Kansas City Travel Agent

Safar Travel has sent thousands of Somalis home.

Ikraan runs it from a small office in Kansas City's Somali district. She knows every route, every airline, every visa requirement.

I need to visit Somalia for the first time.

"First time?" She looks up from her computer. Fifty-five years old. Two hundred and forty-five pounds of travel expertise. Ebony skin, reading glasses, the calm of someone who's sent people everywhere. "Business or personal?"

"My father's grave. I never met him. He died before I was born."

"Ilaahay." Her face changes. "That's a sacred journey."

She plans everything.

Not just flights—hotels in Mogadishu, local guides, safe routes to the cemetery where my father rests. She treats it like a pilgrimage.

"You're doing too much," I tell her.

"There's no such thing as too much for a journey like this." She shows me the itinerary. "Your father deserves a proper visit. You deserve a proper homecoming."

"It's not really home. I've never been."

"Home isn't where you've been. It's where your blood comes from." She meets my eyes. "You'll understand when you're there."

I come back to finalize details.

And again. And again. Long after the tickets are booked.

"You're here again," she says one evening.

"Last-minute concerns."

"Your trip is perfectly planned." She sets down her pen. "What's really bringing you back?"

"You."

"Waas." But she doesn't look away.

"My husband was killed in Mogadishu."

We're in her office after hours. The travel posters seem to mock us—beautiful destinations, happy tourists.

"1991. The war. He went back to help family. Never returned." She touches a photo on her desk. "I send people home every day. I haven't gone back myself in thirty-four years."

"Why not?"

"Because home killed him. Home took everything." She looks at me. "I help others find what I lost. It's all I can do."

"You could go with me."

"Wallahi?"

"Wallahi." I take her hand. "Visit your husband's grave. See home again. With me."

"I can't—the fear—"

"I know." I squeeze her hand. "But you've been strong alone for thirty-four years. Be strong together for two weeks."

She's crying now.

"Stay tonight," she whispers. "Before I change my mind. Before the fear wins."

I worship the travel agent.

In her office that's sent thousands home. Her body is a destination I want to explore.

"Thirty-four years—" She gasps as I undress her. "I've sent everyone else—never myself—"

"Tonight you arrive."

Her body is a journey.

Ebony curves like continents, heavy breasts like mountains. I explore every landscape.

I spread her thick thighs.

Touch down.

"ILAAHAY!"

She screams—thirty-four years of grounded grief releasing. Her hands grip my head.

"Don't stop—" She's shaking. "Dhakhso—"

I travel her pleasure until she comes four times.

"Inside me—" She's pulling at me. "Ku soo gal—take me somewhere—"

I strip. She watches with those traveler's eyes.

"Subhanallah—first class."

"Direct flight."

I push inside the travel agent.

She cries out.

"So full—" Her legs wrap around me. "Don't stop—"

We journey together.

Her massive body shakes. She comes twice more.

"Ku shub—" She's begging. "Complete the trip—"

I arrive inside her.

We lie in her office.

"Book two tickets," I tell her.

"Two?"

"I'm not going alone." I kiss her forehead. "Neither are you."

Somalia

We stand at two graves.

My father. Her husband. Thirty-four years apart, now reunited through us.

She cries. I hold her. The Mogadishu sun beats down on healing.

"Mahadsnid," she whispers. "For bringing me home."

"Thank you. For planning the journey."

We leave flowers. We leave tears.

And we take love back to Kansas City.

"Macaan," she moans that night. "My favorite destination."

The travel agent who finally went home.

The journey that brought us together.