Atlanta Apartment Manager
"She manages a Clarkston apartment complex full of Somali refugees—a thick ebony widow who welcomes new arrivals. When he moves in after relocation, she helps him settle. Some orientations are very thorough."
Clarkston is called the most diverse square mile in America.
Refugees from everywhere—Somalia, Burma, Congo, Syria. The Oakwood Apartments are ground zero, and Fardowsa manages it all.
I arrive with one suitcase.
"New arrival?" She checks her list. Fifty-three years old. Two hundred and forty-five pounds of welcoming authority. Ebony skin, efficient manner, the organization of someone who's housed thousands. "Minneapolis relocation?"
"Yes."
"Soo dhawow—welcome." She hands me keys. "Unit 3C. I'll show you around."
She shows me everything.
Where to shop, where to pray, where to find Somali food in a city that barely knows it exists. She knows every resource, every shortcut, every hidden gem.
"You're incredible," I tell her.
"I'm experienced." She smiles. "Twenty years of settling people. You learn what newcomers need."
"What do they need?"
"Connection. Community. Someone who remembers what it felt like to be new."
"You were a refugee too?"
"1992. I came with nothing. Not even shoes." She looks at her feet. "Now I wear Nikes. America is strange."
I visit her office constantly.
Questions I could Google. Issues I could solve myself. Excuses to see her.
"You're here again," she says one afternoon.
"My faucet is leaking."
"It's not." She sets down her pen. "You fixed it last week. I checked."
"Maybe I missed something."
"Maybe you just want company." She leans back. "I'm an old property manager. Not good company."
"You're the best company I've found in Atlanta."
"Waas." But she's blushing.
"My husband died in the camps."
We're walking through the complex at sunset. Her evening rounds.
"Cholera. 1993. We'd been married two years. I never remarried."
"Why not?"
"Because I was busy surviving. Building. Creating a life here." She gestures at the buildings. "Three thousand people I've helped settle. Three thousand lives. That kept me full."
"But not complete."
She stops walking.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean—you've given everything to others. What have you kept for yourself?"
"Ilaahay." She shakes her head. "Young men. Always asking questions."
"Always wanting answers."
"Come to my apartment."
It's late. The complex is quiet.
"Unit 1A. Where the manager lives. Where no one visits."
"Ever?"
"Ever." She meets my eyes. "I've welcomed thousands. No one has welcomed me."
"Then let me be the first."
Her apartment is surprisingly bare.
The life of someone who's poured everything outward. Nothing left for herself.
"Thirty-two years," she whispers. "Thirty-two years since a man has seen this place."
"It's beautiful."
"It's empty." She turns to face me. "Like me."
"You're not empty."
"Then fill me."
I worship the apartment manager.
Her body has housed so many hopes. Now I give her some of her own.
She gasps as I undress her—ebony curves that have welcomed thousands to America, now being welcomed themselves.
"Thirty-two years—" She's trembling. "I've forgotten—"
"Let me remind you."
I lay her on her bed.
The bed where she's slept alone for three decades. Her body is powerful—heavy breasts, soft belly, wide hips. A foundation for a new life.
I spread her thick thighs.
Welcome her with my mouth.
"ILAAHAY!"
She screams—thirty-two years of isolation breaking. Her hands grip my head.
"So long—" She's shaking. "Don't stop—dhakhso—"
I worship her until she comes four times.
Tears stream down her face.
"Inside me—" She's pulling at me. "Ku soo gal—settle inside me—"
I strip. She watches with grateful eyes.
"Subhanallah—"
"Welcome home."
I push inside her.
She cries out.
"So full—" Her arms wrap around me. "Don't stop—"
I make love to the woman who's made homes for thousands.
Her massive body shakes beneath me. She comes twice more.
"Ku shub—" She's crying. "Fill me—please—"
I release inside her.
We lie in her finally-full bed.
"You'll stay?" she whispers.
"In Clarkston?"
"In 1A." She curls against me. "With me."
One Year Later
I moved into Unit 1A.
The residents think I'm the assistant manager.
They're not wrong.
"Macaan," she moans. "My best tenant."
The woman who welcomes refugees.
Finally welcoming herself.