A Somalian Goddess Among Us

My name is Safia Dahir. I'm a twenty-five-year-old woman of Somali descent living in the City of Ottawa, Province of Ontario. I was born and raised in the town of Hargeysa in the great nation of Somaliland. I've been living in the Confederation of Canada since 2004. I've recently become a citizen of this great, if sometimes xenophobic nation. I recently married a young man whom I've fallen desperately in love with. Jean-Luc Lafleur of Cap-Haitien, Northern Haiti. A tall, good-looking young Black man with dreadlocks whom I met at La Cite Collegiale, the French College of the Province of Ontario. I surprised my friends and family members by marrying this young man who wasn't Somali, or even Muslim. I've got my reasons.

It is my firm belief that every woman knows the right man for her when she meets him. The first time I laid eyes on Jean-Luc Lafleur, I simply knew. This six-foot-one, slim and fit, light-skinned young Haitian brother with the looks of an Ebony God simply caused my heart to nearly burst from my chest. I was dating this handsome Englishman named Anthony George Caldwell at the time. Anthony is one of the most amazing guys I ever met. Tall, lean and athletic, with blond hair, icy blue eyes and the kind of smile that Brad Pitt would envy. Born and raised in North London, England. I've always been somewhat attracted to European men, much to the dismay of my conservative Somali family. All the Somali guys in the town of Ottawa date fat White chicks so why should I limit my options? Anthony had asked me to move in with him at the time that my good friend Estella Lafleur introduced me to her younger brother Jean-Luc, a newcomer to Canada.

Estella Lafleur, a tall, curvy and bodacious Haitian gal originally from Montreal-Nord, has been my best friend ever since I came to the Confederation of Canada. You wouldn't think it to look at us but we're like sisters. Estella is half Black and half Hispanic, born to a Haitian father and Dominican mother. I'm one hundred and twenty percent Somali. I'm Muslim and she's Catholic. Politically speaking, I'm liberal and she's conservative. I'm a registered member of the New Democratic Party of Canada, the progressive movement once led by the late, great Jack Layton. Estella is a Tory, and her idol is Stephen Harper. The anti-immigration Prime Minister from Calgary, Alberta. Estella and I are as different as night and day, yet we're inseparable. When I got kicked out of the University of Montreal because of a scandal, I was lost. Estella was moving to the City of Ottawa, Ontario, and asked me to go with her.

You see, Estella was transferring out of the University of Montreal's Criminal Law Program to the Police Foundations Program of La Cite Collegiale. She switched majors because she wanted to become a Provincial Police Officer instead of a lawyer. I followed her to Metropolitan Ottawa because, at that point, I had nothing to lose. My parents Mohammed and Aisha Dahir had basically forsaken me because I had wasted a lot of my time and a lot of their money at the University of Montreal. All because I simply refused to bow down to a bigoted Quebecer guy who made an unwelcome pass at me. Arthur Tremblay was his name. The Tremblay family is wealthy and powerful and they had a lot of clout at the University of Montreal. The school chose to side with the son of a wealthy White family over a young immigrant woman from the Horn of Africa. What a surprise.

While attending the University of Montreal, I mainly dated White guys but they were usually the charming and friendly ones. As different from Tremblay, the asshole who wronged me as night is different from day. Arthur Tremblay was a brute who liked to play grab ass with minority female students and he got mad when I smacked him and kicked him in the groin for grabbing my narrow posterior. I guess he was used to getting his way because he was wealthy and considered French-Canadian royalty since his family rubbed elbows with Jean Charest, the old French guy who runs the Bloc Quebecois. I embraced my life in the City of Ottawa since there was nothing left for me in the City of Montreal. My parents had harsh words for me when I told them I wasn't interested in studying in Montreal anymore. It seemed they were more concerned with their money than my well-being. Oh, well. I moved to the Capital Region of Ontario, got a job working as assistant manager of a small restaurant and enrolled at La Cite Collegiale.

Estella and I found an apartment in the Vanier section of Metropolitan Ottawa. Vanier seemed kind of run-down to me since I was used to the architectural beauty and urban vibe of Montreal. It seemed to me that the City of Ottawa dumped most of its poor newcomers, whether Black, Asian, Hispanic or Arabic, in one spot. And that spot was the small town of Vanier. Rent was cheap in the Vanier neighbourhood which we moved to but the place didn't exactly look safe. Thugs, wannabe thugs, prostitutes and pimps walked up and down the street. You could hear people shouting and hollering all day and all night. This was a far cry from the beautiful City of Montreal, which I had called home since I came to Canada. Oh, well. No use crying over spilt milk as the English folks say. I resolved to embrace my new life in the City of Ottawa. A new life where I would be free of my parents influence. At last I felt truly independent. I was paying for school and rent all by myself. Nobody could tell me Jack. Life was pretty good, considering.

