'I don't think there is anything more awkward than two Somalis hugging each other,' I whispered to my sister, a pretty slim girl who always wore a brown hijab with a matching dress.
She turned to look at the group of women I had been watching for the past couple hugs just as two newcomers to the Somali cafe entered and started hugging the ones who had been waiting for them. The new newcomers were older, perhaps in their forties or fifties, and intent on social revolution. They hugged each other by not pressing their bodies against the other person. The main instigator of the hug would grab the other person by the shoulder, move them closer, almost bring them to within touching distance, but hold them there before their nipples could touch. And this stance would be held by my count for five seconds each, exactly five seconds. More than one of the receivers of the hug submitted to this hug with visible embarrassment.
'It's so awkward,' my sister said, stifling a giggle, 'that they're not even talking to each other while they're hugging.'
'I don't think Somalis are made for physical interaction,' I said musingly. 'Why do something that's alien to our species ?'
My sister, Shayma, stifled her laughter again, this time in her elbow, like she was sneezing.
'I swear I've never seen a natural physical interaction between two Somalis. What are they doing there, proving their worldliness?'
'Leave my people alone, goddamn you!' Shayma said with laughter still in her voice. 'You're only ever so catty when you're around Somalis.'
'Have you ever had your pussy ate?'
My younger sister, more experienced than me, was momentarily stupefied until she laughed incredulously.
'What?'
'I'm wondering if Somali guys eat pussy.'
She looked at me in wonder in such a way that I think that this was the first time I have seen someone truly amazed. Only then do I realise what I was saying and become a little embarrassed and smile.
'Haha, I don't know if they do. I've never been with one. Why do you ask; you don't hate men anymore?'
'I never hated men. I don't want to be touched by men.'
'So why do you ask?'
She looked perplexed and I laughed at her expression, which suddenly turned serious.
'I always thought it was disgraceful and an insult not to use something so many Somali women don't have. It's a duty for us have orgasms induced by men.'
'I might have to have to soon enough. Father is becoming more insistent than ever.'
'Ah,' she says sympathetically. 'I did tell you to do it yourself before he would do it for you. Or you could just refuse?'
'You know what that would mean. They would never speak to me again, and I can't live with that. I guess this is my destiny.'
'You never know...it might be a nice guy. At the very least you'll have a bodyguard to protect you since you're scared to be around men.'
'But I have to pay him with my body.'
'You take something from him and you give something in return. And plus, you might get to enjoy the sex...depending on the guy.'
'Depending on the guy.'
I shivered even at the thought of physical touch by a man.
'That's why I wanted to know what Somali sex is like.'
'You're asking the wrong person. I only fucked white guys and black. You should try something as a warm up.'
'God forbid.'
'Why? You're going to London tomorrow, right? You can try something there.'
'You must be crazy. That's a sin. It's bad enough for one man to have to touch me and you want me to fuck others? Stop pimpin me.'
'What you can do is you can pay for it. From what I heard London is the prostitute capital of Europe.'
'Isn't that Amsterdam?'
'I don't know, but everyone I know who went to London bought girls there. You can go there and buy a guy.'
'Disgusting, sinful people are always around you.'
My sister smiled. Her circle of friends were the most liberal of Muslims, verging on the anti Islamic at times.
'One of my friends said that if you buy something without desire but just to try, it can't be a sin, because sins can only be sins if it involves desire.'
'Ha. A criminal's logic. I'm not doing any such thing.'
Her eyes became glazed.
'I don't think Somalis do eat pussy. But if they do and see you're not cut, what then?' my sister asked wonderingly. 'What a ruckus that would cause.'
Later that day, having packed for the trip to London, I scrolled through the stories to see if there were any stories involving Muslims or Somalis and couldn't find any.
'Someone should write one,' I said to myself as I went back to the section of 'black woman', and read a new story.
'In London there is an annual flower show called the Chelsea flower show; a horticultural carnival where all manner of flowers are exhibited for an international audience.
This is day two of the festival and I'm spraying the flowers of my exhibition with water, one of the last drinks they will have before they perish, like a priest anoints dying people with holy oil in their last rites.
