Somali Women Magically Delicious
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Somali Women Are All That! free porn video
Allah’s wonders will never cease, and every day I urge all my friends, whether fellow Muslims or our fellow People of the Book, the Christians and Jews, to thank the Most High for His blessings. How else would you explain how, a year ago, I was a cleaner at a business office and now I’m married to the owner’s son? He’s a wonderful man who embraced Islam to be with me. My name is Ayaan Suleiman-Vincent and I’m a Somali-Canadian woman living in the City of Ottawa, Ontario. Thank you for allowing to share my story with you.
In hindsight, this life of mine seemed destined for hardship. I was born on the harsh plains of the Republic of Djibouti, to an impoverished Somali farmer, Ahmed Suleiman, and his wife, Amina. My parents were among the first wave of Somalis who emigrated to Canada during the 1990s. Like so many of our countrymen we were fleeing the horrors of tribal warfare. I remember those horrible days when Somalis would kill their sisters and brothers in the name of clan affiliation. I was born a few years before we moved from Somalia to Ontario, Canada. Adapting to life in a strange new country with odd customs wasn’t easy for my family, but I’d like to think that we did the best we could.
I went to school with Canadian students, and it wasn’t easy being the only dark-skinned gal in a classroom full of whites, and of course I was the only person wearing the hijab at my exclusively white and predominantly Christian school. I endured a lot of racism, every damn day, and it’s part of what led me to drop out. The white students at my school would scribble the N-word on my locker, and tease me about my dark skin and the fact that I’m Muslim. To me, school was pure hell. I got tired of being treated like shit, so as soon as legally possible, I quit school.
Without a high school diploma, my prospects in the City of Ottawa were grim. In this government town, a lot of jobs require some form of formal education. I didn’t have that on my resume so I grabbed the only job I could find given my less than stellar qualifications. I became a cleaner. Cleaning up office buildings wasn’t hard, in fact I’m kind of good at it. The only part I didn’t like was the fact that people in offices look down on cleaners. When they see us walking around, they look at us as if we’re a lower class of human beings. Oh, well. They’re paying me to get the job done, so I ignore them and do it, then I go home.
Splash Cleaners, the company I work for sent me to a building on Bank Street in downtown Ottawa, where they would pay me fourteen bucks an hour to clean their offices at night. I liked the night shift because the building would be largely empty, and I could work unbothered. The last thing I needed was a bunch of white people looking at me as though I’m less than human simply because I’m a dark-skinned gal in a hijab pushing a broom. I worked there for a long time, and made enough money to return to school. I got my GED from a local Adult High School in six months, and began saving for my college education.
There are officially four internationally accredited institutions of higher education in the City of Ottawa. I had a hard time choosing between them because each has something unique to offer. The University of Ottawa. Carleton University. Algonquin College. La Cite Collegiale. How’s a gal like me supposed to decide? I chose to study at La Cite Collegiale because it’s an exclusively French school. I’m from the Republic of Djibouti, where French and Arabic are the official languages, along with the guttural but widespread Somali mother tongue. I enrolled at La Cite Collegiale in September 2013 at the age of twenty two.
Now, I was a bit older than most of the students, as you can imagine, but I’m a youthful gal blessed with a good figure and a nice face so I didn’t look too out of place. I wasn’t the only racial or religious minority on campus either. I saw lots of Haitian, Moroccan, Algerian and Congolese students in the hallways. La Cite Collegiale was fairly diverse, and that appealed to me. I also noticed girls wearing hijab at school, mostly Arabs but a few sisters from Africa, so I was doubly excited to be there. I opted to study police foundations. Why did I choose that? Simply because I want to be a police officer someday. I want to be the first black Muslim woman to wear hijab while serving the people of Ottawa as a police officer. I want to break the stereotypes about observant Muslim women being soft and weak.
I continued working as a cleaner at the office building on Bank Street, and even left the three-bedroom apartment in Vanier my parents and I had been living in since we came to Ottawa in 1999. I got myself a place in Orleans. A one-bedroom apartment with a private bathroom, living room and a small kitchen. All for six hundred dollars. It was a bit pricy but totally worth it. I was finally independent. Don’t get me wrong, I love my parents, but I needed my space. Besides, I got tired of them trying to pressure me to get married. A lot of the Somali brothers in Ottawa don’t care about school or work so why would I want to be married to one?
