The Uber Ayeeyo
"His Uber driver is a thick Somali grandmother—ayeeyo—who drives nights to support her grandchildren. When he leaves his phone in her car, she returns it personally. She doesn't leave until morning. Some rides have unexpected destinations."
The Uber app says her name is Khadra.
The profile photo shows a woman in a hijab. Rating: 4.98 stars. Three thousand trips completed.
When she pulls up, I'm surprised.
She's older than I expected. Sixty, maybe. A grandmother—an ayeeyo—driving a Toyota Camry through Minneapolis at midnight.
"Soo gal," she says. "Get in."
I get in.
The drive to my apartment is quiet.
I'm tired—late night, too much drinking with friends. She drives carefully, hands at ten and two, the radio playing soft Somali music.
"You're Somali?" she asks, catching my eye in the mirror.
"Haa, Ayeeyo."
"Don't call me that." She laughs. "Makes me feel old."
"You're not old?"
"Sixty-two. That's not old—that's experienced."
I smile despite myself.
"Why do you drive at night?"
"My grandchildren." Her voice softens. "My daughter passed. Cancer. Now I raise her three kids. Uber pays the bills."
"I'm sorry."
"Alhamdulillah—God's will." She shrugs. "We survive."
I fall asleep before we arrive.
She wakes me—gentle hand on my shoulder—and I stumble to my apartment, too tired to remember anything.
The next morning, I realize I left my phone in her car.
She returns it personally.
Knocks on my door at noon, still in her driving clothes. My phone in her hand.
"Mahadsnid." I take it. "You didn't have to come all this way."
"You live alone?" She peers past me into the apartment. "No wife? No family?"
"Just me."
"Ceeb—shameful." She clicks her tongue. "A young man shouldn't be alone. You need someone to cook for you. Clean for you."
"I manage."
"You don't manage. You survive." She pushes past me. "Let me see your kitchen."
"Ayeeyo—"
"Khadra." She turns. "My name is Khadra. Use it."
She inspects my kitchen.
Opens cabinets. Checks the fridge. Makes disapproving sounds at everything she finds.
"No real food. No spices. Garbage." She turns to face me. "When did you last have a proper Somali meal?"
"My mother cooks sometimes—"
"Sometimes isn't enough." She's already looking through my pantry. "Sit down. I'll make something."
"You don't have to—"
"Aammus—be quiet." She waves her hand. "Let an old woman cook."
She cooks for two hours.
Hilib. Bariis. Canjeero. The smells fill my apartment, and by the time she's done, I'm hungrier than I've been in months.
"Eat," she commands.
I eat.
She watches with satisfaction—the way Somali mothers and grandmothers have watched their children eat for generations.
"Better," she says when I finish. "Now—dessert."
"You made dessert?"
"Maya." She stands. Crosses to me. "But I have something sweet for you."
"Khadra—"
"I've been driving Uber for three years," she says quietly. "Three years of young men getting in my car, looking at me like I'm invisible. Like I'm just an old woman. A grandmother."
"You are a grandmother."
"I'm also a woman." Her hand finds my chest. "A woman who hasn't been touched in eight years. Whose husband died and left her alone with grandbabies and bills and nothing else."
"What are you saying?"
"I'm saying I came back to return your phone." She grips my shirt. "But I don't want to leave. Not yet."
"Khadra—"
"Tell me I'm too old. Tell me I'm too fat. Tell me to go." Her eyes meet mine. "Or tell me to stay."
I pull her close.
"Stay."
She's thick.
Thicker than I imagined. Sixty-two years of life—childbearing, cooking, surviving—written on her body.
Heavy breasts that sag nearly to her navel. Belly soft and round, cascading in folds. Wide hips and thick thighs. Two hundred and fifty pounds of grandmother.
"I know I'm not—"
"You're beautiful."
I push her onto my bed.
I worship the Uber driver.
My mouth traces her body—every line, every fold. She gasps and moans, sounds she probably hasn't made in decades.
"No one has—" She's shaking. "My husband never—"
I find her pussy.
Lick.
She screams.
"ILAAHAY!" Her hands grab my hair. "Eight years—sixty-two years old—ALLA—"
I lick her slowly. Show her what she's been missing her entire life.
"Coming—" She's shaking. "I'm coming—ALLA—"
She explodes.
I don't stop.
"Inside me—" She's pulling at me. "Ku soo gal—please—I need—"
I position myself between her thick thighs.
"Ready?"
"I've been ready for sixty years."
I thrust inside.
She screams.
Her walls grip me—tight, wet, eight years tight.
"Alla—so big—you're filling me—dhammaan—"
I start to move.
I fuck the sixty-two-year-old Uber driver.
Her massive body bounces beneath me. Her breasts roll with every thrust.
"Dhakhso—faster—" She wraps her legs around me. "Give me what I've never had—"
I pound her.
The bed slams against the wall. She screams and screams.
"Coming—" Her eyes roll back. "Ku shub—fill me—"
I let go.
I flood the grandmother.
Fill her where no man has properly filled her. She moans as she feels it.
We lie tangled together, gasping.
"Macaan," she breathes. "Worth sixty years of waiting."
"You didn't wait for me."
"No. But I found you." She strokes my face. "Can I find you again?"
"Whenever you want."
"Every night I'm not driving." She pulls me for a kiss. "After the grandchildren are asleep. I'll text you."
"Uber keeps you busy."
"Some passengers are worth extra trips." She shifts, straddles me. "You rate me five stars. I rate you... perfect."
Six Months Later
Khadra is still my favorite driver.
The app sends her whenever she's available. I always tip well. Always rate five stars.
What the app doesn't see is what happens after.
"Macaan," she moans, as I take her. "My best customer."
Some rides don't end at the destination.
Some rides are just the beginning.