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The streets of Ottawa, Ontario, are really burning up. The summer heat is here and I can’t keep my ass indoors. I’ve got to go outside and see what kind of stuff I can get into. My name is Daryl Lucien, and I’m a big and tall young Black man of Haitian descent. I moved to the Capital region of Canada on November 17 of the year 2008 and have been living there ever since. It’s an okay place, especially compared to the north side of the island of Haiti where I was living. I love my homeland but even before the damn Quake, the lack of opportunities have driven many Haitians to move elsewhere. I was lucky enough to be allowed to come to Canada on a student visa. I’ve since become a permanent resident of Canada and I’m almost done with my studies in the Criminology program at Carleton University.
Lately, I found myself restless. Mainly because I haven’t gotten laid in about six months, man. I’ve been busy. My classes aren’t exactly easy. I had to stay really focused in order to pass. Anyhow, that was the winter semester. Now I’m a free man but the summer of 2012 is fleeting, man. It’s going to be September before we know it. And I need to get myself some ass. I went to the Saint Laurent Mall to grab some food and also to check out the ladies. It’s one of the busiest malls in the City of Ottawa and I thought I’d see what I could find. All kinds of hot ladies walking around. Black women. Asian women. White women. Hispanic women. Arab women. Indian women. Ladies of all hues from all kinds of places. And I couldn’t get a single one. What the fuck is up with that? I sat on the bench, feeling more than a bit frustrated while sipping on my ice tea.
This hasn’t been the easiest of years for me, man. My family members aren’t talking to me because they found out that I’m bisexual. They went on my Twitter account the one time I forgot to log off and all my secrets floated to the surface. I’m an orphan, and my folks died when I was little. I was shuffled back and forth between relatives in the island of Haiti. I grew up in the town of Cap-Haitien but I also remember living in Port-De-Paix and Port-Au-Prince, among other places. My father’s brother, the man I call uncle Guillaume Lucien, is the only one who ever supported me. Although he lived in Canada with his Nigerian-born wife Katrina Adewale and their daughters, he often sent me some money via western union. When I won a scholarship to Carleton University in the Canadian capital, uncle Guillaume welcomed me with open arms. His wife Katrina and their daughters Veronica and Mariah were less than welcoming. They’re about my age and think they know everything.
My uncle and his family are bible thumpers. Now, don’t get me wrong. I was raised Catholic and consider myself a good Christian. However, I am not a bible thumper. I’m a live and let live kind of guy. Do your thing and let me do my thing. Sadly, my uncle and his clan aren’t like that. They are so damn judgmental. I always dreaded they might find out that I’m bisexual. I’ve been with five people in my life. Four women and one guy. The only guy I’ve ever had sex with was Andre Lemercier, this cool light-skinned dude I knew at Universite Roi Henri Christophe in the town of Cap-Haitien, Northern Haiti. I haven’t been with any other guy and honestly, I don’t care to. I don’t walk around checking out guys or obsessing over guys. Ninety nine percent of the time, women are what I like. For real. I like tall, dark-skinned women with big tits and big butts. Serena Williams, the famous tennis champion, that’s my kind of woman.
Imagine my surprise when this hot-looking lady sat next to me and smiled at me as if we were good friends. I looked at her. She was mighty fine, with dark brown skin, short curly Black hair and light brown eyes. Dressed in a blue T-shirt and dark gray jeans, I suddenly felt underdressed sitting next to this sexy Black lady in a business suit. I nodded hesitantly as she continued to smile at me. At this point, I was wondering what the fuck was going on. I mean, why was she looking at me? Black women who look like her aren’t usually into the brothers. They chase White guys as if they’re made out of bold. I might swing both ways but I’m not into White guys. They’re boring as hell. Sometimes they hit on me but I am quick to tell them that I don’t get down like that. Seriously. If I ever have sex with another man again, he’ll be Black. Believe that. I shot a puzzled look at the lady. She smiled and introduced herself as Zainab.