I led a solitary life, going to school during the day, cleaning up office buildings at night and going to mosque on weekends. The Masjid is my second home. Some of the sisters there are close friends of mine. Fatima Abdullah, the wife of Imam Amir Abdullah, is my best friend. Sometimes we hang out at Saint Laurent Mall, just two young Somali women, gossiping and shopping. We met at La Cite Collegiale, where she studies business administration. Ever since she got married, however, Fatima has been putting on airs. Why do so many sisters do that? The married ones look down on the single ones. I must admit Fatima is doing alright for herself. Her husband Amir is a tall, fine-looking and accomplished Somali brother. He’s got an MBA from the University of Winnipeg and when he’s not preaching at Masjid, he runs his own business on Elgin.
I prayed to Allah that He allow me to graduate from La Cite Collegiale and find a better job. I don’t want to be a cleaner for the rest of my life. Little did I know that the Most High would answer my prayers sooner than expected. I was at work one night, walking through a fancy office on the seventh floor, when I heard an odd-sounding voice. One filled with anguish. I carefully walked into an open office door, thinking that maybe one of the big shots was putting in an all-nighter. They do that sometimes, you know.
I turned on the light, and what I saw chilled me to my very bones. Behind a fancy oak desk sat a light-skinned man with wavy hair and green eyes. He was crying, and he held a gun in his hands. The gun was aimed at his temple. Don’t come any closer, he said to me. Don’t do this brother, I said, with more calm than I felt. You got no idea how lousy my life is, he said. I looked at him, at his handsome face, fancy business dark gray suit ( it was a Brooks Brothers suit that must have cost two weeks worth of my salary ) and told him that he didn’t know what hardship is. You work in a fancy building like this with rich white people and you want to kill yourself? I asked incredulously. My parents found out that I’m bisexual and they’re disowning me, the young man said.
Upon hearing those words, I fell silent. A lot of people think that Muslims are the most homophobic people on the planet. That’s not always true. At my old high school, the only white student who was nice to me was Oscar Wilmington, a chubby gay dude with red hair. We both got picked on for who we were, and because of that, we bonded. Oscar is the only person who ever stuck up for me when the other white students would hurl racist slurs at me. When I complained to the teachers, they told me to get over it. I hadn’t seen Oscar since the day I quit school but I remember him fondly as my friend. Because of him, I’ve always had a fondness for gay people. I know that a lot of them endure prejudice for who they are. Not to the same extent that we black folks do, but yeah, they do suffer.
Allah made you the way you are my brother and the Creator does not make mistakes, I said confidently. The light-skinned, gun-toting young businessman looked at me. Slowly he lowered his gun. What am I supposed to do now that I’ve lost everything? he asked, a profound pain in his voice. Trust in God and put down that gun my brother, I said. He looked at me and nodded. Slowly, I stepped closer to him and then took the gun from him. I threw it in the trash bag on my carriage. Phew, I said, sighing in relief. I’m so sorry, the young man said, tears streaming down his handsome visage. Don’t be sorry my brother, I said, looking at him. Without warning, he stood, rising to his full height and towering over me. Then, amazingly, he hugged me.
For a long moment, the brother held me tight, sobbing against my shoulder. It was awkward, to say the least. As a Muslim woman, I’m not supposed to touch members of the opposite sex whom I’m not related to. Yet this man was in dire need of advice and comfort, and the Koran states that we should help the lost and the unfortunate. Thank you, he said, finally letting go. You’re welcome brother, I replied, then introduced myself. I am Ayaan Suleiman, I said. Good to meet you ma’am I’m Jean-Baptiste Vincent, the brother said, extending his hand. After a brief hesitation, I shook it. Thus I met the man destined to change my life forever.
We sat in his office, talking. I had work to do but feared leaving him alone. I had his gun and was going to throw it in the trash compactor first chance I got but feared Jean-Baptiste might still do something crazy like jump out the window or something. Hey, I’m no expert on the behavior of suicide attempters. He seemed to be in need of some company, so I sat with him as he basically unloaded on me. It was the least I could do.
Jean-Baptiste Vincent was born in the City of Montreal, Quebec, to a French Canadian father and Haitian immigrant mother. His mother Estelle is a chef and his father, George Vincent is the Senior Partner at Vincent, Giovanni & Associates, one of the top criminal defense law firms in the City of Ottawa. Jean-Baptiste has a Law degree from McGill University, and he’s one of fifteen attorneys working under his father. Or was. He told me how his ex-boyfriend Daryl Francois exposed his bisexuality to his parents after their breakup. My parents didn’t take it too well, Jean-Baptiste said. Still not worth killing yourself over, I chastised him. You’re right, he said with a sad little smile. Apparently, his father fired him and evicted him from the firm this afternoon. Damn.
