The Zanzibar Spice Trader

تاجرة التوابل الزنجبارية

Zanzibar is the spice island.

Cloves, cardamom, vanilla, pepper. My family has traded them for two centuries.

Marco wants them all.

I'm Bi Maryam.

Fifty, Zanzibari-Arab, keeper of the family business. The Stone Town market knows my name.

Marco is Italian, a chef.

He's fifty-four.

Runs a restaurant in Milan. He came seeking authentic spices.

"These aren't in any catalog."

"Of course not. Catalogs are for tourists."

"Show me your real inventory."

"That requires trust."

"How do I earn trust?"

"Time. And understanding why the spices matter."

I take him to the plantations.

Where cloves grow, where vanilla blooms. The island's secrets.

"This is extraordinary."

"This is Zanzibar. Our identity in aroma."

"Why do you stay?"

"Where would I go? Milan?"

"Milan would be lucky."

"Milan doesn't have this." I gesture at the ocean. "Or the scent of cloves at dawn."

"I want to partner. Directly."

"You want to import."

"I want to honor. Your spices in my dishes, your name on the menu."

"That's different."

"I know."

The first kiss is in the spice warehouse.

Cinnamon and cardamom perfuming the air.

"Is this wise?" he asks.

"Wisdom is boring. Spice is interesting."

"Come to Milan. See what I create with your gifts."

"I've never left Zanzibar."

"Then it's time."

"Marco—"

"Let me show you what your heritage becomes in new hands."

He undresses me while the ocean breathes.

My house overlooking the water, spice gardens below.

"Beautiful."

"Bi Maryam—"

"Season me differently."

We make love while Zanzibar sings.

The muezzin calling, the spices perfuming everything.

"Ya Allah—Marco—"

"Right there?"

"Ndiyo—aiwa—yes—"

Languages blending like flavors.

Three years later

I travel now.

Milan, Zanzibar, back again. The restaurant celebrates the island.

"Happy?" he asks.

"We created a new recipe."

"What's it called?"

"Us."

Alhamdulillah.

For spices that connect.

For chefs who honor.

For islands that become love.

The End.