The Oslo Connection
"Oslo has the largest Somali population in Scandinavia. When he visits for a conference, the thick Somali-Norwegian academic who hosts the event shows him that Nordic hospitality has distinctly Somali flavors—especially after the other delegates leave."
Oslo is cold and beautiful.
The Somali diaspora here numbers nearly forty thousand—refugees who found safety in Norway's social democracy. They've built a community in Grønland, Little Mogadishu of the North.
My conference is at the university.
Dr. Fartuun Hassan is the organizer.
Forty-seven years old. Professor of African Studies. Born in Mogadishu, raised in Oslo after her family fled the war.
She's thick.
Two hundred and thirty pounds of academic authority. Wide hips beneath professional Nordic clothing. Heavy breasts. A sharp mind that published a dozen books.
"Velkommen til Oslo," she says in Norwegian-accented Somali. "Welcome. Soo dhawow."
The conference runs for three days.
Papers on diaspora identity. Discussions of integration. The academic dance of proving ourselves in Western institutions.
Fartuun moderates everything.
Brilliant. Commanding. And watching me.
On the final night, the other delegates retire early. Jet lag. The cold. Excuses.
She invites me for coffee.
Her apartment overlooks the fjord.
"Do you know how hard it is?" she asks, pouring Norwegian-strong coffee. "Being the only Somali professor in your department. The only African. The only woman of size."
"I can imagine."
"No. You can't." She sets down the pot. "They look at me and see quotas. Diversity hires. Not a scholar with more publications than any of them."
"Their loss."
"Wallahi?"
"You're the most brilliant woman I've met at this conference."
"Brilliant." She laughs. "Not beautiful. Just brilliant."
"Both."
She freezes.
"I've been alone since I came to Norway," she says quietly. "Thirty years. The Norwegian men see a fat African. The Somali men see a feminist who threatens them."
"I see a woman."
"A woman." She crosses to me. "When did anyone last see that?"
I answer by kissing her.
She kisses like an academic.
Thorough. Methodical. Then passionate.
"Xaaraan," she gasps.
"Publish it later."
She laughs against my mouth.
We make it to her bedroom.
Nordic minimalism meets Somali warmth. She undresses like she's presenting a thesis—nervous but determined.
Heavy breasts. Soft belly. Wide hips.
"Thirty years," she whispers. "Thirty years of being invisible."
"I see you."
I push her onto the bed.
I worship the professor.
My mouth traces her body—every curve that's been overlooked.
"No one has—" She gasps as I kneel. "Not properly—not ever—"
I taste her.
She screams.
Norwegian and Somali mixing.
"HERREGUD! ILAAHAY!" Her hands grab my hair. "Finally—ALLA—"
I lick her slowly.
"Coming—jeg kommer—I'm coming—ALLA—"
She explodes.
"Inside me—inni meg—ku soo gal—" Three languages of desperation.
I position myself.
"Ready?"
"Ja. Haa. Yes."
I thrust inside.
She screams in Norwegian.
"Så stor—so big—weyn—dhammaan—"
I start to move.
I fuck the Norwegian-Somali professor.
While the fjord glitters outside.
"Fortere—dhakhso—faster—" She wraps her legs around me.
I pound her.
"Coming—kommer—" Her eyes roll back. "Ku shub—fyll meg—"
I let go.
I flood Dr. Fartuun Hassan.
Fill her where thirty years of invisibility lived.
We lie tangled together, the Northern Lights flickering outside.
"Macaan," she breathes. "Elsker." Sweet. Lover.
"I have to fly back tomorrow."
"I know." She strokes my face. "But I present at conferences. Minneapolis. London. Toronto. Wherever the diaspora gathers."
"I'll be there."
"Wallahi?"
"Every conference. Every city. Every time."
She smiles.
"Then we'll have much to discuss."
Two Years Later
Dr. Fartuun Hassan presents worldwide now.
I attend every conference I can.
"Macaan," she moans, in hotel rooms across the globe. "My most dedicated student."
Academic connections are valuable.
Ours is the most valuable of all.