Do you like women at all? I asked Jean-Baptiste. I had to know. The guy was tall, good-looking and handsome. There’s so few educated and good-looking black men out there. It’s a shame when one of them swings that way. I love women, Jean-Baptiste said, and showed me an old picture of himself locking lips with a white chick. That’s my ex-girlfriend Deirdre, he said. Yippee, I said with false enthusiasm. I’m not thrilled when I see a good-looking brother with a white female, to tell you the truth, but I’m not a hater. She left me for a Chinese guy, Jean-Baptiste quipped. You’ve got lousy taste in women AND men, I said with a laugh. Jean-Baptiste laughed. Amen to that sister, he grinned.
I looked at him, and asked him if he was going to be okay. Yes ma’am I’m grabbing my stuff and heading home, Jean-Baptiste said. In front of my wary eyes he did just that, gathering his belongings and leaving. Goodbye and God bless, I said. Jean-Baptiste nodded, and smiled, then left. I returned to work, and finished cleaning the building. I finished a little later than usual but oh, well. If I’m late it’s with good reason. I threw the gun along with a ton of trash in the garbage, and then changed before turning the keys in to the building security guard, a tall and chubby Haitian guy named Steve. He was doing his homework on his laptop as I worked into the security office. Goodnight Ayaan, he said. Peace out, I smiled as I walked out. I caught the 95 bus on Metcalfe street and then headed to Orleans. It was five in the morning. I got home around six, after walking almost a mile in the damn snow, and finally fell onto my bed. What a night!
The next day, since I didn’t read anything about a suicide in the Metro or the Ottawa Sun I figured Jean-Baptiste was alright. I figured I’d never run into him again. We don’t exactly move in the same circles. I went to school, and come Friday, I went to my favorite mosque in the east end and got one hell of a surprise. We almost always have visitors, and having a guy come in with questions is nothing out of the ordinary. Imagine my surprise when Jean-Baptiste Vincent walked in, and, with the Imam’s encouragement, shared his story with the Believers. He told them about his newfound interest in and respect for Islam, all thanks to a mysterious Muslim woman who talked him out of killing himself in a moment of weakness. When I saw him standing up front with the brothers, giving testimony, I almost pissed myself. What the fuck?
After prayers concluded, I waited outside the Masjid, and confronted Jean-Baptiste. Crazy man what are you doing here? I asked him. Oh my God it’s you, he said, grinning from ear to ear. Yes this is where I pray, I said proudly. I didn’t thank you properly so please join me for dinner, Jean-Baptiste said. I hesitated, but something made me say yes. We went to grab a bite at a nice little Lebanese restaurant nearby. Over some delicious plates of rice and beef Shawarma, Jean-Baptiste told me about his most recent ‘epiphany’. You saved my life that night and I think you were sent to me by God for a reason, Jean-Baptiste said. You needed help and I was around so I did what anyone would have done, I said simply.
Jean-Baptiste looked into my eyes, and shook his head. God doesn’t make mistakes, he said. Allah is perfect it is we humans who are flawed, I said piously. I want to turn my life over to God and mend my ways, Jean-Baptiste said. Good for you, I said cautiously. For some reason, his proximity bothered me. Not for the first time I noticed how handsome Jean-Baptiste was. Often, biracial people have the best of both worlds. He’s six-foot-four at the very least, with caramel skin, green eyes and kinky black hair. May Allah forgive me for noticing such masculine beauty, I thought in my heart. I want to learn about Islam and I want to be your friend, Jean-Baptiste said confidently. I am not an Islamic scholar but I would like to be your friend provided you stop doing crazy things, I said with a nervous smile. You’ve got it ma’am, Jean-Baptiste said, extending his hand. Observant Muslim women don’t shake hands with male strangers but what the heck, I said as I shook his hand. We finished our meal, and then exchanged numbers.
That’s how it all began, ladies and gentlemen. My friendship with Jean-Baptiste Vincent, the half white, half Haitian, brilliant but quirky lawyer whom I saved from despair on our first meeting. We began hanging out regularly, to talk about Islam, and also because, I must admit, I kind of enjoyed his company. We would often meet in restaurants or at the mall, but sometimes he would come over to my spot in Orleans. We’ve grown really comfortable with each other as time went by.
