The Witness | NEON LIT

"It's an old custom," my wife Safiya explains. "From before Islam. Before everything."

"A witness. To our wedding night."

"To verify the consummation." She looks embarrassed. "My mother's family is traditional. Very traditional. They won't accept the marriage as complete without..."

"Without someone watching us?"

"Without someone confirming the marriage is valid." She takes my hand. "I know it's strange. But it's one night. One witness. Then it's done."

"Who?"

She hesitates.

"My mother."

Mama Aisha is fifty-eight.

She's been a widow for ten years, matriarch of a family that traces its lineage back to the first Arab traders on the coast. Heavy, formidable, two-sixty of tradition made flesh.

"This is how it's done," she tells me the evening before the wedding. We're alone in her sitting room, the Lamu evening settling around us. "When I married Safiya's father, his mother witnessed. When his mother married, her mother witnessed. Generation after generation."

"And you... witness. What, exactly?"

"Everything." Her eyes hold mine. "The consummation. The completion. The proof that my daughter has been properly claimed by her husband."

"That seems—"

"Invasive? Yes. But necessary." She leans closer. "Too many men fail on their wedding nights. Nerves. Inexperience. Inability to perform. A witness ensures the marriage begins correctly."

"And if the man... fails?"

"Then the witness provides guidance." Her smile is thin. "However necessary."

The wedding is beautiful.

Safiya is everything I've dreamed of—young, lovely, eager to begin our life together. The celebration lasts until midnight, and then the guests disperse, and we're led to the bridal chamber.

With Mama Aisha behind us.

"I'll sit there," she says, indicating a chair in the corner. "You'll pretend I'm not here. Focus on each other. Do what comes naturally."

"Mama—" Safiya starts.

"It's tradition, daughter. One night of embarrassment. A lifetime of validated marriage." She settles into the chair. "Begin."

We try.

Safiya and I undress each other, trying to ignore the massive woman watching from the corner. I kiss my new wife, touch her, attempt to arouse her—but the pressure is too much. My body refuses to cooperate.

"I can't—" I whisper.

"It's okay." Safiya is patient. "Just relax."

"I can't relax with her—"

From the corner: "You're doing it wrong."

We both freeze.

Mama Aisha stands, moves toward the bed. She's removed her outer garments, wearing only a thin shift that reveals the massive body beneath.

"I've seen this before," she says. "Grooms who can't perform. It's common. Normal." She sits on the edge of the bed. "Let me help."

"Mama—" Safiya's voice is shocked.

"This is what the witness is for." Her hand lands on my thigh. "Guidance. Assistance. Whatever is necessary to ensure the consummation."

Her hand moves higher.

I should stop this. Should push her away, tell her this isn't what witnessing means. But my body—traitorously—begins to respond.

"There," she murmurs. "That's what was missing. Confidence." She strokes slowly. "You were too nervous. Too aware of being watched. But now..."

"Mama, you can't—"

"I can. I must." She doesn't look at her daughter. "The consummation must happen tonight. If it means I help it along, so be it."

She pulls back the sheets. Reveals me, hard now, ready in ways I wasn't before.

"Much better." She looks at Safiya. "Now, daughter. Complete what I've started."

Safiya hesitates.

But tradition is tradition. She's been raised to respect her mother, to follow the old ways. She climbs onto the bed, positions herself over me.

"Good," Mama Aisha says. "Now take him. Slowly."

Safiya sinks down. I enter her—my wife, finally, legally—while her mother watches from inches away.

"Deeper." Mama Aisha's hand finds Safiya's hip, guides her. "He needs to be fully inside. For the verification."

"I am—"

"Not deep enough." Her mother's hands adjust the angle. "There. Now move."

We move together.

My wife and I, consummating our marriage, while her mother watches every thrust. Her hands never leave us—adjusting, guiding, occasionally touching in ways that make me gasp.

"Is this necessary?" I manage.

"The witness must verify everything." Her palm presses against where Safiya and I are joined. "The depth. The rhythm. The evidence of completion."

Her hand is warm. Too warm. Too present.

"Faster," she instructs. "The consummation must be undeniable."

Safiya comes first.

She cries out—a mix of pleasure and embarrassment—and collapses against me. But Mama Aisha doesn't stop.

"Not yet. The husband must finish. Inside. For the consummation to be complete."

"He will," Safiya manages.

"He's struggling." Her mother's eyes are knowing. "Let me help."

Before I can protest, she leans in. Her mouth finds mine—just for a moment—and her hand wraps around my shaft where it enters her daughter.

"Now," she whispers against my lips. "Finish it. Make my daughter your wife."

I come.

Afterward, Safiya falls asleep.

Exhausted, embarrassed, satisfied. She curls against me, her breath evening out, leaving me alone with her mother.

"The consummation is verified," Mama Aisha says. She hasn't left the bed. "But there's more to the tradition."

"More?"

"The witness must be satisfied that the husband is... adequate. For the daughter's long-term needs." She moves closer. "What I saw tonight was affected by nerves. By the unusual circumstances. I need to see what you're really capable of."

"That's not—"

"That's exactly what it is." She's beside me now, her massive body pressing against my side. "My daughter is sleeping. She won't know. And I need to verify that she'll be satisfied for years to come."

"You want me to—"

"I want to test you. Properly. Without the nerves. Without the audience." Her hand finds me again—already hardening, despite everything. "Show me what you can do when you're not being watched."

"You're watching."

"But she isn't." She gestures to Safiya, still sleeping. "This is just you and me. Proving you're worthy of my daughter."

I prove it.

I don't know why. Honor, tradition, some dark desire I can't name. I let Mama Aisha guide me—into her, this time, her thick thighs spreading to receive me.

"Yes," she whispers. "This is what I needed to verify. That you could satisfy a woman. A real woman."

She's tighter than I expected. Wetter. Her body knows what it wants, and it takes me with a desperation that speaks to years of widowhood.

"My daughter is young," she pants. "She doesn't know what she needs yet. But I do. And I'm satisfied that you can provide it."

I thrust harder. Beside us, Safiya sleeps on, unaware that her mother is claiming her husband as proof of his worthiness.

"Come inside me." Mama Aisha pulls me deeper. "The full verification. So I can tell the family with certainty."

I give her the full verification.

Dawn comes.

Safiya wakes to find me beside her, her mother in the corner chair, everything seemingly as it should be.

"The witness is satisfied," Mama Aisha announces. "The marriage is valid. The consummation complete."

"Thank you, Mama." Safiya looks relieved. "I know it was strange, but—"

"It was tradition. And tradition has its reasons." Her mother stands, wraps herself in her robes. "I'll tell the family. You're truly married now."

She leaves.

Safiya curls against me, happy, unaware of everything that happened while she slept.

"That wasn't so bad, was it?" she murmurs.

"No," I agree. "It wasn't."

The family celebrates.

The marriage is valid. The consummation verified. Everything is as tradition requires.

At the feast, Mama Aisha catches my eye across the room. Her smile is small, knowing.

Next time you visit, her look says. More verification may be required.

I should be horrified.

Instead, I find myself already planning the visit.

Shahidi.

Witness.

Verifying everything.

Again and again.