The Wedding Singer
"She's the most famous Somali wedding singer in the diaspora—a thick diva who's performed at hundreds of aroos celebrations. When he's hired to be her driver for a weekend of weddings, she shows him that her voice isn't the only thing that commands attention."
Everyone knows Halimo Diiriye.
The voice of a generation. The queen of Somali weddings. For thirty years, she's been the woman every bride wants at her aroos—her voice filling ballrooms from Minneapolis to Melbourne.
And now I'm driving her.
"Warya, eyes on the road." Her voice comes from the back seat. "You're staring in the mirror."
"Sorry, Eedo."
"Don't call me Eedo." She laughs—a rich, throaty sound. "I'm fifty-one, not ninety."
I adjust the mirror. Focus on driving.
But I can't help glancing back.
Halimo is everything the videos promised and more. She's thick—wallahi, she's thick. Two hundred and seventy pounds of diva, draped in gold and silk for tonight's performance. Her makeup is perfect. Her hair—she doesn't wear hijab for performances—is styled in elaborate braids.
She catches me looking.
"You've never driven a celebrity before?"
"Not one like you."
"Like me." She smiles. Something dangerous in it. "And what am I like?"
"Legendary."
"Mahadsnid." She leans back. "But legends get lonely too."
The first wedding is in Brooklyn Park.
Five hundred guests. A ballroom draped in Somali flags. The bride's family paid fifteen thousand dollars for Halimo to perform.
Worth every penny.
She takes the stage, and the room falls silent. Then she sings—old songs, new songs, songs that make the grandmothers cry and the young people dance. Her voice fills the space, commands it, owns it.
And between songs, she looks at me.
Standing by the door. Supposed to be watching for trouble.
Watching her instead.
The night ends at two AM.
I drive her to her hotel—the Marriott downtown, nothing but the best for Halimo Diiriye. She's tired, her elaborate dress exchanged for a loose dirac, her makeup smudged.
"Come up," she says. "Help me with my bags."
"Haa, Halimo."
It's not a request.
Her suite is enormous.
"My husband used to carry the bags," she says, setting down her jewelry. "Before he died."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. He was terrible." She pours two glasses of something golden. "Jealous of my success. Angry that I was famous and he was nothing."
"How long has he been gone?"
"Seven years." She hands me a glass. "Seven years of hotel rooms. Seven years of weddings where everyone dances except me."
"You don't dance?"
"Who would I dance with?" She takes a long drink. "I'm the entertainment. Not a person. Not a woman."
"You're a woman to me."
She looks at me over the rim of her glass.
"Wallahi?"
"Wallahi."
She sets down her drink.
Crosses to me.
"I'm twice your age," she says. "I'm fat. I'm—"
"A legend."
"Legends are statues. Cold. Dead." She grips my shirt. "I don't want to be a statue anymore."
She kisses me.
Her mouth tastes like champagne.
I grab her hips—wide, soft, overflowing my hands—and pull her against me. She moans as she feels my hardness.
"Subhanallah—" She breaks the kiss. "You want me? Even like this?"
"I've wanted you since I picked you up."
"Macaan." She reaches for her zipper. "Let me show you what a legend can do."
Her dirac falls.
She wears silk underneath—expensive, delicate—but even that is too much. I reach back, unhook her bra. Her breasts spill free—massive, heavy, brown flesh with nipples dark as dates.
"Qurux," I breathe. Beautiful.
"Wallahi, you lie—"
I suck a nipple into my mouth.
She gasps.
"No one—" Her hands grab my head. "Seven years—no one—"
I worship her breasts. Suck and lick and bite until she's moaning, until her legs buckle, until I have to hold her up.
"Bed," she gasps. "Take me to bed."
I carry her.
Two hundred and seventy pounds of diva in my arms. She laughs as I cross the suite—that famous laugh, the one from all the wedding videos.
I lay her on the king-sized bed.
Strip off her underwear.
"Ilaahay weyn—" She stares at my cock. "You're—weyn—so big—"
"Turn over."
"What?"
"I want to see all of you. Turn over."
She obeys.
Her ass is magnificent.
Two massive cheeks, brown and soft, spread across the white sheets. I grab them—each one overflowing my hands—and bury my face between them.
"ALLA—" She screams into the pillow. "What are you—no one has ever—"
I lick her.
From behind. The way no Somali man probably ever has. She screams again—that famous voice, filling the suite—and pushes back against my face.
"Haa—haa—don't stop—ha joogin—"
I slide two fingers inside her. She's tight and wet and desperate.
"Coming—" She's shaking. "Seven years and now—ILAAHAY—"
She explodes.
I don't stop.
I give her another one.
"Inside me—" She's barely coherent. "I need you inside me—"
I position myself behind her.
That magnificent ass pointed at me.
Push inside.
She screams loud enough to wake the neighboring rooms.
"So big—" She's face-down, ass up, taking me. "You're filling me—dhammaan—"
I grab her wide hips.
Start to move.
I fuck the legend from behind.
Her massive body shakes with every thrust. Her ass ripples. Her screams fill the suite—the same voice that's filled a thousand weddings, now making sounds no audience has ever heard.
"Dhakhso—harder—" She pushes back against me. "Use me—"
I slam into her.
The headboard cracks against the wall. The bed groans. She screams and screams, coming again and again.
"Inside me—" She's begging now. "Ku shub—fill me up—"
I let go.
I flood the queen of Somali weddings.
Pump her full while she moans and shakes. When I'm empty, I collapse beside her, both of us gasping.
"Wallahi," she breathes. "I'd forgotten. What it felt like. To be wanted."
"How could anyone not want you?"
"They want my voice. My fame. My name." She turns to face me. "You're the first to want me."
"I'll want you tomorrow too."
"Tomorrow there's another wedding."
"And after?"
"After—" She smiles. Pulls me close. "After, you drive me back here. And we do this again."
"How many weddings this weekend?"
"Three."
"Three nights then."
"And every weekend after." She kisses me. "I tour constantly. Minneapolis. Seattle. London. Toronto. I need a driver who can... keep up."
"I can keep up."
"Inshallah." She shifts, straddles me. "Let's test that theory."
I pass the test.
Six Months Later
Halimo Diiriye still performs at weddings.
The crowds still cheer. The brides still cry. The legend lives on.
But now, after every performance, there's a hotel room. A driver who's become more than a driver. A woman who's remembered she's a woman.
"Macaan," she whispers every night, as I take her again. "My sweet boy."
Everyone knows Halimo Diiriye.
No one knows me.
That's exactly how she likes it.