The Hijra Handler
"Hijra means migration in Arabic—the journey from homeland to diaspora. She's an immigration lawyer who helped his family resettle. Now she helps him with a different kind of resettlement. The thick attorney knows all the ways to navigate new territory."
Fatima Osman helped my family immigrate.
Fifteen years ago, when I was twelve, she filed the paperwork that brought us from Dadaab refugee camp to Minneapolis. My mother still calls her malaa'ig—angel.
Now I'm twenty-seven, and I need her help again.
My work visa is expiring.
She's still in practice.
And she's still thick.
Her office is in the IDS Tower.
Glass and steel and the trappings of success. She's come a long way from the storefront legal clinic where she started.
"Soo dhawow," she says when her secretary shows me in. "Little Jaamac. Not so little anymore."
"Mahadsnid, Sister Fatima."
"Fatima." She stands, crosses to embrace me. "We're too old for 'Sister' now."
She's forty-nine. Still wearing professional suits that strain against her curves. Still carrying the weight that Somali women accumulate—two hundred and forty pounds of attorney. Still beautiful in ways that law school didn't teach.
"Your mother says you need help?"
"My work visa. It's complicated."
"Visa issues are never complicated. Just tedious." She gestures to a chair. "Tell me everything."
We work for hours.
Forms. Documents. The endless bureaucracy of American immigration. She navigates it effortlessly, her mind sharp, her expertise obvious.
But I notice other things too.
The way she sighs when she stretches. The shadows under her eyes. The ring finger, still bare after all these years.
"You're staring," she says without looking up.
"Sorry."
"Don't be sorry. I'm used to it." She sets down her pen. "Men stare at me all the time. Then they look away."
"I'm not looking away."
She meets my eyes.
"I noticed."
"My husband left me eight years ago," she says.
We're alone in her office now. The secretary has gone home. The building is emptying.
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. He said I worked too much. Cared more about my clients than him." She laughs bitterly. "He wasn't wrong."
"Why immigration law?"
"Because I know what it means to leave everything. To start over in a new country." She looks at me. "I helped your family because I knew that fear. That hope."
"You changed our lives."
"That's what the law can do. When someone cares enough to use it right."
"And your life? Who cares about that?"
She's quiet for a long moment.
"No one," she finally says. "Not in eight years."
I stand.
Cross to her.
I kiss the woman who saved my family.
She freezes—shocked. Then melts. Eight years of loneliness collapsing against my lips.
"Xaaraan," she gasps. "I'm your lawyer—conflict of interest—"
"Then drop my case."
"I can't—"
"Then this is pro bono." I grip her hips. "Legal services rendered."
She laughs despite herself.
"That's not how pro bono works."
"Show me how it works."
She locks the office door.
She undresses in her corner office.
The suit falls. The blouse. The professional armor she wears to battle bureaucracies.
Underneath, she's soft. Heavy breasts in a practical bra. Round belly. Wide hips.
"I'm not the same woman who helped your family," she says. "I've gained weight. Aged."
"You're better."
I push her against her mahogany desk.
I worship the immigration lawyer.
My mouth traces her body—the body that's spent eight years fighting for others, neglecting itself.
"No one has—" She gasps as I kneel between her thighs. "My husband never—"
I bury my face in her pussy.
She screams.
In her corner office. In the IDS Tower. Where anyone walking by might hear.
"ILAAHAY!" Her hands grab my hair. "Eight years—ALLA—"
I lick her slowly. File this memory forever.
"Coming—" She's shaking. "I'm coming—ALLA—"
She explodes.
"Inside me—" She's pulling at me. "Ku soo gal—please—"
I stand.
Strip.
Her eyes widen at my cock.
"Subhanallah." She reaches out. "My husband was—nothing—"
"I'm not your husband."
"No." She strokes me. "You're my client. Which is worse."
"Better."
I push her onto her desk.
I spread her thick thighs.
Position myself among the immigration forms.
"Ready?"
"Haa."
I thrust inside.
She screams.
Her walls grip me—tight, wet, eight years tight.
"Alla—so big—you're filling me—dhammaan—"
I start to move.
I fuck my immigration lawyer.
On her desk. In her corner office. Papers scattering beneath us.
"Dhakhso—faster—" She wraps her legs around me. "Give me what I've been missing—"
I pound her.
The desk slides across the floor. She screams and screams.
"Coming—" Her eyes roll back. "Ku shub—fill me—"
I let go.
I flood Fatima.
Fill her where eight years of emptiness lived. She moans as she feels it.
We lie tangled on her desk, immigration forms scattered around us.
"Macaan," she breathes. "This is definitely a conflict of interest."
"Transfer my case to another attorney."
"I will." She pulls me for a kiss. "Tomorrow. Tonight, you're still my client."
"And tomorrow night?"
"Tomorrow night, you're something else entirely."
Six Months Later
My visa is approved.
A different attorney filed the final paperwork. Fatima referred me to a colleague "for personal reasons."
Those personal reasons involve her apartment. Her bedroom. Her body.
"Macaan," she moans, as I take her. "My best case outcome."
She helped my family immigrate.
Now she helps me every night.
Some services can't be billed.