Lost in Translation
"She's a Somali translator for the NHS, helping patients who don't speak English. He's the new doctor who speaks Somali but pretends he doesn't—just to have her in his consultations. When she discovers his secret, she exacts a very specific revenge."
I've been translating for three years.
Somali to English, English to Somali. I sit in consultations, relay intimate details, watch relief flood patients' faces when someone finally understands.
Then Dr. Hassan Abdi joins the practice.
He's Somali. Obviously.
The name, the face, the slight accent on his English. But when patients speak Somali, he looks at me blankly.
"What did she say?" he asks during his first consultation.
"She said the pain started after Eid." I frown. "You don't understand Somali?"
"My parents spoke it at home. I never learned properly." He shrugs. "I understand some words but not enough for medical work."
Odd. But not impossible.
I keep translating.
Weeks pass.
He requests me specifically for every Somali patient. More than any other doctor.
"Is there a reason you need me so often?" I ask.
"You're the best translator." He smiles. "Why would I use anyone else?"
Flattering. But something feels off.
The truth comes out by accident.
A patient tells a joke in Somali—something about her grandson that's sweet but impossible to translate. Before I can explain, Dr. Abdi laughs.
Full, genuine laughter.
Then he catches himself.
"What's funny?" I ask innocently.
"Nothing." He won't meet my eyes. "Please continue."
I test him.
Next consultation, I deliberately mistranslate something small. "She says she's been sleeping well."
She actually said she hasn't slept in days.
He writes on his notes. Doesn't correct me.
But he also doesn't prescribe sleeping medication.
Instead, he asks follow-up questions—in English—that only make sense if he understood the original Somali.
He speaks Somali.
He's been faking this whole time.
I should be angry.
I am angry. But I'm also curious.
After his last patient leaves, I stay in the room.
"Why?" I ask.
"Why what?"
"Why pretend you don't speak Somali when you clearly do?"
He goes pale. "I don't know what you—"
"You laughed at Mrs. Osman's joke before I translated it." I step closer. "You asked about insomnia when the notes said the patient was sleeping fine."
"I—"
"You've been lying to me for two months." I'm in his space now. "Why?"
"Because I wanted to keep seeing you."
I blink. "What?"
"I noticed you my first day. You were translating for someone else, and you were—" He shakes his head. "Kind. Patient. Beautiful. I wanted to talk to you, but I didn't know how."
"So you faked not speaking Somali?"
"So I could have you in my room. With me." He looks miserable. "I know it's pathetic. I know it's wrong. But every time you were here, I just—"
"You lied to me."
"I did." He hangs his head. "I'll understand if you want to report me."
I should report him.
Instead, I lock the door.
"What are you doing?"
"You wasted two months of my time." I walk toward him. "Two months of translation when you didn't need it. Two months of pretending."
"I'm sorry—"
"Sorry isn't enough." I push him against his desk. "You're going to make it up to me."
"How?"
I kiss him.
Hard.
He responds immediately.
Like he's been waiting two months for this—which, I realize, he probably has.
"Amira—"
"Don't talk." I pull at his white coat. "You've been talking too much already."
"What do you want me to do?"
"Make up for your lies."
He makes up for them.
On his desk, between patient files, with his coat on the floor and my professional distance destroyed.
"You understand everything I say now?" I ask in Somali.
"Every word."
"Then understand this: faster."
He complies.
He takes me on his medical desk.
Pushes aside his computer, lays me down where patients usually sit, and shows me he understood every word I ever said.
"Amira—"
"More—"
"I've imagined this—" He thrusts deeper. "Every consultation. Imagined having you right here."
"Then stop imagining."
We come together.
In his office at the GP practice. Where anyone could knock. Where everything professional has become something else.
"You're insane," I say afterward.
"I'm in love with you."
"You've known me two months."
"I've watched you work for two months. I've seen your kindness, your patience, your humor." He pulls me close. "I've fallen for you one consultation at a time."
"Through lies."
"Through desperation." He kisses my forehead. "Let me do better now. Let me take you to dinner and talk to you directly."
I let him.
Because his lie was ridiculous but also sweet. Because he looked at me every day and decided I was worth deception.
Because I felt something too.
"No more pretending," I tell him.
"No more pretending."
"If we do this, we do it honestly."
"I'll be honest about everything." He takes my hand. "Starting with: I think you're extraordinary. And I want to spend a very long time getting to know you properly."
We date for a year.
He learns that I hate mushrooms and love rainy walks and cry at animal videos. I learn that he wanted to be a musician before medicine and still plays guitar on weekends.
"Marry me," he says one rainy walk.
"In Somali."
"Aniga iyo adiga, weligeen." You and me, forever.
"That's cheating. You should have said that two months earlier."
"Would you have said yes?"
"Probably." I kiss him. "But this way is better."
It is.
It really is.