Urithi wa Mjane | NEON LIT

My uncle Rashid died on a Tuesday.

He was fifty-eight years old, a respected fisherman in our village outside Lamu. Heart attack on his boat, they said. Dead before he hit the water.

At the funeral, the elders gathered.

"The widow must be inherited," they said. "This is tradition."

And because I was his nearest male relative—his brother's only son—the widow became mine.

Aunt Zuhura was never really my aunt.

She was my uncle's second wife, married to him only eight years ago when his first wife died. A widow from another village, thick and quiet, who cooked his meals and kept his house and shared his bed.

She's forty-seven years old.

And now she's my responsibility.

"You understand what this means?" my father asks.

"I inherit his property. His debts. His obligations."

"His wife." My father's eyes are serious. "In the old way. Not just caring for her—inheriting her. As if she were your own wife."

"That's barbaric—"

"That's tradition." He grips my shoulder. "She has no one else. No family. No children. If you don't take her, she'll be destitute. Cast out. Is that what you want?"

"No, but—"

"Then you know what you must do."

I move into my uncle's house the week after the funeral.

Zuhura is waiting for me, dressed in mourning white, her eyes downcast. She's thick in the traditional way—heavy breasts, wide hips, a belly that speaks of contentment. Her skin is dark, her features strong.

"Nephew," she says. "Or should I say husband?"

"Neither. I'm just... I'm here to help."

"Help." She almost smiles. "Is that what we're calling it?"

The first month is strange.

We live in the same house but different rooms. I handle my uncle's affairs—the boat, the debts, the arrangements. Zuhura cooks, cleans, maintains the household. We're polite. Distant.

But I see her.

I see her in the morning, before she covers herself. Wearing only a thin house dress that hides nothing. Her breasts heavy without support, nipples visible through the fabric. Her hips swaying as she moves around the kitchen.

I see her at night, when she bathes in the courtyard. Through gaps in my window, I catch glimpses of brown flesh. The curve of her back. The swell of her ass.

I see her, and I remember what my father said.

As if she were your own wife.

"The village is talking," she says one evening.

We're eating dinner in silence, as usual. She sets down her spoon and looks at me directly—the first time in weeks.

"What are they saying?"

"That you haven't done your duty. That you've left me untouched." Her voice is matter-of-fact. "They say you're shaming your uncle's memory."

"I'm not going to—"

"Force me? I know." She stands, moves around the table. "But who said anything about force?"

"Zuhura—"

"I was married to your uncle for eight years." She's close now, close enough that I can smell her—coconut oil and something warmer. "He was old. Tired. The last three years, he couldn't... he didn't..."

"I don't need to know—"

"You need to understand." Her hand finds my shoulder. "I'm forty-seven years old. I've been untouched for three years. I've been a ghost in my own body. And now you're here, young and strong, and tradition says you're my husband."

"Tradition is—"

"Tradition kept me fed and housed when I had nothing." Her voice hardens. "Tradition gave me a home when my first husband died and my family cast me out. I don't have the luxury of rejecting tradition."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying the village is right." She reaches for the ties of her dress. "You haven't done your duty. And I'm tired of waiting for you to realize it."

She undresses in front of me.

Slow, deliberate, layer by layer. Her mourning white falls away, revealing the body beneath. Heavy breasts, dark and soft. Belly round with age and comfort. Hips wider than any woman I've touched.

"This is what you inherited," she says. "This is what tradition gave you."

"You're beautiful."

She laughs—actually laughs, the first time I've heard it.

"I'm fat and old and worn. But I'm also willing." She moves toward me. "Are you?"

I take her on the table where we eat dinner.

Sweep the dishes aside and lift her onto the surface—all of her, every pound—and kiss her like I've been wanting to for weeks. She responds immediately, her thick arms wrapping around me, her mouth hungry.

"Finally," she gasps. "I was starting to think you didn't want me—"

"I've wanted you since I walked in."

"Then stop waiting."

I worship her the way my uncle never could.

My mouth on her neck, her shoulders, the heavy swell of her breasts. I suck her dark nipples while she moans, while her hands grip my head.

"Ya Allah—your uncle never—"

I kiss lower. Her belly, soft and giving. The thick folds at her waist. Lower still, to the heat between her thick thighs.

"No—no one has ever—"

I lick.

She screams.

She floods my face in seconds.

Three years of neglect releasing at once. Her thick thighs clamp around my head, her body shaking. I don't stop—I push her through that orgasm into the next, make up for years in minutes.

"Please—inside me—please—"

I stand. Strip off my clothes. Watch her eyes go wide.

"Your uncle was... you're nothing like him."

"He was old and tired. I'm neither."

I thrust into her on the dinner table.

She's tight from years of disuse.

Clenches around me like she's afraid I'll disappear. I fill her completely, feel her stretch, hear her cry out.

"So full—I forgot what it—oh God—"

I start to move.

Slow at first. Letting her adjust. But she's having none of it—her thick legs wrap around my waist, her hips rise to meet me.

"Harder—please—three years—"

I give her harder.

The table shakes. Her body shakes. She's coming again—crying, laughing, making sounds she'd forgotten she could make.

"Don't stop—please—never stop—"

I fuck her in every room of my uncle's house.

The table. The floor. Against the wall. In the courtyard where she bathes, under the stars. In my uncle's bed—the bed where he couldn't touch her, couldn't satisfy her.

"Here—right here—where he failed me—"

I give her what he couldn't.

Pound into her until the bed breaks. Until she's screaming loud enough for the neighbors to hear. Until the whole village knows I've done my duty.

"Inside me—fill me—make me yours—"

I fill her.

Explode inside my inherited wife while she screams her release. Collapse onto her soft body, both of us gasping.

"The elders were right," she says afterward.

We're lying in the ruins of the bed, her thick body pressed against mine. Dawn is breaking through the windows.

"About tradition?"

"About you." She kisses my chest. "They said you'd be good to me. Provide for me. They didn't mention you'd be this good."

"I try."

"Try harder." She rolls on top of me—all that weight, all that warmth. "We have years to make up for. And the village expects heirs."

"Heirs?"

"Tradition." She smiles. "The inherited wife should bear children. To continue the line."

"You're forty-seven—"

"And you're young and virile. We'll see what Allah wills." She positions herself over me. "But first, more practice."

I've been living in my uncle's house for two years now.

Zuhura is no longer my aunt or my inherited obligation. She's my wife in every way that matters. Thick and willing and insatiable, making up for lost time.

The village approves.

"You've honored tradition," the elders say. "Your uncle would be proud."

I don't know if my uncle would be proud.

But every night, when Zuhura comes to our bed—eager, willing, that body I inherited more valuable than any property—I know I made the right choice.

Some inheritances are worth more than gold.

Some traditions are worth keeping.

And some widows are worth everything.