Brussels EU Translator
"She translates for the EU's Somali affairs division—a thick ebony widow who speaks seven languages. When he needs documents translated, she offers personal service. Some languages are spoken in private."
The European Commission processes thousands of documents daily.
Nasra translates Somali—one of the few who can bridge Brussels bureaucracy and East African reality. She's been doing it for twenty years.
I need legal documents translated.
"Asylum appeal?" She reviews my papers. Fifty-four years old. Two hundred and forty-five pounds of linguistic expertise. Ebony skin, professional EU attire, the precision of someone who chooses every word carefully.
"Yes."
"Complex case." She makes notes. "I'll need three days."
"I don't have three days."
"Then you'll have to trust me to work fast and well."
She delivers in two days.
Perfect translations, every legal nuance captured.
"How do you know these words?" I ask, amazed.
"Twenty years of practice." She organizes the files. "And a mother who was a poet. Words are in my blood."
"You should write."
"I translate. That's enough."
"Is it?"
She looks at me strangely.
"My husband was a diplomat."
We're at a cafe near the EU quarter. Her rare break.
"He fell in love with my languages. Said I made words dance." She stirs her coffee. "He died eight years ago. I kept working. Words are easier than grief."
"Words can express grief."
"Words can express everything." She meets my eyes. "The question is whether anyone wants to hear."
"I want to hear."
"Come to my apartment."
It's evening. Brussels glitters below.
"I want to show you my private translations."
Her apartment is full of notebooks.
Poetry, essays, stories—all unpublished, all in multiple languages.
"This is my secret," she says. "Twenty years of words no one has read."
"Why hide them?"
"Because they're too personal. Too raw." She turns to me. "Because sharing them would mean being seen."
"Let me see."
I read her words.
Beautiful, painful, honest. The work of a woman who's been silent too long.
"These are incredible."
"They're private." But she's crying.
"They deserve to be heard."
"By who?"
"By me. By anyone who needs them." I take her hands. "By you."
I worship the translator.
Among her secret words. Her body is language—ebony curves, heavy breasts, soft belly.
"Eight years—" She gasps as I undress her. "Silent—"
"Tonight we communicate."
I lay her on her bed.
Among the notebooks. Her body is the text I want to read.
I spread her thick thighs.
Translate her pleasure.
"ILAAHAY!"
She screams—eight years of silence breaking. Her hands grip my head.
"Don't stop—n'arrête pas—"
I speak her language until she's fluent. Three times.
"Inside me—" She's pulling at me. "Ku soo gal—write yourself in me—"
I strip. She watches with those translator's eyes.
"Subhanallah—"
"Original text."
I push inside the translator.
She screams.
"So full—" Her legs wrap around me. "Don't stop—"
I compose a new language inside her.
Her massive body shakes. She comes twice more.
"Fill me—vul me—"
I publish inside her.
We lie among her notebooks.
"Will you read more?" she whispers.
"Everything you'll share."
"Wallahi?"
"Wallahi."
One Year Later
Her first book is being published.
Twenty years of words, finally heard.
"Macaan," she moans as we celebrate. "My favorite reader."
The translator who speaks seven languages.
The woman who taught me the language of love.
Perfectly translated.