Some are drooping ominously already, not being native to western lands, and seemingly are dying even quicker than anticipated. All these flowers are of African descent. They were born and raised there and then cut and flown here for a three day show, to celebrate their existence, like my own mixed heritage, half of it is African, the other European.
I caress one of my favourites, the deathly foxglove with its purple tongue to say farewell, asking forgiveness for having killed it, especially for having deprived it of the chance to seed in its native land, of being a true mother.
'A cruel abortion for vanity and adulation,' I say to myself. 'Sorry, sister,' I add when I notice a man in a mauve suit and a purple tie approaching me and the wilting corpses of my victims. Immediately I think of the purple tongued foxglove and I'm already predisposed in the man's favour.
'Just now you looked like you were at a funeral. I was watching you.'
I sigh sadly.
'Yes, these flowers are dying before their time. You were watching me?' I added harply.
'You are the only dark skinned woman in this show and it surprised me. For all the flowers being diverse, the horticulturalists are of one make.'
'Yes, it's always like that, with these upmarket events. I've been coming for years and haven't seen a single black exhibitionist here ever. That's why I set up an exhibition here for African flora, and have myself helm it. To bring colour all around.'
'It's hard to find a black exhibitionist in London true, enough. I'm pleased to see one, finally,' the man says with a slight smile.
'I'm happy -' I begin when I realise the joke. I smile and colour up profusely to match the ridges of the impala lily behind me. The man laughs too.
'My name is Joseph,' he says, extending his hand.
'Emily,' I reply, accepting his hand.
Joseph frowns when he has my hand in his.
'You can't have been doing this long. Is this a recent hobby?'
'I've been doing this for ten years,' I reply haughtily. 'Why do you say that ?' I ask as my hand goes limp but he still holds on. He starts rubbing the inside of my hands.
'What-'
'Your hands are still soft,' he responds, almost incredulous, as he lets go. 'That's another unusual thing about you.'
Did he call me special? Did he just call me special? I say yes, yes he did! The compliment makes me smile and now I realise how handsome he is. He has a tropical appearance, with light curly hair and eyes that almost look yellow.
'Mixed heritage, like myself,' I think to myself. 'A beautiful mix.'
'I didn't realize that my hands were so soft.'
'They are, believe me.'
I freeze, slightly, at the way he said that. His deepened voice had sent a thrill through me.
'I...believe you,' I answer slowly, flustered by his approach.
'I love the idea of African flowers around me, though I hate the idea of their being here. I share your sorrow. They were not born here, can not survive here, and shouldn't be made to die here. But their beauty is undeniable and should be celebrated in all their glory.'
'I think these are the most beautiful and unique flowers on the planet.'
'Anything that has African heritage is the same. Do you feel more attuned to your African side? Sorry, you're mixed right?'
'Yes, and yes.'
'Me too. Why don't we share our experiences ? I know a nice Ethiopian restaurant that is delightful. You want to come with me tonight once you're done here?'
'Ethiopian restaurant? Sounds cool. Where is it?'
'I'm not telling you,' he says with a smirk. 'I'm only showing you.'
I laugh despite myself.
'Really, now? Okay, you will show me.'
We exchange numbers and he says goodbye for now. These dying flowers, even as they die, suddenly become more lively and beautiful as I look at them. In fact, they look in the flush of youth rather than close to death and I wonder how I could have started to mourn something still so powerful.
Come evening, we find ourselves in this Ethiopian restaurant, delighting in its exquisite cuisine and each other's company. What impresses about him is his pan Africanism, his deep knowledge of the continent.
He rails off the song names of the Ethiopian music that is being played in this restaurant, and he is not even of Ethiopian descent, but Angolan. Despite myself, and to my great surprise, I'm starting to feel a deep connection with him.
When he asks me if I want to go for a drink at his place, not a bone within my body will allow me to say no. We take a taxi. Once we've driven for a good ten minutes, he says that we are almost there and then asks the driver:
'Brother, are you Somali?'
The driver confirms that he is.
'Mashallah,' Joseph rejoins enthusiastically.
The driver smiles and nods in appreciation.
'Black power!' I yell out, caught up in the moment.
The mood suddenly changes.
'I'm not black. I'm Somali,' the driver says drily.
There is an embarrassed silence for the last few minutes of the drive.
