A Somali Girl Finds Love at Last

I used to think the institution of marriage wasn't for guys like me, until I met the woman I was meant to be with. In my old life I was known as Kendrick Wilkins, but these days I go by the moniker Brother Khalid. I'm a hard-working student at Crossroads College, with a double major in business administration and theology. Someday I will become a preacher. I'm also happily married to a wonderful woman, the light of my life, my sweetie Adarah Madobe-Wilkins. Considering my origins and all the things I've done, I turned out pretty good. I thank God for His blessings my friends. Please allow me to share my story with you.

I was born in the City of Minneapolis, Minnesota, to a Hispanic father and African-American mother. I never really knew my parents for they died when I was real young. According to what I've been told, they were gunned down in front of me while I was still in my crib. Talk about bad luck. I guess I was fucked up from the start. I grew up in the foster care system of the State of Minnesota and I was abused numerous times by both men and women. I learned early on that the only person I could count on was my own damn self. The women and men who should have cared for me weren't there, and I became an instrument of darkness by doing anything I could to survive without remorse.

Where I come from, you either adapt and survive or you end up dead. I didn't have anyone to teach me stuff like those of you who are fortunate enough to have parents and families. I learned by watching the hardest men on the street. I learned that the only way to stop being a victim is to become a predator. Growing up in foster care I experienced sexual abuse, as I said before. One day, I put a stop to that abuse by punishing my chief abuser, this old white dude named Lloyd who was my last foster parent. I set him on fire while he was asleep. Unfortunately, he lived. I ended up going to a psychiatric institution for a couple of years and when I got out, I was an adult. I was no longer ward of the State of Minnesota. Free at last, motherfuckers!

I had a lot of time to think while I was at the institute. I think the abuse I suffered at Lloyd's hands really messed me up. Sometimes I wonder if I am bisexual because of it. I've read somewhere that young men who are sexually abused by older men often turn out to be gay or bisexual because of it. I'm not saying every gay or bisexual dude out there is the result of abuse but in my case I'll always wonder. My first consensual sexual experience was with a twenty-something Jamaican chick named Natasha who was visiting Minneapolis from the City of Toronto, Ontario, during the summer I got out.

I really enjoyed sex with her, man. Natasha is one of the hottest females I've ever been with to this day. And she rocked in the bedroom! I smashed that thick black booty of hers and pulled on her braids after making her suck my dick. Her pussy was real tight and gripped my dick like a vise. We fucked for hours and I was so passionate that she asked me if I freaked all my women like that. The bitch hadn't even realized it was my first time. I like sex with women. Yet sometimes I found myself checking out men. I nipped that curiosity right in the bud a while later, hooking up with a tranny hooker named Miss Beatrice. My lust sated and my sexual confusion gone, I needed to figure out what I would do for food and shelter. The solution came to me moments after I asked myself how to solve this dilemma. I would do what came natural.

By the age of nineteen I was selling crack on the mean streets of Minneapolis. I was good at it too, even turning up a profit for my side ventures. Now, if you're a salesman you've got to make quota regardless of your line of work. I think I was born to hustle because in no time I became a rising star in the drug game. Of course, you don't rise to power without making a few enemies. I don't care if you're a hustler on a street corner or a Fortune 500 corporate CEO. If you're on top of your game other people are going to want to bring you down. The way you prevent that from happening is making alliances with the right people and watching your back.

I did that for a long time and I think I stayed on top of the game because I had the right connections and the right attitude. In this life most people are for sale. You just have to know the price. Often it's money but sometimes it's something else. You just have to find out what. The racist cop who hates black folks will look the other way when you're making a drug deal if you slip him some cash. Especially if you did your research on this cop and know that he's broke and his wife has a heart condition so he needs all the extra cash he can get. I kept tabs on both friends and enemies because I saw it as key to my survival. Always be one step ahead of both friend and foe, especially when you sometimes have trouble telling them apart.

Yeah, I was good at the game but one day I slipped up. That's when I met Enrique and Lobo Sanchez, a couple of Hispanic hustlers who were cutting into my territory. Now, if you know anything about American national demographics you probably aware of the fact that Hispanics are the fastest-growing ethnic group in the USA. It doesn't matter where you live, from the Dirty South to the American heartland, the East Coast and the Mid-West. They're everywhere. As their numbers grow, they grow more ambitious. In Minneapolis, it used to be us black folk who held the game down. Then came the frigging Hispanics and everything went to hell. They want what we got, and we weren't having it. I tried to cut a deal with Enrique, offered him a fair trade but he wasn't interested. With him it was all or nothing. One of us had to go. We threw down, his boys against mine. We lost.

