Haitian Gentleman For Somali Girl

All day Solomon sat in the Carleton University library, wondering how in hell he was going to extricate himself from the mess his life had become. He owed the school over two grand, and even though he qualified for a reduction of twelve hundred bucks, due to an international scholarship, they just told him he missed the deadline. It was too late for him to file for the reduction in fees. Mid-August and he still wasn't registered for September classes. And he only needed four more classes to graduate from the criminology program. Damn.

When night came, he went home, took a brief shower and put on his black and blue security uniform. Then he endured the hour-long bus ride to the west end of Ottawa, where a certain supermarket hired him as overnight security. The big and tall young black man was intensely aware of the stares he got as he neared the mostly white suburban area. You don't belong here, the sea of white faces around him seemed to say silently. Sighing, he grabbed his backpack and made his way through the parking lot. Once inside the store, he looked for a clerk or cashier. A short white gal with mousy brown hair told him the manager had already left. Awesome, he told himself.

He went to the washroom and took a leak, then washed his hands. When he came out, he was greeted by the same short chick from before. The assistant manager will see you now, she said evenly. Nodding, he followed her to the office upstairs. Hello I'm Bill, said a chubby white guy in his mid-fifties. Hello Bill I'm Solomon, he said as he shook the older man's clammy hand. The assistant manager told him that the store closed at eleven and from eleven to seven he'd be on deck, patrolling the floors and aisles while the cleaners did their work and then left. We just want you around just in case something happens, Bill said. Your workplace is in safe hands, Solomon told them with a wry grin.

He went to wait on a bench by the washrooms as the minutes ticked by. At ten fifty three all the shoppers were gone, leaving behind only the cashiers. The last one left at eleven ten. Solomon breathed a sigh of relief once he realized he was alone. He liked it better this way. He'd been working as a security guard ever since 2010, when his parents sent him to study at a university in Ottawa, Ontario. Why they made him leave his beloved Boston, Massachusetts, for the most boring town in Canada, he'd never know. One bar fight with some bigoted white dude who called him by a slur and his conservative Haitian parents got scared. He wasn't even charged. The case was dropped once the cops reviewed a tape of the bar owner's racist son calling him the N-word in front of his friends. Boston, the town where Barack Obama studied law, and where Deval Patrick got elected Governor of New England's flagship state, didn't tolerate blatant racism. They preferred it covert like the polite New Englanders they were. All this fuss that night at the bar because he was a young black man dating a white lady. Racism is everywhere, he told his parents. Yet his folks still felt Boston wasn't the right place for him. You need to get a grip on your temper and some fresh air, they told him. Apparently, fresh air and anger management meant Canada.

Solomon sighed, and thought of all the odd turns his life had taken. When he went out with Deborah that night he never imagined it would change his life forever. He'd known her since his days at Hyde Park Academy. The tall, red-haired and green-eyed white chick who was "down with the brothers". When he ran into her at the University of Massachusetts in Boston, he was thrilled. They renewed their friendship, and lo and behold, it turned into a mutual attraction. They began dating, and they were actually volunteering in the early efforts for Barack Obama's re-election campaign when he took her to that bar near campus. When it rains it frigging pours, Solomon thought sourly. Walking through the empty supermarket in Ottawa's west end, he wondered what Deborah was up to this very moment. They hadn't kept in touch since he left Boston. Sometimes they emailed each other on Facebook, that was it.

Solomon shook his head, and was snapped out of his reverie by his phone buzzing. It was Yasmina Ibrahim, the tall, pretty and curvaceous Somali-Canadian gal he met at the bus stop near his on-campus apartment at the other end of Ottawa. Hello big daddy, she texted him. In spite of his troubles, Solomon couldn't help but smile. How he met Yasmina was a funny story. When he first came to Ottawa, he missed Boston sorely. This place is a prison, he told himself as he gazed at the environs of the Canadian capital. He missed his vibrant and racially diverse New England town, where black men could be elected Governors of the State and university presidents. A place where the American Dream was alive and well.

To him, Ottawa seemed like pure hell with its politely xenophobic people, its decidedly weird socio-religious politics, and the tension with which white Canadians and non-European immigrants dealt with one another. At least in the States people were more honest about their feelings concerning race and religion. The average American thought of Islam as a religion by, for and about terrorism. They also thought of Hispanics as an invading force trying to change America from within. Yeah, American bigotry was open and honest. In Canada, it was hidden but ever-present. Yeah, he hated the place. And then along came Yasmina.

The first time he decided to walk all over Ottawa on his own, far away from the university campus residence he'd grown familiar with, he got hopelessly lost. He quickly learned that white Canadians weren't eager to give directions to a six-foot-six African-American male with a thick New England accent. Growing frustrated, he clicked on the GPS on his phone, and was faring slightly better...until his battery ran low. Shit. That's when he saw...her. A tall, curvy young black woman clad in a long-sleeved blue T-shirt, long black skirt and some type of dark blue scarf wrapped around her head. Hello brother you look lost, she said with a smile. He looked her up and down. I guess I am, he said hesitantly. He wanted to know where the Rideau Shopping Center was, and nobody on Bronson Avenue seemed to know. He figured the bigoted bozos wouldn't lift a finger to help him. Canadian politeness my ass, he thought.

