The Collection
"She organizes charity drives for drought relief back home—collecting money, supplies, anything that helps. He's the skeptic who thinks charity is performative until he sees how much she actually does. Helping becomes healing becomes love."
"Where does the money actually go?"
He asks it at my charity event. Challenging. Skeptical.
"To Somalia. To drought relief."
"I've heard that before." He crosses his arms. "Seen the Instagram posts. The performative giving."
"Then come see for yourself."
His name is Ayub.
Lost faith in diaspora charity years ago. Too many scams, too much virtue signaling.
I take him to the warehouse. Show him the supplies, the receipts, the direct contacts in Mogadishu.
"This is real," he says finally.
"This is everything."
"Why do you do it?"
"Because home is still home." I look at him. "Even when we're here."
He starts volunteering.
Skeptic becomes helper. Helper becomes essential.
"You're good at this," I tell him.
"You're good at making people care." He looks at me. "You made me care."
"About charity?"
"About everything."
Late nights at the warehouse.
Packing boxes, making calls, building something that matters.
"You never stop," he observes.
"People are starving."
"You matter too." He takes my hand. "When's the last time someone took care of you?"
I can't remember.
He takes care of me.
Dinner after the event. Rest when I don't want to rest.
"Ayub—"
"Let me." He's gentle where I've been strong too long. "You give so much. Let someone give to you."
We make love slowly.
Like the careful work of charity. Like things that matter take time.
"You're incredible—"
"We're incredible." He moves with me. "Together."
We become the charity couple.
Organizing together, living together, building something that spans continents.
"Marry me," he says during a packing session.
"Now?"
"Why not now?" He kneels among the boxes. "We build things together. Let's build a life."
I say yes.
And home feels closer than ever.