Yaya
"Wife abroad for six months. Children young but sleeping by seven. The thick nanny was hired to care for them—but after bedtime, she cares for someone else entirely. Every night, for six months."
My wife accepted a fellowship in Boston.
Six months. Important for her career. Impossible to refuse. She'd come back, she promised. She'd call every day, she said.
She didn't mention what I was supposed to do with my nights.
We hired Bi Zawadi to care for the children.
Live-in, experienced, recommended by everyone. Forty-nine years old, widowed, raised seven children of her own. She'd handle our three with ease, the references said.
They didn't mention how she'd handle me.
Zawadi is thick in the way that mothers become.
Years of nursing and nurturing written in flesh. Heavy breasts that still look capable of feeding multitudes. Wide hips built for carrying children—and more. A belly soft from decades of putting others first.
The children love her instantly.
I love her for different reasons.
The first week is professional.
She manages the house, the children, my schedule. The kids are in bed by seven—tired from her endless activities, exhausted by her care. After bedtime, she retreats to her quarters.
The second week, she doesn't retreat.
"The children are sleeping," she says, appearing in the living room. "You're still awake."
"I can't sleep."
"I know." She sits beside me—too close for a servant. "Madam has been gone two weeks. You haven't touched anyone."
"How do you know—"
"I know men." She looks at me directly. "I know what they need. And I know when they're not getting it."
"My husband died eight years ago," she tells me.
We're still in the living room, though she's moved closer. Her thick thigh presses against mine.
"I raised my children alone. Then I started raising other people's children. Taking care of everyone except myself."
"And now?"
"Now I'm tired of sacrifice." Her hand finds my leg. "I take care of your children all day. Let me take care of you at night."
"Zawadi—"
"The children sleep through anything." She's climbing onto my lap, her thick body straddling mine. "I made sure of that. Exhausted them on purpose. So we would have hours."
I take the nanny in my living room.
Where my wife reads magazines. Where my children watch cartoons. Where everything is supposed to be proper and professional. Zawadi rides me with the expertise of a mother who knows exactly what bodies need.
"This is what I wanted—"
"From the beginning?"
"From the moment I saw you." She bounces harder. "Handsome. Neglected. In need of care."
"I'm not a child—"
"No." She clenches around me. "You're much more satisfying."
Every night after the children sleep.
Zawadi appears—not in servant's clothes anymore, but in nightgowns that hide nothing. She comes to wherever I am and takes what she needs.
"The bedroom tonight," she says on week three. "I want to see where you sleep alone."
"That's my wife's bed—"
"Your wife is in Boston." She leads me by the hand. "And I'm here."
She worships me in my marriage bed.
Her mouth on every inch, her thick body wrapped around mine. She's not just taking—she's giving. Care. Attention. All the things a wife should provide.
"You've been starving—"
"I didn't realize—"
"Men never do." She mounts me, sinks down slowly. "But I see it. I see everything. Let me feed you."
Six months becomes an eternity.
Every night with Zawadi. Every morning waking alone, but satisfied. The children thrive under her care—happy, healthy, oblivious to what happens after they sleep.
"Madam calls tomorrow," she reminds me on month three.
"I know."
"Will you tell her?"
"Tell her what?"
"That her nanny takes better care of her husband than she ever did." Zawadi smiles. "That while she builds her career, I'm building something with you."
"What are we building?"
"I don't know." She kisses me softly. "But it's more than I've had in eight years."
My wife calls twice a week.
Zawadi listens from the next room. Sometimes she touches herself while I talk, visible through the doorway, making me stumble over words.
"You seem distracted," my wife says.
"Just tired."
"Zawadi is taking good care of things?"
"Very good care." Zawadi waves at me, mouths something obscene. "The children love her."
"That's wonderful. I miss you."
"I miss you too."
I hang up. Zawadi is on me before the phone hits the table.
"Liar—" she gasps.
"What?"
"You don't miss her." She's pulling at my clothes. "You have me. Why would you miss anyone?"
Month five.
Zawadi has become essential. Not just for the children—for everything. She manages the house, the schedule, my body. She's replaced my wife in every way that matters.
"What happens when she comes back?" I ask.
"What do you want to happen?"
"I don't know."
"Liar." She mounts me again—we're in the master bedroom, our bedroom now. "You know exactly what you want. You're just afraid to say it."
"What do I want?"
"Me." She rides me harder. "You want me. Forever. Instead of her."
"The children—"
"Love me. More than they remember her." She comes, shaking. "And you love me too. Even if you can't admit it."
My wife returns on a Tuesday.
Tanned, happy, full of stories. The children greet her politely. Zawadi greets her professionally.
I greet her like a stranger.
"Something's different," my wife says that night.
We're in bed—our bed, the bed where Zawadi took me a hundred times. I can't stop thinking about the nanny in her quarters, probably listening through the walls.
"Different how?"
"You seem... distant."
"It's been six months."
"I know. Let me make it up to you."
She reaches for me. My body responds—biology is automatic. But my mind is elsewhere. On the woman in the servant's quarters. On six months of being truly cared for.
"There you are," my wife sighs when it's over. "I missed you."
"I missed you too."
Another lie.
She falls asleep.
I get up and go to Zawadi's room.
"She's back," Zawadi says.
"I know."
"You're here anyway."
"I can't stop."
She pulls me inside, into her narrow bed, into her thick arms.
"Then don't stop." She kisses me. "I'll still be here. Every night she falls asleep. Every time she's not watching. I'll be here."
"This is wrong—"
"This is what you need." She mounts me. "What we both need. Let her have her career. Let me have you."
My wife travels again three months later.
Conference in Geneva. One week.
Zawadi is in my bed before the car leaves the driveway.
"Welcome home," she says.
I don't correct her.
She is home.
She always has been.
And my wife?
My wife is just a visitor now.
Someone who passes through occasionally.
Someone who doesn't see what Zawadi sees.
Someone who will never care for me the way Zawadi does.
The nanny takes care of everything.
Absolutely everything.
That's what we pay her for.
That's why we'll never let her go.