Dublin Refugee Housing
"She manages refugee housing in Dublin—a thick ebony Somali widow who finds shelter for the displaced. When he arrives seeking asylum, she finds him more than a room. Some housing arrangements are intimate."
Dublin's Direct Provision is overwhelmed.
Muna works miracles—finding housing for asylum seekers in a city with none. She's been doing it for fifteen years.
I arrive with nowhere to go.
"Soo dhawow." She reviews my case. Fifty-four years old. Two hundred and forty-five pounds of housing expertise. Ebony skin, practical Irish layers, the tiredness of someone who's seen too much. "Let me see what I can do."
"Everyone says there's nothing."
"Everyone doesn't know where to look." She makes calls. "I know where to look."
She finds me a room.
Small, shared, but safe. More than I expected.
"How did you do this?" I ask.
"Relationships. Fifteen years of building trust." She hands me keys. "Take care of this place. It's someone else's hope when you leave."
I take care of it.
Better than it was when I arrived. I paint, fix, improve.
"You've transformed it," Muna says on an inspection visit.
"Someone gave me a chance. I want to pass it on."
"Mashallah." She looks around with different eyes. "Most people just survive. You're building."
"What's the point of surviving if you're not building?"
She doesn't answer. But she visits more often.
"My husband was an architect."
We're at a pub in Phibsborough. Her rare social hour.
"He designed affordable housing. Believed everyone deserved beauty, not just shelter." She traces her glass. "He died seven years ago. I've been providing shelter without beauty ever since."
"That's not true. You provide hope."
"Hope isn't beauty."
"Sometimes it is."
"Come to my flat."
It's small—the housing manager who can't find housing for herself.
"This is what I come home to," she says. "After finding shelter for hundreds. One room."
"Size doesn't matter. Warmth does."
"Waas." But she's crying. "Seven years without warmth."
"Let me change that."
I worship the housing manager.
In her small flat while Dublin rain falls. Her body is shelter—ebony curves, heavy breasts, soft belly.
"Seven years—" She gasps as I undress her. "Housing everyone—"
"Tonight I house you in love."
I lay her on her narrow bed.
Where she sleeps alone after housing thousands. Her body deserves better accommodation.
I spread her thick thighs.
Find her sweet home.
"ILAAHAY!"
She screams—seven years of housing others finally being housed. Her hands grip my head.
"Don't stop—" She's shaking. "Dhakhso—"
I make her home three times.
"Inside me—" She's pulling at me. "Ku soo gal—move into me—"
I strip. She watches with those housing eyes.
"Subhanallah—"
"Long-term lease."
I push inside the housing manager.
She screams.
"So full—" Her legs wrap around me. "Don't stop—"
I fill every room.
Her massive body shakes. She comes twice more.
"Fill me—" She's begging. "Complete occupancy—"
I release inside her.
We lie in her small flat.
"My asylum decision comes next month," I tell her.
"You'll stay."
"Wallahi?"
"Wallahi." She kisses me. "I'll make sure of it."
One Year Later
I have Irish residency.
And I have Muna.
"Macaan," she moans in our new, bigger flat. "My best placement."
The housing manager who shelters refugees.
The woman I found home with.
Permanent address.