Wake wa Mjomba
"Wealthy uncle has three thick wives. When he travels—which is often—nephew 'manages the household.' The wives have needs. The uncle has none left. Someone has to keep the household running."
Uncle Rashid is the richest man in the family.
Import-export. Properties. Investments. He's built an empire that requires constant travel—Singapore, Dubai, London. Gone more than he's home.
He has three wives.
Three thick, neglected wives.
When he travels, someone needs to manage the household.
That someone is me.
I graduated with a business degree.
No job prospects. Uncle Rashid offered to help—"manage my properties while I travel," he said. Good salary. Room and board. A chance to learn the business.
He didn't mention his wives.
Maryam is the first wife.
Fifty-two, married to Uncle Rashid for thirty years. She's enormous—heavy breasts, wide hips, a belly that speaks of decades of good living. She runs the household like a corporation.
Habiba is the second wife.
Forty-six, married for twenty years. Softer than Maryam, more emotional. Thick in gentler ways—curves instead of mass.
Saida is the third wife.
Thirty-nine, married only eight years. The youngest, but already substantial. Uncle Rashid married her when his older wives "aged out" of his interests. Now he's aging out of his own.
"Your uncle hasn't touched any of us in three years," Maryam tells me.
I've been managing the household for a month. The uncle is in Singapore.
"I don't need to know—"
"You do." She moves closer. "Because we need you to understand what this household requires. What we require."
"Bi Maryam—"
"Just Maryam." She takes my hand. "Your uncle pays you to manage his properties. His wives are his most valuable properties. We need... management."
I manage Maryam that first night.
In the master bedroom, in the bed she shares with Uncle Rashid when he's home. Her body is overwhelming—decades of marriage have made her expert in what she needs.
"Finally—someone who still works—"
"Uncle Rashid can't—"
"Can't. Won't. Doesn't care." She bounces on me, her massive flesh rippling. "But you—you're young. Functional. Present."
"Present?"
"Here." She comes, shaking. "You're here. That's all that matters."
Habiba finds me the next night.
"Maryam told me," she says at my door. "She said you were... adequate."
"Adequate?"
"Her word, not mine." Habiba enters uninvited. "I wanted to test for myself."
Habiba is different from Maryam.
Softer, needier. She wants tenderness where Maryam wanted force. I give her what she needs—slow, patient, thorough.
"My husband married me for children—gave me three—then forgot I existed—"
"I won't forget—"
"Promise?" She's crying while she comes. "Promise you'll keep managing me?"
I promise.
Saida is the last.
The youngest wife, the most recent neglect. She comes to me on night three.
"The other wives told me about you."
"What did they say?"
"That you're solving problems." She starts undressing. "I have problems too."
Saida is the most demanding.
Younger, more energetic, more starved for attention. Uncle Rashid married her for her body, then stopped using it almost immediately.
"He's impotent—has been for years—but he keeps marrying—"
"Why?"
"Status. Show." She rides me furiously. "Three wives look powerful. Using them? Not his concern."
"His loss."
"Your gain." She comes screaming. "All three of us. Your gain."
Uncle Rashid returns from Singapore.
A week at home, then off to Dubai. His wives are attentive, professional, perfect. He suspects nothing.
"The household runs smoothly," he tells me. "You're doing good work."
"I'm managing efficiently."
"Keep it up." He clasps my shoulder. "I'll be gone for three weeks. Make sure the wives have everything they need."
"I'll make sure."
The rotation establishes itself.
When Uncle is away—which is most of the time—I rotate between the wives. Maryam on Mondays and Thursdays. Habiba on Tuesdays and Fridays. Saida on Wednesdays and Saturdays. Sundays are rest.
Or they would be, except the wives started requesting bonus sessions.
"We should coordinate," Maryam announces one evening.
All three wives, together, in the main parlor. I'm summoned like an employee. Which I suppose I am.
"Coordinate what?"
"You." Habiba crosses her arms. "We've been competing for your schedule. Fighting over extra nights. It's unseemly."
"Instead," Saida continues, "we propose a more... collective approach."
"Collective?"
"Together." Maryam stands. "All three of us. With you. At once."
I manage all three wives simultaneously.
In the master bedroom, in Uncle Rashid's enormous bed. Three thick bodies, three sets of needs, one exhausted nephew.
"This is efficient—" Maryam gasps.
"This is fair—" Habiba agrees.
"This is incredible—" Saida screams.
The collective sessions become weekly.
In addition to individual rotations. My schedule is full. My body is taxed. The household has never run more smoothly.
"You've done excellent work," Uncle Rashid says on his next visit.
"I take the job seriously."
"I can tell. The wives are happy. Content. Less demanding." He laughs. "Whatever you're doing, keep doing it."
I keep doing it.
Every night he's gone.
Every night they need.
Uncle Rashid dies in Dubai.
Heart attack in a hotel room. Alone. His wives are devastated—publicly. Privately, they're relieved.
"The estate is ours now," Maryam says after the funeral. "Split three ways, with provisions for household staff."
"Am I staff?"
"You're more than staff." She pulls me close. "You're the manager. And this household still needs managing."
I inherit the job permanently.
The estate is divided, but the household remains intact. Three widows, three thick women, one nephew who keeps everything running.
"You could marry one of us," Habiba suggests. "Make it legal."
"Which one?"
"All of us." Saida laughs. "Inherit your uncle's wives the way you inherited his business. Keep the family tradition alive."
"Is that even legal?"
"Does it matter?" Maryam mounts me. "We're not changing anything. Just... formalizing what already exists."
I marry Maryam officially.
Habiba and Saida remain "household members." The paperwork satisfies the authorities. The reality satisfies all of us.
"Your uncle built this household," Maryam says on our wedding night—shared with all three wives, as usual.
"And now it's yours."
"Ours," Habiba corrects.
"All of ours," Saida adds.
They're right.
The household is ours now.
Three thick wives.
One devoted manager.
An empire that runs on attention.
Uncle Rashid built it.
I maintain it.
And everyone is finally satisfied.
The way it should have been all along.