he crashes on his cousin's couch, he doesn't expect to meet the thick Somali landlady who owns the building. She needs help collecting rent—and collecting something else entirely."
Toronto's Somali population numbers over sixty thousand.
Dixon Road. Rexdale. Little Mogadishu North. My cousin Bile lives in an apartment complex off Kipling, where the signs are in Somali and English and the smell of suqaar drifts through the halls.
His landlady is named Sureer.
Fifty-one years old. A widow. Owns the entire building—thirty-six units, all Somali tenants.
She's thick.
Wallahi, she's thick.
Two hundred and sixty pounds of Somali business mogul. Wide hips that command every doorway she enters. Heavy breasts beneath professional blouses. A round face with calculating eyes that have survived a civil war and a real estate market.
"You're Bile's cousin?" She looks me up and down when I arrive. "The American?"
"Haa, Sureer."
"Eddo Sureer." She corrects. "I'm old enough to be your mother."
"Mahadsnid, Eddo."
She smiles.
Something predatory in it.
I'm crashing on Bile's couch for a month.
Job hunting. Starting over. The usual immigrant shuffle, even between countries.
Bile works nights—security at the airport—so I'm alone most evenings. Alone except for Sureer, who seems to find reasons to knock on the door.
"The heat is working?" Knock.
"Any packages for Bile?" Knock.
"I need help with something in my apartment." Knock.
The last one catches my attention.
Her apartment is the penthouse.
Top floor. The best view of Rexdale's concrete sprawl. She's decorated it with Somali art and expensive furniture.
"The television," she says. "I can't get it to work."
The television is a seventy-inch smart TV. I press the power button. It turns on.
"Mahadsnid." She doesn't seem surprised. "I'm not good with technology."
"You own thirty-six apartments. I think you're good at plenty."
"Business is easy." She sits on her leather couch. Pats the spot beside her. "Other things are harder."
I sit.
Too close.
"My husband died six years ago," she says. "Heart attack. On this very couch."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. He was a bastard. But he left me the building." She looks at me with those calculating eyes. "Six years of managing tenants. Collecting rent. Fixing problems. Do you know what I haven't done in six years?"
"What?"
"Been touched." Her hand finds my thigh. "Been wanted. Been anything except the landlady."
"Sureer—"
"Eddo," she corrects again. "That's the problem. Everyone calls me Eddo. Everyone sees a fat old woman. No one sees me."
"I see you."
Her eyes widen.
"Wallahi?"
"Wallahi."
She kisses me.
Sudden. Hungry. Six years of loneliness crashing against my lips.
"Xaaraan," she gasps, pulling back.
"You own the building. Who's going to tell?"
She laughs—surprised, genuine.
"Macaan." She reaches for her blouse. "Let me show you what you've been seeing."
The blouse falls.
Her bra is expensive—black lace straining to contain massive breasts. I unclasp it. Let them spill free.
"Subhanallah." I cup them—heavy, soft, nipples dark as coffee. "You're beautiful."
"I'm fat—"
"You're a queen."
I push her back on the couch where her husband died.
I worship the landlady.
My mouth traces down her body—throat, breasts, belly. Her skirt comes off. Her panties follow. She's thick everywhere—soft and warm and trembling.
"No one has—" She gasps as I spread her thighs. "My husband never—"
I bury my face in her pussy.
She screams.
"ILAAHAY—" Her hands grab my hair. "What are you—ALLA—"
I lick her slowly. Learn her. Six years of nothing, and I taste the drought breaking.
"Coming—" She's shaking. "Six years—ALLA—"
She explodes.
I don't stop.
"Inside me—" She's pulling at me. "Ku soo gal—please—"
I strip.
Her eyes widen at my cock.
"Weyn." Big. She wraps her hand around me. "My husband was nothing like this."
"Forget your husband."
"Already have."
I position myself.
Push inside.
She screams.
Her walls stretch around me—tight, wet, six years tight.
"Alla—so big—you're filling me—dhammaan—"
I start to move.
I fuck the landlady on her dead husband's couch.
Her massive body bounces beneath me. Her breasts roll with every thrust.
"Dhakhso—faster—" She claws at my back. "Own me like I own this building—"
I pound her.
The leather squeaks beneath us. She screams and screams.
"Coming—" Her eyes roll back. "Ku shub—fill me—"
I let go.
I flood the property mogul.
Fill her where her husband never satisfied her. She moans as she feels it.
We lie tangled on the couch, gasping.
"Your rent is waived," she breathes.
"I'm staying on Bile's couch."
"Not anymore." She strokes my chest. "You're staying with me. The penthouse has a spare room."
"And this?"
"This happens every night." She pulls me for a kiss. "I own this building. I own you now too."
Three Months Later
I live in the penthouse now.
Bile thinks I found a job. The other tenants think I'm Sureer's "assistant." They see me carrying groceries, fixing things, collecting rent.
They don't see what happens at night.
"Macaan," she moans, as I take her. "My property. My investment."
Some investments pay dividends.
Others pay in flesh.