Oslo Refugee Coordinator

UDI processes thousands of asylum seekers yearly.

Nadifa is the Somali liaison—translating not just language but culture, explaining Norway to newcomers and newcomers to Norway.

I arrive with nothing.

"Soo dhawow." Her voice is the first friendly sound in weeks. Fifty-two years old. Two hundred and forty pounds of Nordic efficiency with Somali warmth. Ebony skin, government ID, eyes that have seen every kind of desperation. "Tell me your story."

I tell her everything.

She fights for my case.

Paperwork, interviews, documentation. She works harder than her job requires.

"Why do you help so much?" I ask.

"Because I was you." She files another form. "1991. I came to Norway with nothing. Someone helped me. Twenty years later, I help others."

"The cycle continues."

"Haa." She looks up. "That's how we survive."

My asylum is granted.

One year of waiting, of hoping, of fearing. Nadifa calls with the news.

"Mabruk—congratulations." Her voice is thick with emotion. "You're staying."

"Because of you."

"Because of your case. It was legitimate."

"Because of you."

"Come for dinner."

Her invitation surprises me. Government workers don't socialize with former clients.

"My house. Friday. Somali food in a Norwegian kitchen."

"Is that allowed?"

"You're not my client anymore." She meets my eyes. "You're whatever we decide you are."

Her house is warm against Oslo cold.

Scandinavian design meets Somali soul—clean lines, colorful textiles, the smell of hilib cooking.

"My husband built this house," she says. "Norwegian architect. He wanted to make me feel at home."

"Where is he?"

"Dead. Heart attack. Seven years ago." She stirs the pot. "The house is too big for one. But I stay. His spirit is in the walls."

"Tell me about your seven years."

We're on her couch. Dinner finished. Norwegian darkness outside.

"Seven years of work. Of helping others. Of coming home to empty rooms." She curls into the cushions. "I've been so focused on settling others, I forgot to settle myself."

"You seem settled."

"Waas." She laughs sadly. "I'm frozen. Like Norwegian winter. Haven't felt warm in seven years."

"Let me warm you."

I worship the coordinator.

In her Norwegian house while snow falls outside. Her body is warmth—ebony curves, heavy breasts, soft belly.

"Seven years—" She gasps as I undress her. "Cold for so long—"

"Tonight we're warm."

I lay her by the fireplace.

While Oslo freezes outside. Her body glows in the flames.

I spread her thick thighs.

Melt her frost.

"ILAAHAY!"

She screams—seven years of Nordic isolation breaking. Her hands grip my head.

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

I warm her until she thaws. Three times.

"Inside me—" She's pulling at me. "Ku soo gal—settle inside me—"

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

"Subhanallah—"

"Permanent residence."

I push inside the coordinator.

She screams.

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

I make my home inside her.

Her massive body shakes. She comes twice more.

"Ku shub—" She's begging. "Complete my settlement—"

I release inside her.

We lie by the fire.

"You gave me Norway," I tell her.

"You gave me warmth." She curls against me. "Fair trade."

One Year Later

I'm a Norwegian citizen now.

And I live in her house.

"Macaan," she moans as midnight sun streams through. "My best case."

The coordinator who settled me.

The woman I settled with.

Home at last.