His house is a treasure trove of African heritage, with African artwork, exotic rugs and a black clock shaped in the continent of Africa. I feel my pussy getting wetter, and my legs contract in anticipation. Having taken our coats off he turns and asks what drink I would like, ending with the word queen. This is the magic word and I approach him to stroke his cock.
'Can we do something else?'
I get on my knees, smile the most wicked smile, waving my braids around to indicate I'm getting down to business. I'm deft with the belts, and the zippers, so I got his dick out in a flash. My tongue immediately goes to one of my sharper teeth as I always do when I see something I like. His dick is semi hard and I look at it wriggling to expand in mass. Suddenly it shoots up and is pointing at my face like a sword.
'So you like me,' I say as I look up to see a wild expression on his face. An almost beastly expression. I look back at the dick which is throbbing, like it's calling, crying for me. I pout my lips and press them right around his dick as I take his cock as much as my mouth can take it.
The smell and taste of sweat is nasty but sexy nasty. He gasps as his cock touches the back of my throat, using my lips to chain his jumping cock, trying to come before it's truly ready. I slowly back all the way out, make a kissing sound as I swallow my spit mixed with his dick sweat, and feel my pussy leaking pussy juice. I then do the same thing again. He grabs my head with his hand and makes a whimpering sound.
'My cock worship is the craziest,' I say to myself, laughing slightly with his dick in my mouth.
I start sucking his dick faster, only going to the middle of his nice dick, making sure my thick lips stay tight around his shaft and then only sucking the tip of his dick.
'Stop, baby stop. Don't make me come so quickly,' he says as my pussy lips throb at the same vibration as his dick.
'If you come on my face I'll kill you. I'm white enough as it is.'
He snorted at the dumb little joke.
While I had been sucking his dick, slickly I had been removing my shoes and now I am on my bare feet, taking my panties off first and then my dress. He is standing stroking his cock.
'Your hips are so narrow,' I say admiringly.
'And your ass is fat, baby, turn around.'
I turn around, put hands on the back of the black sofa, and arch my back so that my ass is high up in the air.
'Go slow first -'
My voice is caught by sensation as I feel him separating my pussy lips unexpectedly. I can't speak even if I wanted to. His dick is wet from my spit, my pussy is wet from anticipation, making his dick smooth and I follow its trajectory through feeling as my walls are being stretched. The pressure increases the deeper he goes and I feel him going deeper and deeper like the depth is endless but it isn't. Panic sets in as I think he will go too deep too fast. I try to push his body back but he's too strong and all I can do is brace myself, shrieking when he touches the base of what I think is my stomach.
'Damn baby you going too deep too fast,' I plead with him, but I think it's from panic more than anything as his dick is still touching my stomach while the pain is receding. I can feel his dick jumping against my walls, as he is holding me by the waist, pressing my ass close to the base of dick. He pulls back slowly, and the glide, the back stroke, the queer increasing pressure as he is taking his dick out, is all that my senses focus on.
My whole world is in his stroke and I feel it slipping so I move towards him to feel the fullness in its completion again. The smell of my own pussy is in the air as he starts stroking in a rhythm, and it reminds me of the way his dick smelled. I put my finger in my mouth to replicate the feeling of his dick on my tongue. The rhythm increases and as it increases, so does the sound of my ass clapping against his balls, and the pressure is going to my head. I put my head in the pit of my elbow as I feel a wonderful surge of…'
All three of us come at the same time and the intensity of my orgasm is such that I think that I came the hardest.
'Summer in London is not too bad,' I said to my cousin, whom I met for the first time today as we walked down a high road on a hot day in Ealing. 'Feels like India.'
We were speaking in Somali so the joke was private. There were a lot of Indians around and it surprised me more than anything.
'This area has a lot of Indians. But it's just this area, not the whole city.'
'How come you live here then? Where is the Somali area?'
We were both wearing traditional Somali dresses, different shades of yellow, with a matching hijab. Amidst the colour of all the other people in this area we didn't even stand out. This blending into a scene made me feel more liberated and freer than I usually would be but we still spoke Somali just in case.
'There are a lot of Somali areas here, including in Ealing. But the Indian subcontinent dominates this part of London.'
