Black Man and Arab Goddess

Picture this, if you will. A six-foot-one, lean and athletic ( but curvy where it counts) Arab woman with long Black hair, piercing dark brown eyes and dark bronze skin striding through a crowded mall in the City of Ottawa, Ontario. And she's looking amazing in a White T-shirt and blue jeans that display an ass that Serena Williams herself would envy. Now, under the circumstances, even a smooth-talking brother like me might be excused for being a little bit tongue-tied, eh? Yeah, that's pretty much how I reacted when I first saw that Super Hot Mama, whose name tag read Samirah Al-Muhammad. The gal had me tongue-tied, astonished and stunned.

I was walking around the Saint Laurent Mall on a Friday night, prowling as usual. As a six-foot-one, big and tall young Black man, I've got a naturally striking presence. I'm built like a football player and people say I remind them of NFL player Michael Vick. I don't like Michael Vick because I'm a New England Patriots fan. I was born and raised in the City of Brockton, Massachusetts. I used to play football for the University of Massachusetts campus at Amherst, Massachusetts. Now I'm in the Sprott MBA program at Carleton University in the City of Ottawa, Ontario. There aren't too many African-Americans in the Capital region of Canada outside metropolitan Toronto, so a lot of folks at Carleton University found me unique.

Being an African-American brother in this lily-White little school has its perks. It's easy pussy up in here, man. I've banged a lot of Black women and quite a few White chicks. It's almost like shooting fish in a barrel. I'm good-looking, confident, and a natural smooth talker. Oh, and I've got the dick to back it up. I'm the proud owner of nine and a half inches of African-American masculine power. You dig? Cool. Yeah, I was in the mall, looking for some new pussy. When I saw that hot-looking Arab chick walking around the mall like she owned the place, practically sashaying her big booty from side to side in them tight blue jeans, I had to say what's up. I followed her to the post card store where she worked. There she was behind the counter. Looking hot. I approached her with a casual smile, inquiring about mailing stuff to the States. It's Christmas time and I've got a lot of stuff to send to my people back in Brockton, Massachusetts.

I've already done all my Christmas shopping, don't worry. I've got a Twilight book for my cousin Cassandra, who's just finishing high school. She's headed to the University of Kentucky next September. I've got a play station system for my younger brother Jarvis, who's wowing them with his football skills at a certain Catholic school in Brockton. As for my aunt Selena, the woman who raised me, I'm sending her two scarves, and a Western Union money order worth three hundred bucks. Aunt Selena works as a nurse at Caritas Hospital in Brockton. My uncle Lawrence works as a Corrections Officer for the State of Massachusetts and they do alright for themselves but I know that money's tight in our old neighborhood in Brockton these days. Hell, that's why I left. I couldn't afford to study in the MBA program at Suffolk University or Northeastern University in Boston, Massachusetts, like I wanted. The price of schools skyrocketed by the time I graduated with my bachelor's degree in computer science from the University of Massachusetts at Amherst in 2009. That's part of the reason why I came to Canada. Even while paying international rates, tuition in Canada is cheaper compared to the States. Isn't that a kick in the butt?

Anyhow, where was I? Oh, yeah. I was telling you about how I accosted Samirah Al-Muhammad, the Arab chick at the post card store inside the mall. The tall Arab chick didn't appear surprised to see me. I smiled and showed her the box I had under my arm. It contained my younger brother's stuff. I thought I'd mail it first, since it's the heaviest. Samirah took the box, and calculated her stuff. I pulled out my Bank of America debit card. I still use it even while living in Ontario. I also have my Bank of America credit card. Yes, I do business with Canadian institutions. I have a Royal Bank of Canada debit card and a credit card with the Canadian Imperial Bank of Commerce or CIBC. I just prefer using my American banking stuff because they're accepted everywhere and I enjoy surprising the Canadians. They always think I'm from the Caribbean or Africa or whatever. I'm not African or Afro-Caribbean. I was born and raised in Brockton, Massachusetts. In the good old United States of America. Canadians forget that more than forty million Black folks live just South of the border. Idiots.

Samirah packaged the stuff in a special box, got me to sign a form or two, and then told me about my options. I nodded, choosing the regular route instead of the expedited process. When I took out my Bank of America debit card to pay, she cocked an eyebrow and asked me if I was American. I nodded, and smiled. Samirah grinned, and told me she recognized me from somewhere. I hesitated. I hit on a lot of females and I'm at every club in Ottawa so I was kind of hesitant. Did this broad see me hit on a girlfriend of hers or something? Or perhaps I hit on her before and forgot? Nah, no way I would forget an ass like hers, no matter how drunk I got. Samirah told me she recognized me from Carleton. I smiled sheepishly. Okay. I finished paying, then told her I'd see her around campus. She shook her head, smiled and wished me a good day. I ran the whole exchange in my head a few times. What the fuck just happened? Did I actually freeze in front of a female? This hasn't happened since frigging high school!

