The Somali Community Organizer
"She organizes political events for Somali voters—a thick ebony divorced woman who knows everyone in the community. When he joins her campaign, she shows him grassroots organizing. Some activism happens behind closed doors."
Nimco organizes everything.
Voter registration. City council meetings. Community forums. If Somalis in Minneapolis are mobilized, she's behind it.
I volunteer for her campaign.
"Warya—you know politics?"
"I know I want to help."
"Good enough." She hands me a clipboard. "We're registering voters at the Seward Co-op. Go."
She's a force of nature.
Fifty years old. Two hundred and forty-five pounds of pure determination. Ebony skin and a voice that carries through any crowd.
"Voting is power," she tells a group of young mothers. "Our ancestors couldn't vote. We can. We must."
I watch her work. She's magnetic. People lean in when she speaks.
"You're staring," she says later.
"I'm learning."
"Good." She hands me more flyers. "Tomorrow we door-knock. Five AM start."
We knock on doors together.
She knows everyone—their names, their children, their worries.
"Waryaa Abdi—your son needs a job? Come to the youth center Tuesday. Eddo Fadumo—your mother needs translation at the hospital? Call me."
"You're not just a political organizer."
"There's no such thing as 'just' politics." She keeps walking. "Politics is everything. Healthcare. Jobs. Schools. It's all connected."
"Why do you do it?"
"Because my husband said women shouldn't be involved in politics." She knocks on another door. "So I divorced him and became the most involved woman in Minneapolis."
"His loss."
"The community's gain."
We finish at midnight.
Her apartment is small, covered in campaign materials and coffee cups.
"Sit. I'll make chai."
"You should sleep."
"I'll sleep after the election." She puts on the kettle. "Seven more weeks of this. Then I collapse."
"That's not healthy."
"Neither is apathy." She turns to me. "You've been with me two weeks. You've seen how hard this is. Why do you stay?"
"Because I believe in what you're doing."
"Just that?"
"And because—" I hesitate. "Because I believe in you."
"No one has believed in me in eight years."
We're sitting close now. The chai forgotten.
"My husband left because I spent too much time on campaigns. My children are grown and gone. I'm fifty years old and I've given everything to this community."
"What has it given back?"
"Nothing." She laughs bitterly. "Respect. Purpose. But nothing for me. Nothing personal."
"What do you want?"
"I want—" She takes my hand. "I want one night where I'm not Nimco the organizer. Where I'm just Nimco. A woman."
"You're a woman."
"Then treat me like one."
I worship the organizer.
Her body is built for power—thick arms, wide hips, the energy that fuels movements. She gasps as I undress her.
"Eight years—" She's trembling. "Eight years of nothing—"
"Tonight you get everything."
I lay her on her campaign-covered bed.
I kiss down her ebony body.
Past her breasts—heavy, dark, aching. Past her soft belly. She spreads her thick thighs without shame.
"No one has—" She gasps as my mouth finds her. "ALLA—"
I lick her until she screams.
Until she comes.
Until she forgets about campaigns and voting and everything except my tongue.
"Inside me—" She's pulling at me. "Ku soo gal—fill me with something besides politics—"
I strip. She sees me and breathes something reverent.
"Subhanallah—"
"This is for you. All of it."
I push inside the organizer.
She screams.
"So full—" Her legs wrap around me. "Dhakhso—don't be gentle—"
I pound her.
Campaign flyers scatter. Her massive body bounces beneath me. She comes twice, three times.
"Ku shub—" She's begging. "Inside me—make me remember I'm human—"
I explode inside her.
We lie among voter registration forms.
"The election is in seven weeks," she murmurs.
"I'll be here every day."
"For the campaign?"
"For everything." I pull her close. "For you."
Election Night
We win.
The community candidate takes the city council seat. The celebration lasts until dawn.
After everyone goes home, I find Nimco in her apartment.
"We did it," she says, tears in her eyes.
"You did it."
"No." She pulls me close. "We did it."
The organizer who moves mountains.
The woman who finally let herself be moved.
Our private victory.