Amsterdam Social Housing
"She manages social housing in Amsterdam-Zuidoost—a thick ebony Somali widow who keeps the community together. When he applies for a flat, she shows him units. Some showings are private."
Bijlmer has the highest concentration of Somalis in the Netherlands.
Nasra manages housing for three tower blocks—solving problems, mediating disputes, keeping the community functional.
I need a flat.
"Waiting list is two years." She reviews my application. Fifty-three years old. Two hundred and forty-five pounds of Dutch efficiency. Ebony skin, practical clothes, the no-nonsense attitude of someone who's allocated limited resources for decades.
"I can't wait two years."
"No one can." She sighs. "But that's the system."
"Isn't there anything—"
"There's always something." She looks at me. "Come back tomorrow. I'll see what I can do."
She finds me a flat.
Small, worn, but mine. I don't ask how she did it.
"Mahadsnid—thank you."
"Just doing my job." But there's something in her eyes. "Welcome to Bijlmer."
I fix up my flat.
Paint, repairs, making it home. Nasra stops by to check.
"You're working hard," she observes.
"I take care of what I'm given."
"That's rare." She looks around. "Most people complain about social housing. You're improving it."
"Because someone gave me a chance." I meet her eyes. "You gave me a chance."
"My husband was a community organizer."
We're sitting in my improved flat. She visits often now.
"He dreamed of making Bijlmer beautiful. Died before he could." She touches the fresh paint. "But people like you—you're making his dream happen."
"How long ago?"
"Eleven years." She stares out the window. "Eleven years of managing housing. Of watching people come and go. Of being alone."
"You're not alone."
"In a crowd, everyone is alone." She turns to me. "That's the truth of social housing."
"Come to my flat."
She lives on the top floor. The view is extraordinary—Amsterdam spread below like a painting.
"This is what I come home to," she says. "This view. This silence. This emptiness."
"It doesn't have to be empty."
"I know." She faces me. "That's why you're here."
I worship the housing manager.
In her flat with the best view in Bijlmer. Her body is community—ebony curves, heavy breasts, soft belly.
"Eleven years—" She gasps as I undress her. "Managing everyone—"
"Tonight I manage you."
I lay her against the window.
Amsterdam glittering below. Her body reflected in the glass.
I spread her thick thighs.
Show her the view.
"ILAAHAY!"
She screams—eleven years of administrative isolation breaking. Her hands grip my shoulders.
"Don't stop—niet stoppen—"
I process her application until she's approved. Three times.
"Inside me—" She's pulling at me. "Kom binnen—"
I strip. She watches with those manager's eyes.
"Subhanallah—"
"Prime location."
I push inside the housing manager.
She screams.
"So full—" Her legs wrap around me. "Don't stop—"
I fill the vacancy.
Her massive body shakes against the window. Amsterdam watches. She comes twice more.
"Fill me completely—vul me—"
I complete the tenancy inside her.
We lie in her top-floor flat.
"Best view in Bijlmer," I tell her.
"It's better now." She curls against me. "Much better."
One Year Later
I moved to her flat.
Mine was nice. But hers is home.
"Macaan," she moans as the city sleeps. "My favorite tenant."
The housing manager who gave me shelter.
The woman I sheltered with love.
Permanent address.