I'm going there actually, said the pretty young black woman. With that, she led him to the number four bus stop and took out her student pass. Where are you from? she asked him. Solomon Vladimir from Boston, he said proudly, extending his hand. The young woman looked at his hand, hesitated, then shook it. I'm Yasmina Ibrahim, she said with the brightest smile he'd ever seen. That's when Solomon knew that he'd met someone special. Never one to look at the bright side in life, he lived in a world of darkness, where racists, sociopaths and other creeps lurked around every corner. The world is evil, he told himself daily. And yet, every time he looked at Yasmina, she of the sunny disposition, he wasn't so sure.

That afternoon, not only did she lead him to his destination, but Yasmina Ibrahim also grabbed a bite with him at the mall and added him on Facebook. Solomon, who knew nada about Somali girls or Islamic culture, couldn't appreciate the significance of a Hijab-wearing, pious Muslim gal going to such lengths to help a male stranger. As it turns out, they were both studying at Carleton University and they were both foreign-born newcomers to Ottawa. Yasmina was born in the town of Mogadishu, Somalia, in 1989 and moved with her family to Ottawa, Ontario, in 2004. She could understand Solomon's frustrations in the Canadian capital. And she endeavored to help him adjust.

Solomon smiled to himself as he listened to Yasmina tell him about her day. She was oh so excited about her promotion to sales manager at the store. Happy for you my sister stay blessed, he told her. Thank you Christian dude, Yasmina teased. Solomon rolled his eyes. He and Yasmina had many talks about religion and culture throughout the three years they'd been friends. He was raised Catholic, though he hadn't been inside a church in ages. He still considered himself a Christian, though. Yasmina was brought up Muslim, though she smoked and drank on occasion and she once worked at an adult bookstore as a sales clerk. You Muslim girls are full of surprises, he told her once, catching her smoking something other than a cigarette in the quad near the campus library one afternoon. Yasmina winked at him seductively and told him she had no idea what he was talking about.

Solomon tried to snatch the cigarette-shaped weed from her and she twisted away, forcing him to wrestle her to the ground. Since he knew she was ticklish, he tickled her mercilessly, and, hapless with laughter, Yasmina surrendered moments later. Lying on top of the gal he considered his best friend, Solomon felt...something. He looked into Yasmina's eyes and she looked into his. Suddenly their faces were inches apart. You're beautiful, he told her as he pressed his lips against hers. I can't, Yasmina said, breaking the kiss. Groaning, Solomon apologized. The next few days between them were awkward, to say the least. Nevertheless, after a painfully long and detailed discussion of what just happened, they agreed to remain friends.

Let's see other people and preserve our friendship, Yasmina declared. And Solomon had agreed. He'd been on dates with a few gals, most of them white. He'd never had much luck with black females. The only black woman who gave a damn about him, other than his mother, was Yasmina. And she just friend-zoned him like a pro. Damn. Being a good little Muslim gal, Yasmina didn't date. She was waiting for the perfect guy from the right religion and background to drop out of the sky. It's always good to talk to you, Solomon said. Always glad to hear your voice big man, Yasmina said sincerely. With that, he wished her a good night. After speaking to his best friend, Solomon did a tour of the store, then did the time-honored security guard tradition of finding a quiet corner to sleep in. He set his fully charged phone's alarm to wake him up at six o'clock since his shift ended at seven. Just in case any employee of the store came early. Then he went to sleep. One way or another, he'd find the means to pay Carleton University what he owed them and take his final classes. He still wasn't sure what to do about Yasmina, the gal who haunted his dreams, though.

Lying in bed inside her apartment near downtown, Yasmina Ibrahim shuddered as she thrust two fingers into her pussy. The whole time she'd been talking to Solomon on the phone she'd been masturbating. And the big lug never picked up on it because, though quite smart, he was quite dense when it came to women. If he weren't so thick-headed, he would have figured out a long time ago that she was totally into him. Closing her eyes, she imagined him on top of her, only he was fully bearded and wore a Kufi hat like a good Muslim. With power and authority he spread her legs and slid his thick cock into her. You're mine, he growled into her ear. Yes habibi, Yasmina said meekly, giving herself over to dreamworld-Solomon.

The young Somali-Canadian woman masturbated to a hot, stinging orgasm which left her body sweaty and her pulse quickened. A shudder passed through her as she realized that she was once more alone in her bed. If only Solomon knew how much she loved him. She told her mother, Maryam Ibrahim, and her aunt Fatouma about him and her mother cautioned her not to fall in love with a Christian guy because he would never convert to be with her. Find yourself a nice Somali guy, her mom advised. I don't want a nice Somali guy, Yasmin protested. I want a big and tall clumsy Haitian oaf from Boston, she added with a laugh.

Yasmina sighed wistfully, then hugged herself after pulling the covers. In spite of the mid-August heat, she felt cold. Haitian men and Somali women made for strange bedfellows. Not for the first time the young woman questioned one of Islam's sacred rules which forbade Muslim women from having relations with men of other faiths. Yet Muslim men could marry atheist women, Pagan women, Christian women and Jewish women if they so choose. Not fair, Yasmina thought as she went to sleep. Maybe someday my Haitian knight in darkly shining armor will realize he loves me and do whatever it takes to make me his, she thought. She sent a silent prayer to Allah about it then fell asleep.