During my first few months in the City of Ottawa, I was an exceptionally busy gal. Even in the run-down town of Vanier, rent was going up. Life is hard and harsh in the Province of Ontario because, economically, Ontario isn't as well-off as the Province of Quebec. Ottawa was a boring government town full of boring government people. There were few nightclubs, and the art and entertainment scene was largely inactive. The Ottawa nightlife sucked, oh, wait. It doesn't suck, it simply doesn't exist! I focused on school and work since I didn't have much else to do. Estella seemed to adapt to Ottawa much better than me. Instead of mourning our beloved Montreal, my favourite Haitian gal embraced Ottawa. She met this tall, good-looking Black guy named Trevor Watkins. He's actually an American student from Boston, Massachusetts, who's studying business administration at Carleton University. I was really surprised to hear there were American students at many schools in the City of Ottawa. In the City of Montreal, we get students from Africa, the Arab world, Latin America, Europe and Asia but never the United States of America. I think our French language and culture has something to do with it.

Estella's new boyfriend Trevor was a really charming guy. Anyhow, I met one of the most interesting guys ever through him. At Carleton University, Trevor was roommates with Anthony Caldwell, the hunky Englishman I mentioned before. I really liked Anthony and the feeling was mutual. We began going out, and things were really good between us. Then Estella's younger brother Jean-Luc moved to Canada and came into our lives. He was studying at the University of Notre Dame in Port-Au-Prince, the capital of Haiti. After the 2010 Haiti Earthquake, his University campus was so damaged that the school remained closed for a while. Estella sent for her younger brother, and he came to Canada as an international student. He enrolled at La Cite Collegiale with Estella and myself. Folks, believe me when I tell you that I cared deeply for Anthony Caldwell. He was sexy, a true gentleman, and terrific in bed. However, when I look at Jean-Luc...I feel things.

Jean-Luc Lafleur for the most part didn't seem to notice that I existed. His sister Estella warned me that he was the flirtatious type. With his rugged good looks, how could he not be? Jean-Luc Lafleur became the Big Man on Campus at La Cite Collegiale. The majority of the students hailed either from Quebec or New Brunswick, the two French-speaking Provinces of Canada. Many of the students at La Cite Collegiale came from the French-Canadian Communities scattered throughout the Province of Ontario. The French gals at La Cite Collegiale were drawn to Jean-Luc's innate charm and good looks. Estella warned him about White chicks, but he started dating them anyway. Jean-Luc began dating this red-haired French-Canadian chick named Madeline Belanger. She's from the town of Trois-Rivieres in the Province of Quebec. Estella knew Madeline from one of her classes, and the French broad soon began ingratiating herself into our circle of friends. Jean-Luc showed up everywhere with her, and he visited his big sister often. In spite of myself, I winced inside every time I saw Jean-Luc with Madeline. And I didn't know why.

In my experience, Black guys didn't go for Black chicks who look like me. I'm five-foot-eleven, skinny and dark-skinned, with absolutely no curves. My hips are narrow, my hair is short and I've got no butt. I cursed myself for lacking all the things Black women are Universally famous for, curvy bodies and fantastic round butts. And I lived in Canada, man. A place where a lot of White women have big butts. It really sucked being me. I've always been lucky with the White guys because many of them found my dark skin, short hair, and tomboyish attire sexy. I've long since stopped wearing the hijab and other traditional types of Somali feminine attire. I can't even remember the last time I set foot inside a Mosque, though I still consider myself a Muslim. I'm only me, I guess. Anthony Caldwell liked me for me. And that was enough for me, until Jean-Luc came into the picture. All of a sudden, I was lying awake at night thinking about my best friend's younger brother. I never told anyone how I felt about Jean-Luc. My friendship with Estella mattered to me. Estella is a very liberal gal but I've seen the way she looks at women who show an interest in any of her male relatives. When she's out with her male cousins or her younger brother, she's like a hawk. Any woman looking at them gets a dirty look or unkind word from her. I had no desire to be on the receiving end of that.

I told myself that my relationship with Anthony Caldwell was good, and it was actually great. Anthony was friendly and generous. He was really open-minded. In the past, I've gone out with White guys whom I dumped because they said racist things about Black males and thought I would be okay with it simply because I'm dating them. I've dealt with a lot of insecure White guys who can't stand it if you're a Black female with Black male friends. I've got plenty of Black male friends, both straight and gay. I love my brothers and they can't be replaced. Anthony to me was like Paul Walker in the Fast And The Furious movies. A cool, non-racist White guy who had lots of Black male friends and seemed really comfortable around minorities. I mean, Anthony's best friend was none other than Trevor Watkins, a Black guy from the United States of America. I treasured my relationship with Anthony.

