Somali Christian Girl's Story

That night, I went home feeling elated but I was also filled with trepidation. I called the agency, and told the madam that I couldn't go on like this. We're done, I told her. Then I hung up. I sat there on the couch, thinking about my life. We were in mid-July. August would breeze by then September would begin. I had enough to cover the next two semesters at Kingston University. What would I do for rent? I'd work two jobs if I had to, or I'd get a smaller place. I picked up my blackberry and called Alicia, and amazingly, she picked up.

I was surprised, and told her as much. You're a dumb broad but I love you my sister, Alicia said, laughing. I love you too my half-Jamaican sister, I said. Then I told her everything. The escort agency. The clients. The drinking. My chance meeting with Marcel. Yeah, pretty much my whole summer. Alicia listened and offered advice, but she also scolded me. I'm leaving them for good, I promised Alicia. I'll be there for you, she said. I smiled, thanked God for her and asked her about Ammanuel. He's oh so wonderful, she said with that lovey tone I've come to recognize in her voice every bloody time she talked about him. Let's do lunch tomorrow, Alicia said. See you tomorrow Insha'Allah, I said with a smile before I hung up.

I lay there on the couch, and smiled. I felt hopeful for the first time in ages. Big things were happening in my life, that's for sure. I'm getting my life back. A noise snapped me out of my reverie. I heard something and got up, wondering what it could be. I live alone in my apartment. I don't have any pets or roommates and I honestly like it that way. Grabbing a bibelot from the living room table, I went to investigate. The light came on in the hallway leading to the front door, and I found myself staring at a familiar face. It was...George the Scottish barrister.

Hello my pretty, George said. I stared at the middle-aged white dude, and saw the crazed look in his steely blue eyes. He's coming for me, I realized with a start. He's been stalking me. You're not returning my calls and I've been so good to you, he said. How did you get in? I asked. I have my ways, he replied. I'm leaving the life, I said, clutching the bibelot defensively. Spare me the "I don't want to do this anymore" routine George said in a mocking tone. He shook his head, called me an ungrateful slut and then pulled a huge knife out of his pocket. You whores are all the same, he growled as he surged at me.

I threw the bibelot at him, and it smashed into his temple. George cried out and for a moment he vacillated on his feet, but steadied himself. You're going to pay for that, he said wickedly, licking his lips as he took a step toward me. I stared at him as he advanced toward me. Could I rush him? Or try to run past him? He's bigger than me but he's slow. He's sluggish in bed, no reason to think he'd be any faster or more nimble outside of it. The whole time we were fucking I barely felt you, I said, taunting him. George's eyes widened, and a wounded look filled his face. Howling with rage he surged toward me. I launched myself at him, and we fell on the floor. For several desperate moments we wrestled furiously. Finally, I got the knife away from him by digging my fingernails into his eye, which caused him to howl in pain. I plunged the knife into his chest, repeatedly, until he stopped moving.

For several long moments I lay on the carpeted floor next to George's bloody corpse. Once I calmed down I went to the washroom and washed my face and hands. Then I sat down on the couch and pondered what to do. Should I call the police? Oh, beauty idea. I knew what they'd think. A respectable white businessman killed by a Somali courtesan. I knew who a jury would side with. England is anti-immigrant these days. Those bozos from the English Defence League are everywhere, equating anyone who isn't white with being a potential terrorist. Never mind that the most successful Islamist terrorist plot of modern times, the Boston Marathon Bombing, got carried out by two white Muslim guys from Russia.

In many ways, I could relate to their darkest fears. I am a proud citizen of Great Britain and I think radicals should be hunted down and destroyed. What those who hate immigrants don't realize is that when radical Muslims strike, they don't care if they have to kill a hundred of their fellow Muslims to get at a single Western target. Terrorists in Afghanistan and Pakistan have bombed dozens of Muslim civilians just to get at a single American politician or spy. Bunch of geniuses. Do you think I agree with them just because I was raised Muslim? Fuck no! They'll kill me to get to you! After that soldier got butchered on the streets by two machete-wielding dark-skinned radicals, the average Englishman doesn't feel secure in his country and sees us black and brown folk as a menace. After sleeping with men for money, drinking, and becoming estranged from a family that hates me, I don't really consider myself Muslim anymore. I still believe in God but I've broken every rule that Islam has. Would that matter to a British jury? Doubtful. I'm still a dark-skinned female immigrant in a land that worships whiteness. I can't play victim. It doesn't work when you have my complexion.