That's how I ended up stumbling, bleeding and battered, into the yard of this brownstone building. I went to the back, and banged on the door, begging to be let in. Enrique and his buddies were after me and if they caught me I'd be a dead negro. For real. They shot my boys Alex and Rayshawn and these guys weren't exactly choir dudes. Alex and Rayshawn have been with me from the beginning. We're from the same grimy projects. They were hardened street soldiers and these Hispanic motherfuckers took them out like they were nothing. We were outnumbered and outgunned but still thought we could win this fight. I guess we were wrong.

I leaned against the door, and looked at the sky. I've never given much stock to religion because I honestly think that if there is a God, He doesn't give a damn about a street thug like me. Yet there I was, bleeding from two bullet wounds, one that grazed my shoulder and one lodged in my thigh, and I saw my life flash before my eyes. I asked God for a second chance, since I honestly thought I was a dead man anyways. Imagine my surprise when the door opened, and I found myself gazing into the face of a tall, lovely young Black woman with a shawl or something on her head. Please let me in, I begged her. She saw the gun in my hand, and her eyes went wide. I put it in my pocket and promised her I wouldn't hurt her. I've got people after me, I pleaded. The young woman took a deep breath, and let me in.

I had no idea what kind of building this was but as it turns out it was a mosque frequented by the growing Somali-American community of Minneapolis. The young woman led me to a back room and told me to keep quiet. I nodded, biting my lips against the pain. In the movies I see people laugh, smile and even have sex when they've got bullets in them. In real life it's not like that at all. Those bullets inside of me hurt like a motherfucker. I stayed there, in the darkness, wondering where the young woman with the weird head gear went and my heart nearly stopped when I heard people banging outside the mosque's back door. It was Enrique and his cronies, they'd found me. I pulled out my pistol and gripped it tightly. If these Hispanic motherfuckers got in here I'd take at least one of them out before they got me.

I pressed my ear against the door, listening for any sound that might indicate their coming in. I heard the young woman speak to the Spics, and they asked her if she'd seen a big black guy. She told them that this was the ladies entrance of the mosque and no men were allowed in there. After a few minutes she came back, and told me they were gone. Thank God for you, I said honestly. The young woman nodded, and then told me to stick around for a bit because the Hispanic thugs might be around the corner. I nodded, for everything she said made sense. I asked for her name and she told me. I am Adarah Madobe, she said in a soft voice. Where are you going? I asked. To get some alcohol and bandages for your wounds, she said simply.

A little while later, Adarah patched me up, and then went outside to check the surroundings before giving me the green light to go. I don't see anyone around, she said. Sister I can't thank you enough for this, I told her. You owe me nothing, she said, just thank God. With that, she sent me on my way. I went to a hospital, and got fixed up. I was lucky to be alive and I knew it. At the hospital I spoke to a police officer. When you've got bullet wounds they have to notify the cops, it's the law. I refused to give him any names and in a frustrated tone he told me us street guys were all the same. I'm not like the others, I told him as he walked out of my hospital room. That day I walked away from the drug game. About a month after the incident, I returned to the same nondescript brownstone building where I almost died. I was a bona fide atheist and chasing money was my religion but I felt compelled to return to that building.

When I knocked on the back door, a tall black guy with a high forehead who was walking by stared at me sternly and told me this was the sisters entrance. Men go over there, he said sternly. I shrugged and went to the male entrance. The men were gathered on the carpet, with the women at the far end of the hall. I stood there, wearing a blue silk shirt, red tie and black silk pants. My Sunday best, if you will. I noticed a tall older black man wearing some fancy-looking robes. The way the others seemed to gravitate toward him he had to be the priest or preacher or something. He looked at me and gestured for me to come to him. I am Abdullah Madobe, the Imam of this Masjid, he said. Why are you here brother? I told him my name, and everything that had happened to me that night when I first came to this building. The old man looked at me and smiled. You're in the right place my young brother, he said with conviction. He said a few words to another older black guy wearing the same fancy foreign-looking robes, then pulled out his cell phone. He texted something, then asked me to follow him.

Follow me brother Kendrick, Abdullah the preacher said. I'm not the type of guy to back down before any man and I don't follow orders easily but something in his voice and demeanor compelled me. We went outside, and stood in the parking lot of the mosque. The very same one I stumbled into, bleeding and confused, a month ago. A moment later the back door of the mosque opened and a familiar silhouette emerged. I blinked when I saw who it was. Adarah, I said breathlessly. There she was, the woman who saved my life. Man she was tall, easily five-foot-ten or more. And she looked simply majestic in a dark blue robe and sky-blue head gear. A hijab, I believe they're called. Tall, thick and curvy in all the right spots, I could tell that even with the robes she had on. Damn, if every Somali woman is this fine I need to get me one!