I continued walking around the mall, and scoped a tall, fine-looking Black chick sitting on a bench and reading a Zane novel. I read Zane's stuff before. Black erotica at its finest. This chick must be freaky. I approached her, and got rebuffed as she looked me up and down, then got up and left. And that's when this chubby White dude came out of a shoe store and she linked arms with him. Dude, what the fuck? Now, don't get me wrong. I got nothing against sisters dating White guys but they're totally mismatched as a couple. She's fine and he's ugly! Oh, well. Maybe he has money. Or maybe she's one of those African immigrant chicks who need their papers and will do anything to get it. Whatever. I walked away, a bit morose. And actually bumped into none other than Samirah, the chick from the card store. I caused her to drop her coffee. My bad. Oops. She stood eyeball to eyeball with me, and once again I froze. I apologized for bumping into her. Samirah stood there and told me to watch where I was going. She saw me looking at the fine sister walking away with the White whale and smiled. I rolled my eyes. Whatever.

I suddenly remembered I did cause her coffee to drop, and offered to buy her a new one. Samirah looked at me suspiciously. I shrugged and told her buying her a new coffee was the least I could do. Samirah crossed her arms, told me she was on her lunch break and then walked past me. I ran up to her, apologized again, and told her I was happy a particularly lousy day. Samirah grinned, and led me to the Tim Horton's upstairs. There, I kept my word and bought her a cup of coffee. I also bought her a sandwich, and I got an egg sandwich and an apple juice. When I asked Samirah to grab a bite with me, she acquiesced. I sat down with her, and we ate in awkward silence. Okay, I'm not as much of a player as most people think I am. I do get some bad days. Samirah actually broke the ice. She asked me what an American guy was doing at Carleton University. I smiled, thankful for the opener. I regaled her with tales of my adventures at UMass-Amherst and how I barely graduated. Yeah, to get my MBA, I needed to get away from Boston. That's why I opted for Ottawa. Besides, my aunt Selena's older brother Leo lived in Ottawa with his wife Dana, a White woman from New Brunswick, and their college-age daughter Leslie. I stayed with them for a while before getting my own place.

Samirah listened to me patiently as I talked, and I reminded myself to learn a bit more about her. I kind of like the sound of my own voice and have to remember to let others talk sometimes. Samirah told me a bit about herself. She was born in the City of Baalbek in Lebanon, and had been living in Ottawa, Ontario, with her mother Aamina and her older brother Abdullah. The family moved from Lebanon to Canada in the late 1990s. Samirah held dual Canadian-Lebanese citizenship. Hmm. Interesting. I knew very little about Lebanon other than the fact that it's an Arab country so I said the words "Asalam Alaikum" to Samirah, who stared at me indignantly. I stared at her sheepishly, wondering if I pronounced the traditional Muslim greeting wrong.

Now, I was raised Catholic but I'm actually friends with several Muslim guys, like Mahel the Tunisian guy from Algonquin College and Ahmed the Somali dude from the University of Ottawa. That's how they greet each other. Why was Samirah mad at me? Calmly, Samirah told me that she wasn't Muslim. I froze. What the fuck? How can you be Arab, with an Arabic name, and not be Muslim? Hmm. Isn't that illegal or something? I'm afraid I actually said those words to her. Proof that diplomacy and African-American males don't mix. Open mouth, insert foot, so to speak. Samirah's eyes blazed with anger, and she told me that she was a proud Lebanese CHRISTIAN. Then she got up and walked away, but not before pouring her ( mercifully cold) coffee on my head. Much to the delight of some ladies sitting nearby, who laughed. I watched her walk away, sashaying that amazing ass from side to side. Damn. I almost shed a tear.

I walked out of the food court of the Saint Laurent Mall, feeling like a fool. Finally, I took the bus home. That night, I tossed and turned, unable to sleep. I thought of the lovely Samirah. A beautiful Christian woman born and raised in the Arab world. And I just blew it with her. Wow. Am I good or what? The next day I went to school. Live and learn, I told myself. I went to the University Center and guess who I ran into? Samirah, and this time she wasn't alone. There were two Arab chicks and one White chick with her. I approached them cautiously. Samirah's eyes locked on me, and she pursed her lips. I grinned with more confidence than I felt, and saluted her friends. Then I told her that I was apologizing for my conduct yesterday. Samirah's friends looked at me, grinning with either malice or amusement. Hard to tell with women. Samirah looked into my eyes. I think she liked what she saw there because she took a deep breath, then nodded and shook my hand. I smiled, and asked her if we could be friends. One thing at a time, came her answer. I nodded. I'll take that over 'get lost' any day. I wished her and her friends the best of luck with exams, then walked away.

