Xalwo Macaan | NEON LIT

The smell of xalwo fills the hallway.

Cardamom and sugar and ghee—the sweet Somali confection that appears at every wedding, every Eid, every celebration. Someone in the building is cooking, and my stomach growls in response.

I follow my nose to apartment 3C.

Maryan's door.

I knock before I can think twice.

"Soo gal—come in!"

The door opens, and I'm hit with a wall of sweetness. The apartment is small but cozy, the kitchen taking up most of the space. And in the center of it all, stirring a massive pot on the stove, is Maryan.

"Warya!" She turns, her face breaking into a smile. "You smelled my xalwo? Come, come—taste."

Maryan is fifty-three years old. A widow—her husband passed five years ago, leaving her alone in this building full of young Somali families. She makes xalwo for every occasion, sells it at community events, ships it to relatives across the country.

She's also thick.

Wallahi, she is thick.

Wide hips that sway when she walks. Breasts that strain against her cooking dress. A belly soft and round, visible even through the loose fabric. She's two hundred and sixty pounds if she's an ounce, and every pound looks good on her.

"Come, come." She waves me toward the kitchen. "Tell me if this batch is good."

She scoops a spoonful of the golden confection and holds it out.

I taste.

"Macaan," I breathe. Sweet. "This is the best you've ever made."

"You think?" She beams. "It's for the Hassan wedding on Saturday. They ordered twenty pounds."

"They're lucky."

"Mahadsnid." She sets down the spoon, looks at me properly. "You've lost weight. Are you eating?"

"Enough."

"Enough is not enough for a young man." She clicks her tongue. "Kaalay—sit. I'll make you real food."

"Maryan, you don't have to—"

"Aammus. You live alone. You eat garbage. Let an old woman take care of you."

She's already pulling pots from the cabinet.

I sit.

I don't argue.

She cooks like a woman possessed.

Hilib—goat meat. Bariis—rice. Muufo—flatbread. Suugo—sauce. Within thirty minutes, she's set a feast before me.

"Eat," she commands.

I eat.

She watches me with satisfaction, the way Somali mothers watch their children devour food. When I slow down, she piles more on my plate.

"Your mother would be ashamed," she says. "Letting you waste away like this."

"My mother is in San Diego. She can't see."

"I can see." Her hand finds my arm. "And I see a man who needs someone to look after him."

"Maryan—"

"My husband used to eat like you. Fast. Hungry. Like every meal might be his last." Her eyes go distant. "Five years he's been gone. Five years of cooking for one. It's good to have someone at my table again."

"I'm sorry for your loss."

"Don't be sorry." She squeezes my arm. "Be here. Come back. Let me feed you."

I look at her—this thick, lonely widow who smells like cardamom and warmth.

"Haa," I say. Yes.

She smiles.

I come back the next night.

And the next.

She cooks. I eat. We talk—about Somalia, about her husband, about the life she left behind when the war came. She tells me stories of Mogadishu before the collapse, when the beaches were full and the city was beautiful.

"You would have loved it," she says one night. "The xeedho—the nightclubs—the music. Not like this." She gestures at the Minneapolis snow outside. "Cold and gray."

"Do you miss it?"

"Every day." She sighs. "But there's nothing to go back to. My family is dead or scattered. My husband is buried in this frozen ground." Her hand finds mine. "This is home now. For better or worse."

"It's not so bad."

"No." She looks at me. "It's getting better."

Something shifts in the air between us.

On the seventh night, she doesn't just cook.

She dresses up.

I knock on her door, expecting the usual cooking dress. Instead, she opens it wearing a dirac—deep green silk that clings to every curve. Her hair is done. Her lips are painted.

"Warya." She steps back. "Come in."

"You look... beautiful."

"Mahadsnid." She blushes—actually blushes. "I thought tonight should be special."

"Special?"

"It's been a week since you started coming." She closes the door behind me. "A week of dinners. A week of conversation. A week of..."

"Of what?"

"Of me remembering what it feels like to be a woman." She turns to face me. "Not a widow. Not a xalwo maker. A woman."

