Zurich Bank Teller
"She works at a Zurich bank serving Somali diaspora accounts—a thick ebony widow who handles money with precision. When he needs help with an international transfer, she offers private consultation. Some accounts are personal."
Swiss banks serve everyone.
Nafisa handles Somali accounts—complicated international transfers, diaspora savings, the financial threads connecting refugees to their homelands.
I need help with my grandmother's inheritance.
"Complex estate?" She reviews my paperwork. Fifty-three years old. Two hundred and forty-five pounds of financial precision. Ebony skin, Swiss professionalism, the discretion banks are famous for.
"Kenya to Zurich to America. Multiple currencies."
"I've seen worse." She makes notes. "I can help."
She navigates the complexity.
Weeks of work—forms, verifications, international communications. She treats my case like a personal mission.
"Why do you care so much?" I ask.
"Because your grandmother saved this money for someone." She stamps a document. "That someone deserves to receive it properly."
"Most bankers would just process and forget."
"I'm not most bankers." She meets my eyes. "I'm Somali. I understand what this money means."
"My husband was a banker too."
We're at a cafe near the Bahnhofstrasse. Her lunch break.
"Swiss precision meets Somali warmth—that was us." She smiles sadly. "He died nine years ago. Heart attack in the office."
"In Switzerland, even death is efficient."
"Waas." She laughs bitterly. "Efficient and empty. Nine years of counting other people's money. Coming home to silent accounts."
"Your case is complete."
The transfer is done. My grandmother's money, safely received.
"Mahadsnid—thank you."
"Standard service." But her eyes hold something more.
"Can I buy you dinner? As thanks?"
"Dinner with a former client is..." She pauses. "Acceptable. The case is closed."
"This is what wealth looks like in Zurich."
Her apartment has views of the Alps. Expensive, beautiful, empty.
"Nine years of saving. Nine years of Swiss precision." She gestures around. "Everything in order. Nothing alive."
"You deserve life."
"Swiss don't do life. They do order." She turns to me. "But I'm not Swiss. Not really."
"Then be Somali tonight."
I worship the banker.
In her precision apartment. Her body is the richest account—ebony curves, heavy breasts, soft belly.
"Nine years—" She gasps as I undress her. "Neun Jahre—"
"Tonight we deposit something valuable."
I lay her on her designer bed.
Ordered, clean, unloved. Her body deserves better interest rates.
I spread her thick thighs.
Make a substantial deposit.
"ILAAHAY!"
She screams—nine years of Swiss precision breaking. Her hands grip my head.
"Don't stop—hör nicht auf—"
I compound her interest three times.
"Inside me—" She's pulling at me. "Ku soo gal—invest in me—"
I strip. She watches with those precise eyes.
"Subhanallah—"
"Long-term growth."
I push inside the banker.
She screams.
"So full—so voll—" Her legs wrap around me. "Don't stop—"
I deliver maximum returns.
Her massive body shakes. She comes twice more.
"Fill me—füll mich—"
I make my final deposit.
We lie in her ordered apartment.
"Swiss efficiency," she murmurs. "Never thought it would apply to this."
"Three times in two hours. Very efficient."
"Waas." She laughs. "The best kind of banking."
One Year Later
I've opened an account at her bank.
A personal one.
"Macaan," she moans. "My highest-value client."
The banker who handles fortunes.
The woman I invested my heart in.
Interest compounding.