Three Widows
"His brother's funeral brings the three widowed sisters-in-law together. Their grief finds an unexpected outlet—and they decide to share it."
My brother dies on a Tuesday.
Heart attack. Fifty-two years old. Gone between one breath and the next.
The funeral in Lamu is traditional. Three days of mourning. The whole family packed into the old compound. And his three wives—the three women who shared him for two decades—trying to figure out how to exist now that he's gone.
I've known them all since they married him. Amina, the first wife, fifty now—heavy, stern, the one who ran the household. Jamila, the second wife, forty-five—softer, quieter, always in Amina's shadow. And Mariamu, the third wife, forty—the youngest, the most voluptuous, the one my brother married for pleasure rather than duty.
They're all widows now.
And they're all looking at me.
"You look like him."
It's the second night of mourning. Mariamu finds me on the rooftop, watching the dhows in the harbor.
"Everyone says that."
"It's true." She moves closer, and I smell jasmine and grief. "Same height. Same shoulders. Same hands."
She's been crying. They all have. But Mariamu's tears have a different quality—rawer, fresher. She was his favorite, and everyone knew it.
"I'm sorry," I say.
"Don't be. He was a good husband." She sits beside me. "He took care of us. All three of us. Even when we fought, he kept us together."
"And now?"
"Now we're three widows in a compound that was built for a man." She looks at the sea. "None of us have anywhere else to go. None of us have been alone in twenty years."
"You'll figure it out."
"Will we?" She turns, and her eyes are dark. "Amina is fifty and hasn't touched a man besides Omar in thirty years. Jamila is so devoted she might become a hermit. And me—" She laughs bitterly. "I'm forty and I've never gone a week without sex. What am I supposed to do now?"
I don't have an answer.
She doesn't seem to expect one.
The third night.
The mourners have gone. The compound is quiet. I should leave tomorrow, return to Mombasa, let the widows sort out their lives.
Instead, I hear a knock on my door.
All three of them.
"We need to talk to you," Amina says.
She's the spokesperson, even now. First wife authority. She leads them into my room, and they arrange themselves on the edges of the bed—Amina on the left, Jamila on the right, Mariamu in the middle.
"We've been discussing what to do," Amina continues. "This compound. The businesses. The money. It's all held jointly. We need a man to manage certain things."
"I can recommend lawyers—"
"We don't want lawyers." Jamila's voice, soft but firm. "We want family."
"And you're the only brother Omar had," Mariamu adds. "The only man left in his line."
I'm starting to understand. And the understanding makes my heart race.
"What exactly are you asking?"
The three widows exchange glances. Some silent communication passes between them—the language of women who've shared a husband for two decades.
"Stay," Amina says. "Take over the compound. Manage the properties. Be the man of this house."
"And in return?"
"We'll take care of you." Mariamu's voice drops. "The way we took care of Omar. All three of us."
I should say no.
These are my brother's wives. He's been dead three days. This is wrong on every level.
But Mariamu is already moving toward me, and Jamila is standing, and Amina is watching with eyes that say she's been thinking about this since the funeral.
"He would want this," Mariamu whispers. "He told me once. If anything happened to him, he wanted us cared for. By someone we could trust."
"Someone with his blood," Jamila adds.
"Someone who could handle all three of us," Amina finishes.
"I'm not Omar."
"We know." Mariamu's hand finds my chest. "But you're the next best thing. And we need... comfort. Tonight. All of us."
They undress each other first.
It's practiced—the movements of women who've been naked together for years, who've shared a bed with the same man. Amina unties Mariamu's kanga. Jamila unclasps Amina's bra. Mariamu slides Jamila's dress over her head.
Three widows, standing before me.
Amina—fifty, two-sixty, the matriarch. Heavy breasts, round belly, thighs like pillars.
Jamila—forty-five, two-thirty, the quiet one. Softer, rounder, with a belly that hangs low.
Mariamu—forty, two-forty, the favorite. Curves on curves on curves, the body my brother married for pleasure.
"Your turn," Amina says.
They share me the way they shared him.
Practiced. Coordinated. A system developed over twenty years.
Mariamu goes first—kneeling, taking me in her mouth while the other two watch. She's skilled, hungry, determined to prove she's still useful.
"Enough." Amina's command. "My turn."
She pushes Mariamu aside, straddles my face. "Worship me. The way Omar never bothered to."
I worship. My tongue on her clit while Jamila mounts my cock, taking me inside with a gasp. Two of my brother's widows, using me at once.
"He never did this," Jamila moans. "Never let us have him together."
"He was selfish," Amina pants. "You're going to be better."
I'm going to try.
They rotate.
Amina on my cock while Mariamu sits on my face. Jamila sucking me while Amina and Mariamu kiss above me. Every combination, every configuration, every way three women can share one man.
"More—please—more—"
I lose track of whose voice is whose. Whose cunt is wrapped around me. Whose thighs are crushing my head. It's all flesh, all heat, all need.
When I finally come—deep inside Jamila, while Mariamu screams on my tongue and Amina grinds on my hand—they collapse around me like a wave breaking.
"Stay," Amina says again.
We're tangled on the bed, sweat cooling, breath slowing.
"I have a life in Mombasa—"
"Had a life." Mariamu traces patterns on my chest. "Now you have a purpose."
"We need you," Jamila whispers. "Not just for this. For everything."
Three widows. Three women who lost the man who held them together.
And me—the brother who looks just like him.
"I'll stay."
It takes a month to sort out my affairs in Mombasa.
By then, I've moved into my brother's bedroom—the master suite with the bed big enough for four. The compound staff don't question it. They've seen stranger arrangements.
Every night, one of them comes to me. Or two. Or all three.
They have a schedule, the same one they had with Omar. But they're flexible now—more willing to share, more willing to overlap. Whatever jealousy existed died with their husband.
"This is better," Mariamu admits one night. "You're better. He was good to us, but you—you worship us."
"All three of you."
"All three." She kisses me. "Forever."
The neighbors in Lamu are polite enough not to ask questions.
They see the brother-in-law who moved in to help. Who manages the compound, the businesses, the properties. Who keeps three widows in comfort and security.
They don't see what happens behind closed doors.
They don't need to.
Some grief is private.
Some comfort is too.
And some widows know exactly how to honor their husband's memory.
By taking care of his blood.
By being taken care of in return.
Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji'un.
To Allah we belong, and to Him we return.
But first—we live.
All four of us.
Together.