HOOTERS

FAMILY REUNION

After many weeks of Pearl's pleading and a touch of strategic emotional blackmail, Shambayati finally agreed to meet her brother. He wasn’t ready, not really, but love makes fools of even the wise.

The journey to the coast was quiet. The wind carried salt and the faint scent of burning wood from distant fishermen’s fires. They arrived at a small hut crouched under long palms, it’s door barely reaching shambayati’s shoulder. Pearl knocked. The door cracked open and out comes (you know who,) Al-Kane.

The air changed.

Shambayati takes a few steps back and before his future brother-in-law could speak, a cold shiver ran down his spine with tiny droplets of urine snaking down his right thigh. The deadly gaze of Al-kane within those spilt seconds and the immaculately cut muscles on the hooter-heighted guy shook him to the core. He finally gulped a bit of saliva and extending his hand, Al-kane looked him dead in the eyes, from the longest strand of his hair to the most unattractive toe nails he’d ever seen and walked back in saying “come in” in the most unwelcoming way. Okay, let’s pause this awkward meet-the-family moment… and rewind a few years

[FLASHHBACK] Moufaka was one of the first hooters to be discovered by the village women if you know what I mean. He had just one child with his human lover, Kayla, who turned out to be Barton’s wife. Karma innit?? Barton couldn’t take the site of his wife being plunged legs apart by the recently blessed hooter and without any confrontation or making a scene, he hanged himself. Yeah, that’s what happened to Barton for those who were asking. Kayla died during childbirth and Moufaka took his daughter together with Al-kane who was just twelve at the time to live by the shores of the beach of Eldrathia.

Back in the present, the three sat for dinner. The room smelled faintly of smoke and seaweed. Neither man spoke. Only the clink of utensils filled the silence. Then, after a long gulp of wine, Al-Kane slammed his cup down hard enough to c***k the rim.

“You want to be with my sister?” he said.

Shambayati hesitated, then nodded.

“And what kind of name is Shambayati, anyway?”

The young man straightened his shoulders and replied, “It means the forgotten child of fire.”

Something flickered behind Al-Kane’s gaze. Recognition. Unease. Maybe even fear. Pearl looked between them, puzzled.

“You know it won’t work against me, right?” Al-Kane muttered.

Shambayati’s lips twitched into a knowing half-smile. “I know.”

And then, to Pearl’s utter disbelief, they both laughed…darkly, dangerously. It wasn’t the laughter of friendship. It was the laughter of two men who understood too much.

That night, after their strange peace talk, Shambayati took Pearl by the hand and led her home

Shambayati seemed possessed immediately they got back. He guided Pearl gently on her knees, his hand cradling the back of her head like a relic he dared not mishandle. The room was dimly lit by the soft orange glow of the swinging lamp at the door of the room, shadows dancing across the walls like an approaching army. She obeyed his every move not out of submission, but devotion and trust. Her breath deepened and shivered against his skin as she moved, rhythmically and tears clung to her lashes begging to fall. Shambayati’s grip tightened and softened caught between tender love and aggression. The way she held eye contact while giving everything made him feel like she wasn’t his possession, she was his sanctuary. Time turned into sensation and after all the throat throbbing, he lifted her with arms that trembled from restraint, not fatigue. He placed her on the bed, not as a partner, but like a sheep led to the altar to be sacrificed. With all patience, he parted her legs and worshipped what he found before him like his life depended on it. He did with his tongue what one would do with tasty soup drooling down the arm. He didn’t rush. He listened to her every twitch, every whimper, like a musician adjusting to his favorite instrument. Pearl’s hands clawed at the sheets until he took them and kissed her palms before tying them softly to the iron frame above her head. Her chest rose and fell, frantic but trusting.

There was a sudden shift. The softness gave way to fervor. Shambayati, possessed by something far beyond lust, slid into her with a roughness that was almost punishing. (tough love??, maybe!) This wasn’t love making anymore it was a raw, sweaty TED talk delivered through bed creaks. His hips slammed against hers in a rhythm forged from ages of longing, and in those fifteen minutes, time itself forgot how to breathe. Pearl moaned without shame, and the rising tide of pleasure drowned every word she tried to utter.

Just when his body betrayed him, when he reached the final moment of s****l surrender, his natural instinct advised him to pull away but pearl locked her legs around him pulling him back like the universe itself wanted them fused.

At that instant words couldn’t be uttered: only their breathes spoke, heavy, uneven, clinching back to real life. Pearl whispered, barely audible, “Thank you.” Shambayati kissed her forehead with a tremble, then curled beside her. She noticed the coldness of his body but was too tired to ask, she curled into it and slept.