"Maryan—"

"I'm fifty-three years old." She steps closer. "I'm fat. I'm lonely. I haven't been touched in five years." Her hand finds my chest. "But I still have needs, warya. Needs that don't go away just because my husband did."

"What are you asking?"

"I'm not asking." She grips my shirt. "I'm taking."

She kisses me.

Her mouth tastes like xalwo.

Sweet and warm, the flavor of cardamom on her tongue. I grab her hips—wide, soft, overflowing my hands—and pull her against me. She moans as she feels my hardness.

"Ilaahay weyn—" She breaks the kiss, gasping. "You want me? Like this?"

"I've wanted you since the first night."

"Wallahi?"

"Wallahi."

She leads me to her bedroom.

The room smells like uunsi—she's been burning incense, preparing for this. Candles flicker on the dresser. The bed is made with fresh sheets.

"I've been thinking about this," she confesses, reaching for her zipper. "Every night after you leave. Touching myself. Remembering what it felt like to have a man."

"Show me what you remember."

The dirac falls.

She's naked underneath.

No bra. No underwear. Just Maryan—two hundred and sixty pounds of soft brown flesh, every inch on display.

Her breasts hang heavy, nipples dark and thick. Her belly cascades in rolls, a lifetime of xalwo and bariis written on her skin. Her hips flare wide, and between her thick thighs, I see gray curls covering her mound.

"I know I'm not—"

"You're perfect."

I cross to her.

Drop to my knees.

I worship her.

My hands run up her thick thighs, spreading them. My face buries in her mound. She gasps as my tongue finds her clit.

"Alla—no one has ever—my husband never—"

"Your husband was a fool."

I lick her slowly. Learn her. Find the spots that make her shake. She grabs my hair, pulls me closer.

"Haa—haa—don't stop—"

I slide two fingers inside her. She's tight—so tight—and wet enough to drip. I curl them upward, find her spot.

"Coming—" She's shaking. "Five years—and now—ILAAHAY—"

She explodes.

Her thighs clamp around my head. Her whole body shakes, two hundred and sixty pounds of flesh trembling. She screams something in Somali—old words, village words—and floods my face.

I don't stop.

I give her another one.

"Inside me—" She's pulling at my shoulders. "Ku soo gal—I need you inside me—"

I stand.

Strip.

Her eyes widen when she sees my cock.

"Subhanallah." She reaches out, wraps her hand around me. "My husband was nothing like this."

"Forget your husband."

"I already have."

I guide her to the bed.

I lay her down on the fresh sheets.

Position myself between her thick thighs.

"Tell me what you need."

"Adigaa," she breathes. "I need you. All of you."

I push inside.

She screams.

Her walls stretch around me, tight and hot and soaking. Five years of celibacy make her grip me like a fist.

"So big—" She's clawing at my back. "You're filling me—dhammaan—completely—"

I start to move.

Slow at first. Gentle. But she wraps her legs around me, pulls me deeper.

"Dhakhso—faster—" She's begging. "I've waited five years—don't make me wait more—"

I fuck her.

The bed slams against the wall. Her massive body bounces beneath me—breasts rolling, belly shaking. She screams with every thrust, five years of loneliness pouring out.

"Coming—" Her eyes roll back. "Coming again—ku shub—fill me—"

I let go.

I flood the widow.

Pump her full while she moans and shakes. She comes again as she feels it—hot and thick, filling her where her husband used to.

We lie tangled together.

Gasping. Sweating. Her soft body warm against mine.

"Macaan," she whispers. Sweet. "You're sweeter than any xalwo."

"So are you."

She laughs. Pulls me closer.

"Stay tonight," she murmurs. "And tomorrow night. And every night."

"What will people say?"

"Let them say." She kisses me softly. "I've been good for fifty-three years. I've been proper. I've been alone." Her hand finds my cock, already stirring. "I'm done being alone."

I stay.

Three Months Later

I move into apartment 3C.

The neighbors talk—of course they talk. The young man and the widow. The xalwo maker and her new... helper.

Let them talk.

At night, after she's done cooking for the weddings and the Eids and the celebrations, Maryan cooks for me. Feeds me. Takes me to her bed.

"Macaan," she whispers every time. Sweet.

The sweetest thing I've ever tasted.