Unfortunately, things don't always go the way we plan. The end of my blissfully peaceful relationship came unexpectedly. One night, Jean-Luc showed up at the apartment. He was crying, and he had scratch marks on his arm and on his neck. Oh, and his lips were bleeding. He begged me to call his sister, saying that he needed her. Estella was spending the weekend in Toronto with Trevor Watkins. She was way out of town. I let Jean-Luc in, and tried my best to help him. I told myself it's what Estella would have wanted. I sat Jean-Luc down and talked to him, after grabbing some bandages and rubbing alcohol from the medicine cabinet. I made him take off his shirt and gasped as I saw the wounds on his chiselled body. Whoever hurt him really did a number on him. Jean-Luc had a haunted look on his face and didn't say anything as I applied the bandages on his cuts and bruises. I begged him to tell me what happened.

Jean-Luc Lafleur wiped his tears, and finally opened up to me. He told me that he'd gone to a party with Madeline Belanger in the French town of Gatineau, Quebec. Gatineau sits right on the border between the Provinces of Ontario and Quebec. It's merely a couple of miles from downtown Ottawa. As Jean-Luc told me his story, I watched him. By the grace of Allah, he was so beautiful. He reminded me of that guy who played in the television series The Famous Jet Jackson. Only Jean-Luc was taller, with light brown skin, curly Black hair and light brown eyes. According to Jean-Luc, the party in Gatineau started nicely. Just a house party with Quebecers. Rap music was playing and he started dancing with Madeline. That's when Madeline's brothers Joseph and Theroux got mad, as did their girlfriend Josephine, who came from Quebec City. Quebecers aren't known for their tolerance of interracial relationships, especially when there are Black men involved. Apparently Jean-Luc didn't know that. Joseph and Theroux attacked him, and he defended himself as best he could. Madeline seemed torn, and when Jean-Luc punched her brother Joseph in the eye, she sided with her blood relatives against her boyfriend. They served him the beating of a lifetime. Jean-Luc barely got away with his life. Jean-Luc told me he had spent the past four hours on the road, walking from Gatineau, Quebec, to Vanier, Ontario. My eyes widened when I heard that. Quite a walk!

When Jean-Luc finished with his story, he lay on the couch. He kept shaking his head, wondering what he had done to deserve what he got. I shook my head sadly. I told him he hadn't done anything wrong. Then I shared with him one of the most harrowing experiences I've had with racist White guys from Quebec. I was a partial scholarship student at the University of Montreal when this bozo named Arthur Tremblay sexually harassed me and got me thrown out of school because his family was rich and White. Jean-Luc looked at me sadly, and mumbled an apology. He sat up, and told me he was really sorry for dumping his troubles on me. He told me he wouldn't let bigoted Quebecers push him around, that he would handle his business like a man. With that, he got up and limped toward the door. I moved in front of him. I told him I wouldn't let him out of my sight. The worst thing he could do was go back to Gatineau. If Madeline's family didn't mess him up, the racist French cops would. Quebec policemen and Quebec policewomen account for an extremely large share of the police shootings in Canada. And minority men made up a disproportionate amount of victims of police shootings in Quebec. Jean-Luc sighed, and told me he wasn't a weak man and wouldn't back down from a fight. I sighed with exasperation. What is it with Haitian men being so damn thick-headed and eager to fight overwhelming odds?

Jean-Luc Lafleur still seemed hell-bent on getting himself killed or arrested that night, so I had to stop him for his own good. If I let him get himself killed, his sister Estella would have my nice Somali hide. I begged him to stay. He still wouldn't relent. He tried to move past me but I stood my ground. In desperation, I threw myself bodily at him. Even though he was injured, he was still very strong. With lightning-fast reflexes he caught me in his arms. My heart thundered in my chest. My proximity to this beautiful young man was...intoxicating. Our faces were inches apart. That's when I did something which surprised us both. I kissed Jean-Luc. And he kissed me back. When our lips parted, he looked into my eyes and I looked into his eyes. Without a word being spoken, we began caressing and undressing each other. And just like that, without any forethought or precaution, we made love.

