Ottawa Federal Worker
"She processes refugee claims for the federal government—a thick ebony Somali widow who knows the system inside out. When he files his family's paperwork, she guides him through. Some guidance goes off the clock."
IRCC's Somali cases all pass through Warsan.
Eighteen years with the federal government. She processes refugee claims, family reunification, everything. She's seen every trick, every tragedy, every miracle.
My cousins need help.
"Kenya camp, four years?" She reviews the file. Fifty-five years old. Two hundred and fifty pounds of government efficiency. Ebony skin, federal ID badge, the poker face of someone who's denied and approved thousands.
"They've been waiting since 2020."
"Pandemic backlog." She makes notes. "I'll escalate. But I can't promise anything."
"I understand."
"No promises—but I'll try."
She tries harder than expected.
Calls me with updates. Requests additional documents. Pushes the file forward.
"Why are you helping so much?" I ask.
"Because your cousins' case is legitimate. Too many aren't." She keeps typing. "The real ones deserve real effort."
"But surely all cases—"
"All cases are stories. Some stories are true. Yours is true." She looks at me. "I know the difference."
We meet for the paperwork.
Coffee shops near Parliament, her office during lunch, any excuse to review the file.
"You're going above and beyond," I tell her one day.
"I'm doing my job."
"Your job ended three meetings ago."
She pauses.
"Maybe I enjoy the meetings."
"My husband was a diplomat."
We're in her car, parked near the canal. A rare break from official spaces.
"Foreign Affairs. Posted around the world. I followed him for fifteen years." She watches ducks on the water. "He died in a car accident in Nairobi. I came back to Ottawa alone."
"When was that?"
"2012. Twelve years of federal service. Twelve years of being the widow who processes papers."
"That's not all you are."
"Tell that to my coworkers. Tell that to the mirror." She turns to me. "No one sees me. Just my badge."
"I see you."
"Your cousins are approved."
The words hit like sunshine after rain. Four years of waiting, ended.
"Subhanallah—how?"
"I found an expedited pathway. It required... creativity." She hands me the paperwork. "They'll be here in six weeks."
I'm crying.
She hands me tissues. Professional to the end.
"Thank you. Thank you doesn't cover it."
"Then show me what does."
I worship the federal worker.
In her Ottawa condo overlooking the river. Her body is regulated beauty—ebony curves, heavy breasts, soft belly.
"Twelve years—" She gasps as I undress her. "All work—"
"Tonight you're off the clock."
I lay her on her bed.
Where she sleeps alone after long days of processing human fates. Her body deserves processing too.
I spread her thick thighs.
File for her pleasure.
"ILAAHAY!"
She screams—twelve years of bureaucratic isolation breaking. Her hands grip my head.
"Don't stop—" She's shaking. "Dhakhso—"
I process her until she's approved. Three times.
"Inside me—" She's pulling at me. "Ku soo gal—stamp me—"
I strip. She watches with those official eyes.
"Subhanallah—"
"Express service."
I push inside the federal worker.
She cries out.
"So full—" Her legs wrap around me. "Don't stop—"
I give her the full government service.
Her massive body shakes. She comes twice more.
"Ku shub—" She's begging. "Approve me—"
I release inside her.
We lie overlooking the Parliament lights.
"My cousins will be here soon," I tell her.
"And I'll help them settle."
"Because it's your job?"
"Because they're family now." She kisses me. "Yours. And mine."
One Year Later
My cousins are thriving.
Warsan helped them with everything—housing, work permits, the maze of Canadian bureaucracy.
"Macaan," she moans. "My favorite case."
The federal worker who moves mountains.
The woman I moved into my heart.
Permanently approved.