I smiled and shook Zainab’s hand. The pretty Black lady had a firm handshake. She told me that I looked familiar. I smiled politely, and told her that I didn’t think so. Sorry if I seem cold, but I am not fond of the Black females in Ottawa. They never notice a brother unless he’s walking around with a female who isn’t Black. The local Black women chase White guys and guys of other races but they never notice a decent brother. I’m not into White chicks. I find them cold, boring and fake. If I were into them, I’d be happy to parade them around in front of the Ottawa-area Black Kayseri Escort chicks who never notice a decent brother when he’s by himself. Zainab asked me if I went to Carleton University and I nodded. I’m a year away from getting my bachelor’s degree in Criminology, then I’m going to Law school. I’m a Haitian man and we got drive and ambition. I’m not like those Black guys who were born and raised in Canada. Dudes live off the welfare system, or they try to become rappers. Most end up working menial jobs to pay for the multiple brats they sired upon women of various races. Bozos. Black men in Haiti walk like kings and we got drive and ambition. Not our fault if our country has been fucked up socially and economically by homegrown dictators and the Western governments who support them.
I snapped out of my internal rant and looked at Zainab, then I asked her how she knew where I went to school. Zainab smiled and told me she was a Carleton University MBA student. I looked at her again. This chick was in her late twenties, if not thirty. Okay, cool. I’ve seen some mature students on campus before. People in their thirties, forties or even their fifties. Cool. I looked at a fine-looking, tall sister who walked nearby with a chubby White guy. I smiled wistfully. Zainab followed my gaze and asked me if the sight of Black females with White men bothered me. I shook my head, and pointed out to a chubby, dark-skinned brother at the Payless store who was holding hands with a skinny, blonde-haired White chick. To each own, that’s what I said. Zainab smiled, and shook her head. Clearly she didn’t believe me. Man, this was starting to get too deep for me. I felt like leaving but my Haitian manners prevented me from getting up and taking off.
Zainab asked me if she could buy me dinner. I was about to say no, because in my experience, nobody ever offers you something for nothing. Especially attractive Black women in business suits. What was this chick’s game? Why the interest in me? I was about to say no, for real, but my stomach grumbled. It was three in the afternoon on a Saturday and I hadn’t had anything to eat since my cup of coffee and egg sandwiches at Tim Horton’s this morning. Zainab smiled, because she heard my stomach growling. I sighed inwardly, and accepted her offer. We walked up the escalator, past the post office, and made our way to the food court. Zainab asked me what I wanted. I pointed out to Bourbon Street and we went there. I love Chinese food. I ordered a plate of fried rice with two egg rolls, some barbecue pork and a Pepsi. Zainab had some Chow Mein with two spring rolls, some fish and a can of Coca Cola. We sat together in the busy food court, surrounded by all kinds of people.
As we ate, I learned a bit about Zainab. This gal was a native of Somalia. I knew she looked like she might be Somali but I wasn’t sure. Zainab told me a bit about herself. More than I wanted to know at the time, to tell you the truth. Zainab was born in the City of Mogadishu, the Capital of Somalia, and moved to the City of Montreal, Quebec, with her family in the 1990s. zainab told me how her parents, Mohammed and Fatuma Labaan, converted to Catholicism as youngsters in Somalia, against the wishes of their families and friends. The Somali people weren’t exactly tolerant of Christianity in their country, since almost all of them were Muslims. Zainab’s parents were once friends with Salvatore Colombo, the last Bishop of the Cathedral of Mogadishu. This venerable man converted many Somali men and Somali women from Islam to Christianity. For his efforts, he was murdered by the Somali government.
I looked at Zainab with newfound respect. Damn. I had no idea this lady had so much going on. I also had no idea that there were Somali Christians. All the Somalis I ever ran into in the City of Ottawa were Muslim, though many led secular lifestyles. I’ve seen hijab-wearing Somali women party and get drunk, no lie. Zainab told me about her parents flight from the Nation of Somalia. They went to the United Nations as refugees, claiming that their conversion to Christianity from Islam put them at risk. According to the Laws of Islam, any Muslim person who left Islam was to be put to death. Apostasy was not tolerated in Islam. I stared at Zainab with wide eyes, stunned. I saw a lot of White chicks wearing hijabs during my stay in Ottawa. It seems that every time you go on YouTube you hear some White chick claiming her love of Arab dick and her fascination with Islam. Doesn’t bother me because White women aren’t even on my radar. I wonder if these White women are told by the Arab guys they’re into that if they join Islam, they can’t leave under the penalty of death. Nah, wouldn’t make much of a recruitment pitch.