For the rest of the week, I kept behaving strangely, man. I saw fine-looking girls of all shades. Fine Black sisters with curvy bodies and thick booties. Slim White chicks with athletic figures. Hot Hispanic gals with all that and then some. And yet they all left me cold. I had a case of Samirah on the brain. I can't forget the sexy Arab Christian chick! I went downstairs at Oliver's Pub, a bar at Carleton University. I sat at the bar stool, and commanded a Clint Eastwood sandwich with fries and a Pepsi. I was staring at a drunken White guy being escorted out of the place by campus security when I felt someone tap me on the shoulder. I turned around. It was Samirah! I looked at her and smiled. The gorgeous Lebanese woman smiled at me, a real smile this time instead of the measured, tight grin she graced me with when I fucked up in the past. Obviously someone was in a good mood today. She told me she passed her Psych exam with flying colors. I smiled. Sounds like a celebration was in order. Before she could refuse, I offered to pay for her food. No coffee, I told the bartender. Samirah and I exchanged a knowing grin. Coffee doesn't work for us. It usually gets spilled on something...or someone.

Samirah was unusually chatty that afternoon. She kept telling me about her Christmas plans, and how excited she felt about the return of the NBA. As could be expected, she was a Raptors fan. I cockily reminded her that the Celtics smashed the Raptors recently, and she narrowed her eyes at me. For the better part of an hour we talked. I was seeing a new side of the ice princess Samirah. This gal was not just gorgeous, she was also funny and smart. I didn't know too many women who were fans of the Blue Collar Comedy Tour, especially Ron White. Samirah loved the redneck comic's act, especially his "You Can't Fix Stupid" routine. Well, this gal seemed too good to be true. I asked her if she had a man, and her expression darkened. Immediately I took it back. Too late. Samirah stared at me, and I almost flinched because she looked angry. This chick is tall and built like an Arabic Amazon. She could kick my ass. I looked at her cautiously. The bartender/waiter dude came back with her order. She took it and thanked me. For several moments she ate in silence, and then she began talking again.

There was a look of pain on Samirah's beautiful face as she began telling me about the thing which pained her. The story of her romance with Ibrahim, a young man from Saudi Arabia. He was an international student at Carleton University last year, and he'd previously lived all over the place, from Saudi Arabia to England, from England to Lebanon and even Ireland. Samirah and Ibrahim met at Carleton's Persian Students Alliance and had a whirlwind romance. All year they carried on their great love affair. There was even talk of marriage at some point. However, Ibrahim wanted her to convert to Islam and she wouldn't, because her Christian faith mattered to her. Lebanese Christian women seemed like an anathema to the ultra-conservative Saudi men.

Lebanese Christian ladies fascinate many Muslim men. They are the most liberated women in the Middle East, next to Israeli women. A lot of Saudi men hated Westernized Arabic women, and Ibrahim had been both attracted and repelled by Samirah, a young Arab woman who came from a Lebanese Christian family, played sports, loved to drink and party, and believed in gender equality. When Samirah turned down his offer of marriage since it came with strings attached ( i.e. conversion), Ibrahim flew into a rage. He beat her up, and put her in the hospital. Ibrahim got arrested, lost his student visa, and was deported by the Canadian government. This incident forever changed Samirah's views on men and women, religion and politics. I looked at her, stunned. This tall Amazon suddenly looked so vulnerable. I felt mixed feelings. On the one hand, I felt like beating Ibrahim within an inch of his life. I may not be the nicest guy when it comes to dealing with women but I'd die before I beat up a lady. And I'll swear this to God, Allah, Jehovah, Buddha or whoever you want me to swear to. Samirah had tears in her eyes. I felt awkward. A guy never knows what to do in these situations. I threw caution to hell, and wrapped my arms around her. For a moment, she tensed. Then she let go, and embraced me.

There I stood, gently holding this tall, amazing young woman in my arms. Conflicting feelings coursed through me. This is not my usual M.O. I'm not the comfort-the-ladies emotionally kind of guy. That's best left for gay men and the ladies female friends in my sincere opinion. Straight guys who try to comfort women emotionally end up in the friend zone. Like Ross and Rachel on the sitcom "Friends". However, when I looked into Samirah's tear-filled but still absolutely mesmerizing eyes, I didn't care about any of that. I didn't care about anything, really. Except her. I wanted to hold her in my arms forever, and I'd fight Satan himself if he walked into Oliver's Pub to do her harm. I told her everything would be okay. Samirah looked at me, and asked me to be her friend. There was something so unusual, so innocent and so tender and vulnerable in that request that for the life of me, the only answer I could come up with was yes. Yes, Samirah. I'll be your friend come hell or high water. And I meant it. Leaning on me for support, Samirah walked out of the bar. She told me she had to get back to her dorm. Lots of homework to do. She rubbed her eyes. I nodded. Looking into my eyes, she thanked me. I nodded again. She turned to leave. Before leaving, she gently touched my cheek. I froze. Again. She said thank you, then walked away. I watched her walk away for the umpteenth time. I felt something shoot right through me. It was in that precise moment that I knew what all those pansy-style singers are always bitching about when they talk about love. Wow, I can't believe it just happened to me. I'm in love with her. Damn.