Toronto Immigration Consultant

Fowsia's Immigration Services has reunited thousands of families.

In Rexdale, Toronto's Somali heart, she's the person everyone calls when bureaucracy blocks the way home.

My mother is stuck in Kenya.

"Refugee sponsorship with complications." She reviews my file. Fifty-four years old. Two hundred and forty-five pounds of immigration expertise. Ebony skin, professional blazer, eyes that have seen every kind of heartbreak. "This won't be easy."

"Nothing worth doing is easy."

"Mashallah—good attitude." She starts making notes. "I'll need everything. Documents, photos, proof of relationship."

"Whatever it takes."

She works on my case like it's personal.

Late nights, weekend calls, persistence that borders on obsession.

"Why do you care so much?" I ask during one late meeting.

"Because I was your mother once." She keeps typing. "Stuck in a camp while my children waited in Toronto. Someone helped me. Now I help others."

"Who helped you?"

"A lawyer who saw me as human, not a file number." She finally looks up. "I've spent twenty years paying that forward."

My mother's case is complicated.

Medical issues, documentation gaps, bureaucratic nightmares. Fowsia fights them all.

"You're exhausted," I tell her one evening.

"I'm always exhausted." She rubs her eyes. "But your mother deserves to be here."

"So do you. When's the last time you rested?"

"Rest is for after." She starts a new document. "Always after."

"My husband helped me build this business."

We're in her office past midnight. The case inches forward.

"He died five years ago. Heart attack at his desk." She gestures around. "This very office. I found him in the morning."

"I'm so sorry."

"Don't be sorry. Be grateful for the time you have." Her voice cracks. "I thought we had forever. We had eleven years."

"And since then?"

"Since then, I work. I help. I try not to think about the empty house I go home to."

"Your mother's visa is approved."

The words hit like lightning. Three months of work, paid off.

"Subhanallah—how?"

"Persistence. Prayer. A little luck." She hands me the paperwork. "She'll be here in two weeks."

I'm crying. Can't help it.

She hands me tissues. Her own eyes are wet.

"Let me thank you properly."

My mother is settled. Healthy. Happy. The debt I owe Fowsia is immeasurable.

"You paid my fee. That's thanks enough."

"That's not what I mean." I take her hand. "You gave me my mother. Let me give you something."

"What could you possibly give me?"

"Company. Connection. Someone to share that empty house with."

I worship the immigration consultant.

In her office where she's reunited thousands. Her body is a document of survival—ebony curves, heavy breasts, soft belly.

"Five years—" She gasps as I undress her. "Since anyone—"

"Tonight you're approved."

I lay her on her office couch.

Where families have cried happy tears. Where desperate people found hope. Her body deserves its own reunion.

I spread her thick thighs.

Process her pleasure.

"ILAAHAY!"

She screams—five years of professional distance dissolving. Her hands grip my head.

"Don't stop—" She's shaking. "Dhakhso—"

I work her case until she comes three times.

"Inside me—" She's pulling at me. "Ku soo gal—stamp me—"

I strip. She watches with those expert eyes.

"Subhanallah—"

"Approved."

I push inside the consultant.

She cries out.

"So full—" Her legs wrap around me. "Don't stop—"

I complete the application.

Her massive body shakes. She comes twice more.

"Ku shub—" She's begging. "Finalize me—"

I release inside her.

We lie on her office couch.

"Your mother is coming for dinner Sunday," she murmurs.

"She'll love you."

"You think?"

"I know." I kiss her. "You brought her here. She'll love you forever."

One Year Later

My mother and Fowsia cook together every Sunday.

They speak Somali, share recipes, laugh about me.

"Macaan," Fowsia moans at night. "My best case."

The consultant who reunited families.

The woman who joined mine.

Permanently landed.