Adarah looked at the Muslim preacher Abdullah, and then at me. You needed me, father? she asked in a reverent tone. Abdullah nodded and winked at me. Damn, Adarah is the main man's daughter? Dude, I didn't know that. I think my jaw hit the damn floor. My darling daughter this young man told me you saved his life, said the old man, stroking his goatee. Adarah nodded at that. All men and women are creations of Allah even the downtrodden and a true believer shows kindness to them, she said evenly. A long time ago I would have bristled at the 'downtrodden' comment but not today. I was too excited to see Adarah, the woman who saved my life. I've dreamed of her many times since our first meeting. I came to thank you for saving my life and also to learn more about your faith, I said firmly. Adarah looked at her father then at me and smiled. My brother I wish you a warm welcome to the Sal Al Din Masjid of Minneapolis, the young Somali woman said.

My life changed that day, folks. Seriously. I began coming to the Masjid regularly, and found fellowship and friendship with the brothers and sisters there. Adarah and I became close friends and she became my gateway into Somali culture and community life. We hung out together and got to know each other better. This very beautiful and religious gal was studying civil engineering at the University of Minnesota and she was close to completing her bachelors. Beauty and brains, how about that?

I grew very fond of her, to the point of telling her my whole life story. In the past I've been extremely reluctant to tell anyone anything about my private life. When you're exposed you become vulnerable, that was my reasoning. Yet I felt safe with Adarah. I felt like I could trust her. So I told her...everything. My parents murders, my hellish life in the foster care system, the sexual abuse I endured at the hands of Lloyd and other evil people, the psychiatric institute, my sexual experimentation with both men and women, my days as a drug dealer, my brush with death at the hands of Hispanic hustlers, and our chance ( or perhaps fated ) meeting at the women's entrance of the very mosque where her father led men into prayer.

After I shared all this with her, I expected Adarah to shrink from me in fright or disgust. I'm a bisexual black man who's done every wicked thing in the book. I've hurt my community and myself by being a drug killer, I've hurt a lot of people, and I've been a destructive influence in many lives. I used to mock people who followed any religion, whether they were Jews, Christians or even Muslims because I only believed in money and power, not some unfathomable invisible power in the sky. I was selfish and only took, I never gave. The world never gave me a chance so I never gave it a chance either. Every wicked thing people say about black men I've been the living embodiment of them. I was promiscuous, criminally inclined and generally speaking destructive. You saved the life of an unworthy man, I said, and tears flowed from my eyes. Damn, now I look like a punk in front of a female. What's happening to me?

Adarah looked at me and when I looked into her eyes I didn't see disgust, hatred or fear. Instead I saw compassion and understanding. God made you and He doesn't make mistakes, she said. Tenderly she hugged me, and for the first time in my life, I completely let go. Now you have a home, Adarah whispered into my ear. I looked into her gorgeous face and smiled. Adarah took my face into her hands, and then she kissed me. From that moment on, my world was irrevocably changed. I knew without a doubt that this lovely Somali gal was the right woman for me.

The next day I said my Shahada in front of the entire Masjid, and was warmly welcomed into my new faith by my new brothers and sisters. I walked away from my old life. I stopped drinking, fighting, hustling and pimping. Instead I strove to connect with God and treat my fellow man with respect. Adarah was with me every step of the way. I decided to go back to school, got my GED and then applied to college. I got in, and began my higher education journey. I got a job working as a security guard at a small company co-owned by Rashid Hassan, a Somali brother from our Masjid.

Brother Hassan took a chance on me even though I've got a record, and I promised him I wouldn't let him down. And I didn't. Working security at various locations all over Minneapolis for twelve bucks an hour isn't easy but I did it with all my heart and soul. I wanted to straighten out my life. I've got a legitimate job, a new apartment, and I'm back in school. Shortly before my first Ramadan I asked my beloved Adarah to marry me and she accepted, with her father's blessing. Imam Abdullah Madobe officiated at our wedding right after Ramadan, giving us double cause for celebration. I can't thank the Almighty enough for His blessings. Always know that He has a plan and trust in Him. Do that regardless of your race or background or which religion you happen to follow, and Allah will smile upon you always. Whether we're black or white, straight/bisexual or gay, Judeo-Christian or Muslim, we're all God's children. It's been fun but I've got to bounce. Wife's expecting me home for dinner and she gets mad when I'm late. Got to keep the missus happy, you know? Peace be unto you.