One evening, Jean-Baptiste told me about his dream of starting his own law firm someday. Go for it my brother, I said happily. You really think I can do it? Jean-Baptiste said, his face filled with doubt. You can do anything, I said, gently touching his hand. Jean-Baptiste looked at my hand on his. Sorry about that, I said, quickly pulling away. Jean-Baptiste grabbed my hand, gently but firmly. Don’t be sorry, he said, then he kissed it. I felt tingly all over when his lips touched my hand. That’s sweet, I said, practically gushing. Jean-Baptiste smiled. Thank you milady, he said in a mock-British accent, then we both laughed.
That evening, long after Jean-Baptiste left, I lay on my bed, thinking about him. The brother is good-looking, smart and successful. H
e’s learning about Islam. Still, he’s bisexual. Could he love a woman like me? I called my friend Fatima and asked her for advice. I omitted the part about Jean-Baptiste’s bisexuality, since I know she’s a gossip maven. Honey you need to convert that man and give him some pussy, Fatima said, with her usual matter-of-fact seriousness.
You’re shameless, I laughed. You should go for it, Fatima said. Alright mamas, I said resolutely. We chatted for a little bit, then clicked off. I had to visit my folks Saturday and Fatima was traveling to Toronto with her husband and their son Ali. Goodnight sweet man, I whispered to myself as I looked at a picture Jean-Baptiste and I took at Shawarma King restaurant the other day. He’s so handsome it’s not even funny. If he’s meant for me then we will be together, I said. It’s all in Allah’s hands. I said a silent prayer to the Most High on the matter, then went to sleep.
The next day, I visited my parents, and we had a great time together. As usual my mother asked me if I’d met a nice brother, and this time, I answered in the affirmative. I met a fine brother who’s a lawyer, I said proudly. Masha’Allah this is wonderful news, my dad chimed in. I stared at him. Somali fathers are usually deeply conservative and fiercely protective of their daughters. We were beginning to think you like girls, dad laughed. Is that so dad? I laughed, playfully smacking his shoulder. When do we get to meet him? Mom asked. Soon, I promised. I left my parents house feeling hopeful for the first time in ages.
On Monday, Jean-Baptiste and I met in the cafeteria at La Cite Collegiale. I’ve finally found a firm that will hire me, he said happily. Do tell, I replied excitedly. Jean-Baptiste nodded and showed me the business card of Francisco & Associates, Attorneys of Law, along with pictures he’d taken of the place. Cute, I said. The firm owns a small office building on Baseline Road near Algonquin College, Jean-Baptiste smiled. I can’t wait to get started, he beamed excitedly. Glad to see you’re back in action, I said with false cheer.
Nice isn’t it? Jean-Baptiste said, his eyes lit up like a Christmas tree. I met a serious hottie at the office when I visited, Jean-Baptiste said in a conspiratorial tone. I’m happy for you, I said. What’s wrong? Jean-Baptiste asked. Nothing, I lied, keeping a cool façade while boiling inside. The thought of him with someone else, man or woman, irked me in ways I find hard to express. I’ve caught feelings for the dude, what can I say?
Jean-Baptiste looked at me with concern in his eyes. You sure? he asked. Just got a seriously bad case of midterm exam jitters, I said, before giving him a quick hug and walking away. A maelstrom of emotion threatened to overwhelm me. In the six months that I’ve known Jean-Baptiste, I’ve basically fallen in love with him. I’m a devout Muslim woman and I’m madly in love with a switch-hitter…and he’s from a Christian background. Welcome to my damn pathetic little life.
Jean-Baptiste and I come from very different worlds. He’s from a different strata of society, everything about him screams class and confidence. He graduated from the top school in all of Canada while I’m attending a second-rate private French community college. He drives a Porsche and owns a lineup of fancy suits. He lives in a fancy condo downtown. I was blown over when Jean-Baptiste took me on a tour of his place one night when I came over to study the Koran with him. I cannot believe that there are places like that in Ottawa. His building has a frigging doorman and underground parking! Compared to that, my little apartment in Orleans might as well be a shack.
Ayaan please wait, Jean-Baptiste called out. I froze, and slowly turned around. What’s up? I asked. Jean-Baptiste said nothing, though I saw a strange look in his eyes as he walked up to me. You’re so dense, he said, standing inches from me. How can you tell? I asked sarcastically. There’s no office hottie, he grinned, then he kissed me. Jean-Baptiste kissed me full and deep, and I responded in kind. Passionately we kissed, not caring that everyone in the vast hall near the cafeteria was staring at us. It’s not every day that you see a pious Muslim sister in hijab making out with a tall, fine brother in a suit.
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