What in hell was I thinking that night? I'll never know. It was like an out of body experience. It was as if I was watching myself doing things and had zero control over me. Who was that wild, dark woman kissing Jean-Luc and undressing him hastily? Was it really me, tossing my bra and boxer shorts ( I never wear panties) aside before straddling my stunned but thrilled lover? Did I really grab Jean-Luc's long and thick, uncircumcised cock and squeeze his balls until he begged for mercy, saying my name over and over? Why did I smack his face as I impaled myself on his dick and rode him to kingdom come? I don't know. I really don't know. I don't know what came over me. Jean-Luc and I made love, and we fucked and sucked, whatever you want to call it, all night long. When we came to, our world had changed. For you see, neither of us woke up till eleven a.m. the next day. At which time the first thing we saw was the faces of Trevor Watkins, Anthony Caldwell and Estella Lafleur staring at us. The night before, I texted Estella about her brother's situation and she came rushing back. Along the way, she and Trevor ran into Anthony, who came along because he wanted to help. Now my boyfriend and his buddy stood beside my best friend, glaring at me as I lay next to my best friend's very naked brother. It was like something out of a movie. I would have laughed if it weren't happening to me.

Things got really, really bad after that. Estella cussed Jean-Luc for nearly getting himself killed by some racist bozos in Gatineau, and she also shot me a dirty look for sleeping with him. A look that promised me the fires of hell. Trevor stood by, trying not to smile. Anthony stood next to Trevor, still as a statue. I couldn't look Anthony in the eyes. I felt horrible. I had wounded this nice, gentlemanly Englishman who treated me like a queen. Jean-Luc seemed to be handling things better than I was. He had his arm around me, and seemed defiant in the face of the madness swirling about my apartment. Anthony finally seemed to get hold of myself and swore, cussing Jean-Luc and urging him to get his hand off me. Jean-Luc stood up and soon he was eyeball to eyeball with Anthony, calling him an English pig. They would have come to blows if Trevor hadn't stepped between them. Estella was shouting loud enough to wake the dead, saying that anyone who disrespected her house by fighting in it would spend the day in jail. That seemed to calm everybody down. Estella ordered Trevor and Anthony out of the apartment. Trevor had to drag Anthony away from Jean-Luc, whom he clearly wanted to fight. Before leaving, Anthony looked me straight in the eye and called me a slut. He said he was sorry he ever met me. I lowered my eyes in shame as Anthony vented his anger and betrayal verbally, but Jean-Luc shot after him like a missile. Estella shut the door and stood eyeball to eyeball with her younger brother. She wasn't letting him go after Anthony. Jean-Luc locked eyes with his sister for a minute, then he shook his head and sat down.

Once again, Jean-Luc and I sat down side by side, staring at Estella like guilty brats caught by an irate parent. Estella was clearly mad at us both, but Jean-Luc was defending me. He took my hand in his and kissed it, then told his sister that he would be dead if it weren't for me. My hand jumped as if struck by an electrical current as Jean-Luc kissed it. The handsome Haitian stud looked into my eyes and thanked me for saving him from the nightmare he had allowed his existence to become. Then, in front of his sister, he kissed me. And I kissed him back. Estella groaned, then wondered aloud what she was going to do with me. She smiled at Jean-Luc and I, then shook her head. Jean-Luc and I looked at each other. We both smiled. Yep, that's how it all began. I was a twenty-one-year-old Somalian-Canadian woman who had fallen in love with a nineteen-year-old Haitian guy. The younger brother of the woman I considered my best friend. Thanks to our falling suddenly for each other, I lost my English boyfriend Anthony Caldwell and Estella lost her American boyfriend Trevor Watkins. And you thought your life was complicated.

Anyhow, that was March of 2009. It's been three years. I graduated from La Cite Collegiale, and I'm now in the MBA program at the University of Ottawa. My credits from La Cite Collegiale and the University of Montreal transferred over nicely. Jean-Luc Lafleur and I got married, and he's studying Criminology at Carleton University. My Jean-Luc recently received his Permanent Resident status and he's thinking of following his big sister in law enforcement once he obtains his Canadian citizenship. I encourage my sweet man in all his dreams. My best friend/sister-in-law/nemesis Estella Lafleur is now a Constable with the Ottawa Police Service. She's dating a handsome Somali businessman named Yusuf Hussein. He's a graduate of the MBA program of the University of Calgary in the Province of Alberta and works as an Account Manager for the TD Canada Trust Bank in downtown Ottawa. Anthony Caldwell returned to his hometown of North London, England, one semester after the night ( and morning after) which forever changed our lives. Trevor Watkins is still at Carleton University. I guess he likes Canada after all. Word on the grapevine is that he's dating a French-Canadian gal from Gatineau. He's sworn off Black women after Estella dumped him for siding with the Englishman during the Jean-Luc/Safia/Caldwell debacle. I sure hope the poor African-American knows what he's in for. Those French women are dangerous, man. All is well that ends well for me, I guess. Ladies and dudes, you may think you know who you are, what you want or where you want to go but you never know where you'll end up or who you could end up with. Try to be open-minded and do what feels natural. I did, and it worked great for me.