Zainab continued with her story, telling me how her parents request for refugee was finally approved once the U.N. authorities realized that sending them back to Somalia was a death warrant. Damn. I looked at Zainab, and gently squeezed her hand. She looked at me and I apologized. She smiled, shrugged Kayseri Escort Bayan and continued with the story. Her parents left Somalia and came to the Confederation of Canada. They settled in the town of Montreal, where they joined a church formed by the local Ethiopians. Somalis and Ethiopians have a long history of animosity. However, the majority of Ethiopians are Christians while the majority of Somalis are Muslims. A Somali who converts from Islam to Christianity will find himself or herself infinitely safer among Ethiopians than among other Somalis. Zainab grew up in the Ethiopian community of Montreal, Quebec. She shunned other Somalis because they would probably harm her and her family if they knew their story. Muslims hatred toward Apostates who leave Islam kept many former Muslims who converted to Christianity from going public. And according to Zainab, there were more of them than most Westerners realized. Wow.
I looked at Zainab, and shook my head. I was speechless. This lady had led quite an amazing life. I thanked her for sharing her story with me, and also told her that I’d pray for her. Zainab nodded gracefully, and I finally worked up the guts to ask her why she chose to buy me dinner and also to share her story with me. Zainab smiled and pointed out to the small silver crucifix hanging in a chain around my neck. I shrugged. What about it? Zainab asked me why I wore it. I grimaced. I really don’t like to think about my past. Still, I believe in fair play so since Zainab shared her story with me, I’d tell her a bit of mine. I told her about my early days in Haiti, and how my parents got themselves killed by the Tonton Macoutes. In case you don’t know, the Tonton Macoutes are the armed thugs who were the enforcers of the former Haitian dictator known as Duvalier. They killed a lot of people, including my parents. I recalled armed men coming into our house when I was little, and shots being fired. I vividly remember sitting between the bullet-riddled bodies of my mom and dad, and weeping. Everything was fuzzy after that, like the part where my mom’s cousin came and snatched me away while her husband and several other men dealt with the gunmen but this much I remember.
Zainab gasped, and her hand went to her mouth. I didn’t really notice it. I was deep in thought. I remember my mom’s cousin, aunt Adele, placing her blood-soaked crucifix around my neck. I’ve had it ever since, and I honestly don’t remember ever taking it off. I went to bed with it, showered with it, shat with it and had sex with it. It doesn’t come off. For a moment, my mind went numb and I forgot where I was. Too many memories flooding this brother’s brain at once. Painful memories. When I snapped out of my reverie, Zainab gently squeezed my hand. I held her hand, and for a long time neither of us said anything. I finally caught myself, all this intimacy was making me feel more than a bit uncomfortable. Especially sharing some of my most painful memories with a perfect stranger. Zainab told me that we all carried pain inside, then she told me I had a friend in her. I nodded, and squeezed her hand.
I excused myself, telling her that I had to go to work. I do weekend shifts for a security company. Seven in the afternoon to seven in the morning. Friday night to Saturday morning and Saturday night to Sunday morning. I don’t work during the week so I don’t mind. The weekend shifts are what pays my rent. They pay me fifteen dollars and seventy five cents per hour. I work enough to pay my five-hundred-a-month rent and do groceries. I make fifteen hundred dollars a month working as a weekend security guard at bank in downtown Ottawa. That’s about it. I’m on financial aid and I have a partial scholarship at Carleton University. I wanted to rest before work, but that’s not why I wanted to leave. Honestly, thinking about my parents deaths made me want to cry. I stood up, and thanked Zainab for her time and her generosity. I held out my hand for her to shake but the tall Somali gal gave me a hug. She kissed me on the cheek, and slipped me a business card. It said Royal Bank of Canada account manager, and also had her picture on it, along with two telephone numbers and an email address. I took it, wished her goodbye and left.
That afternoon, as I got ready for work, I thought long and hard ( no, not like that ) about Zainab. What a remarkable woman. Why did she have to stir up so many memories in me? I decided to look her up on Facebook. There’s a computer in the backroom of the bank where I do my overnight shifts. I’ll be there till Sunday morning and I won’t get out of the building until the cleaners arrive. They always come. And they’re usually accompanied by some of the bank managers who do work on weekends. I sent Zainab a friend request and amazingly, I got a positive response a few minutes later. I dialed up one of the numbers on her business card. It went straight to her work phone. I tried the other, and she picked up. Hello, she said in a warm voice. I took a deep breath, and greeted her.