I thought about my life, and how this incident, and the series of unfortunate events leading up to it changed my whole existence. I thought of my education. I was two semesters away from graduating with my accounting degree from Kingston University. I wanted to work for the government one day. Be a successful young black woman and an example for other minority women trying to make it in Western society. I thought of Alicia, and how much I'd miss her if a jury full of white people sent me to jail because they didn't want to side with someone like me over George the barrister, one of their own. And lastly I thought of Marcel, the handsome young Haitian-American whom I honestly believe God and Fate put on my path. I had too much to lose. George had to go. And so I did what I had to do...

I put George in the trunk of my car, and drove through London, making my way to the Thames river well after midnight. I dropped George there, and watched the currents carry him away. With any luck he'd be far out to sea before dawn, and the sharks would get him once in the North Sea. I cleaned the trunk of my car with bleach and did the same thing for the carpet. Then I went to bed and amazingly enough, I had a good night's sleep. The next day, I went to meet Alicia at The Island Sun. For the first time in my life I kept a secret from my best friend. I couldn't tell that that I'd killed George the barrister-turned-stalker in self-defence. Friendship has boundaries and I have no desire to test them. Besides, Alicia is a good Christian gal with a strong moral code and sense of justice. She simply wouldn't understand. When she asked me why I was preoccupied, I told her about Marcel and how I felt about him. Don't let him get away, Alicia said with a grin. We'll double date with you and Ammanuel one of them days, I promised.

The following week, I had everything in my apartment, from carpet to furniture, taken out. I grew up watching Law & Order and CSI so I knew something about forensics. I wasn't taking any chances. I burned everything at an incinerator. I used bleach all over the kitchen, the living room and the washroom. Then I began looking for a new place. When I told Marcel I was moving out, he suggested in a not so subtle way that his two-bedroom apartment near Kingston University was awfully roomy since his prospective roommate Arthur decided he'd go to Australia instead of studying in good old England. I was thrilled but hesitant about that. I care for Marcel a great deal, hell I think I'm in love with him but isn't that moving kind of fast?

Take a chance with me and I'll make you happy, Marcel promised as he took my hand in his and kissed it. You just want some of this ass, I told him with a grin as I slapped my rear end. I've been dreaming of that Djibouti booty, Marcel said. I grabbed him by the collar and kissed him. I took his hands in mine, and placed them on my posterior. This ass is yours, I told him. Marcel smiled and literally swept me off my feet, lifting me into his arms with ease. We're almost the same height though he's a bit bigger than me so I was surprised at his strength. I love you babe and I'm going to make you so happy, he whispered into my ear. Marcel paused, then shrugged. If you want a Haitian-American roughneck like me in your life, he added quietly.

When I heard these words, I shuddered with pleasure and hugged him fiercely. It was all worth it. My dysfunctional Somali family, the hell I went through at the escort agency, the incident with George the barrister, and all that jazz. For I got Marcel out of it. If it weren't for all that crap I went through I never would have met him, the man that I love. I'm sure of that. I want us to be together, I said with conviction. Marcel smiled, and gave me a gentle squeeze. I will convert to Christianity, I added quietly. When I said that, Marcel's eyes widened in surprise. You don't have to do that, he said quickly. I want us to be one, I added firmly. And I absolutely meant it. Besides, all the things I've done are considered unforgivably haram in Islam. I'm told that in Christianity, if you're truly sorry for what you've done and want to make amends, God will welcome you in His loving arms. I've been the wayward daughter of a conservative Muslim family, an escort who slept with rich men for money, and a borderline addict when it comes to red wine. And I've got blood on my hands, albeit I killed purely in self-defence. Can someone like me find happiness? Do I deserve a second chance? I choose to believe so. And I'm told it's what Christianity is all about. I don't have a car anymore, I told Marcel when he asked me about my old Jetta. Sold it for spare parts at a yard, I said innocently. You're a weird chick but I love you, Marcel said with a smile. And I love you back my Haitian-American angel, I said, meaning every word. Hand in hand Marcel and I began the long walk to his place.