Zainab Escort Kayseri and I spent all night talking, though blissfully she didn’t touch on deep stuff like before. Before I knew it, several hours had gone by. Luckily I’ve got unlimited weekends on my Blackberry otherwise I’d be fucked. Zainab and I started talking at nine in the evening and we stopped at three in the morning. We talked about sports, and I was disappointed to learn that she was a Miami Heat fan. She doesn’t respect the pure awesomeness of the Boston Celtics. I visited Boston several times when I lived in Haiti and once since I moved to Canada. If I can’t find work in Canada after finishing school, I’m moving to Boston. I wondered why Zainab was so fond of the Miami Heat. She told me she’d never been to Miami or the States for that matter but she was fond of Lebron James. She thought he was hot and was tickled pink when he won his first NBA Championship Ring after destroying the Oklahoma men’s basketball team. Oh, well. He got lucky. Zainab laughed as I started listing the reasons why ‘King James’ was a prima donna. She’s rooting for the wrong team but I think she’s cool.
From looking at Zainab’s Facebook profile, I found out that she wasn’t much older than me. I was born on February 5, 1988. Zainab’s profile said she was born on November 9, 1986. Damn. She’s still in her twenties but she looks thirty! I jokingly said that to her and for a moment the line went silent. I bit my lips, thinking I had gone too far. Zainab told me that she worked a lot of hours surrounded by annoying White women, whom everybody knows aged faster than Black women. She said they must be rubbing off on her. I laughed at that and so did she. While talking to her, I continued browsing her profile. She had a lot of pictures. Shots of her on the beach with a bunch of White women and one token Asian broad.
Man, Zainab had a lot of pictures. Eighty in total. I looked through about half of them. Hmm. Pictures of her in church, with a lot of Black people. Cool. Nightclub pictures of her in a short skirt, dancing with some White dude. I almost wrote ‘fail’ in the picture commentary but stopped myself just in time. Shots of her dancing with a tall Black chick. Nice. I asked her who the White dude in the picture was and she told me his name was Paul, a guy she met at Carleton during her senior year in undergrad. Hmm. Cool. Apparently, they had a whirlwind romance which ended when Paul’s mother made some unfortunate comments upon being introduced to Zainab at Christmas dinner. I tried to sound sympathetic on the phone but inside I rejoiced. Oh, come on! Zainab is tall and fine, with one hell of a booty. And she’s led an amazing life. Do you really think I want to see a fine sister like her with a member of Team Pink Skin? Hell no. She should stick with Team Chocolate!
Zainab’s voice went sad as she told me how Paul’s mother Beatrice, a racist redneck witch from the town of Calgary, Alberta, staunchly disapproved of interracial relationships. Paul failed to stand up for Zainab so she dumped him. I felt like cheering her on but kept my voice in the border between neutral and sympathetic. I told her that Paul’s failure to stand up for her reflected badly on men everywhere. He was a momma’s boy. He wasn’t a real man. Zainab laughed at that, and agreed with me. I took a deep breath, then asked Zainab what she was doing Sunday. Laughing, she told me it was already Sunday. Damn. It was four in the morning. I had lost track of time.
I asked her if she wanted to see a movie or something. Zainab went silent. I tried to spin things a little, telling her that my Haitian man pride demanded that I pay her back for dinner. She laughed, and accepted my offer. I looked online and saw that the movie Abraham Lincoln : Vampire Hunter was playing at Blair Cineplex. That’s cool because I live in the east end of Ottawa. Getting there will be easy for me. Zainab agreed, and asked me for a time. As in what time did I want to go there. Hmmm. When I finish work at seven o’clock Sunday morning, I usually get home at seven forty five. Then I’ll sleep till one in the afternoon. I looked and saw that the movie was playing at four thirty, seven thirty and nine o’clock. I opted for the four thirty show, and Zainab told me it sounded cool. We’d meet at the Blair Mall to grab a quick bite then go see the movie. I laughed, promised her she wouldn’t regret it and wished her goodnight.
I leaned back in my chair and rubbed my hands together. It looks like my dry spell just might be on its way to ending. I’ve just made a date/meeting/hangout with a fine-looking Somali sister. Did I luck out or what? I’m not getting paid till next week and my bank account is empty but I think I’ll use my overdraft. I don’t like dipping like that but I think Zainab’s worth it. All of a sudden, life is looking pretty good. I felt so damn happy that I fell asleep. When I woke up it was six forty six in the morning and the cleaners were in. Standing in front of my desk was Ken, a stocky old Jamaican guy who works as a cleaner at the bank. The old dude laughed and smacked me upside the head. I gasped. What the fuck, dude? Ken told me that I’d better count my lucky stars that he was the one who found me because if the White people ( i.e. the bank managers ) had come early today I’d be out of a job.
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