"Mr. Gordon, if you don't come back to the clinic for your follow-up, the immigration medical results won't be submitted to C.I.C. and your case won't proceed," said the receptionist, a red-haired, chubby young white woman with a cold, super-fake smile. I stood in front of the receptionist desk inside Grandview Medical Center, the medical testing facility located on Carling Avenue, and sighed deeply. Dammit, they've got me by the frigging balls...
"Understood, um, how much will the follow-up cost me?" I asked tersely, and Miss Plump Redhead flashed a snarky smile and told me. The price was steep and pissed me off, but as a big and tall young black man in a professional setting, I knew I had to keep my cool. The last thing I wanted to do was lose my cool and do or say something that would mess up my chances with immigration. I'm smarter than that.
Thing are never easy for me in the Canadian Capital, I swear. For an international student from Jamaica who works a twelve-dollar-an-hour job as a security guard, forty five bucks for a simple urine test is a lot. My rent costs me five hundred bucks a month, and now that school's out for the summer, my U-Pass is expired and I've got to use that damn Presto Card that makes your money disappear faster than dot-com stock...
"Thank you and have a good day," I said with a shrug, and then I exited the Grandview Medical Center, coldly gazing at all the nice Canadian folks who get to visit the doctor for free because they have Ontario health cards and I don't. My last one expired ages ago. Couldn't renew it with an expired work permit. I reached the lobby, and smiled to myself as I realized that it had started to rain. Great, isn't that frigging peachy? I walked to the nearest bus stop, intent on riding the 85 bus to the O-Train Station and grab it and get to Carleton University.
Six years ago, I came to the City of Ottawa, Ontario, from my hometown of Mandeville, Jamaica. I was nineteen years old at the time. Couldn't stand living in Jamaica after losing my parents, Nancy Vickers-Gordon and Omar Gordon Sr. to a tragic car accident. I decided to come to Canada to study civil engineering at Carleton University. I stayed with my uncle Geraldo Vickers, my late mother's younger brother. After that fell through, I moved out, got myself a job, and began making my way into the world...
"As Salam Alaikum, are you alright brother?" came a feminine voice, snatching me out of my murky thoughts. I looked up and blinked, for the stranger who addressed me was...something else. A tall, strikingly beautiful woman stood about a meter from me, smiling and looking at me with concern in her brown eyes. Clad in a black leather jacket over a long traditional Islamic skirt, her hair hidden away by a Hijab, she looked...almost ethereal.
"Um, I'm fine," I replied, and I took another look at her. The gal appeared to be Somali, and in her late thirties. I looked into that beautiful, smiling face, wondering what I was supposed to say. I've been living in the City of Ottawa, Ontario, for a while. I came here as a visitor with a student visa and never left. Now I am trying to become a permanent resident, and the immigration costs are killing me. I'm just a student working as a rent-a-cop to pay the bills. I'm a little overwhelmed, that's all...
"Brother, I saw you come out of the doctor's office and you looked worried, and sad," Miss Somalia said, and I bit my lip. Normally, I'd chastise this perfect stranger for blasting her way into my business. That's the kind of person that I am. Not today, though. I'm feeling blue, and for some reason, talking to this lady actually appealed to me. Go figure, man.
"Today, I feel like the whole world is against me," I heard myself reply to the strange, lovely lady, and she smiled and for some reason drew closer to me. I'm not big on having people get close to me. I'm the guy who puts his backpack on the seat next to him on a crowded OC Transpo bus...when it's raining or snowing. I will call you out if you're near me and sneeze or cough without covering up. And don't even try to talk to me at the bus stop or on the subway platform. Even if your team has won, or you're getting hitched, or whatever. I don't care.
"We all feel like that sometimes," Miss Somalia replied, still flashing that smile. I nodded, wondering if she would understand if she were in my shoes. When I applied to Citizenship & Immigration Canada to apply for my permanent residence under Humanitarian and Compassionate Grounds, it cost me five hundred and fifty dollars. Now they slapped another fee on me, the four hundred and ninety dollars of the Right of Permanent Residence Fee. Followed by three hundred dollars for this medical exam. Sheesh, where does it end?
"Sister, I'm from the island of Jamaica, I'm trying to build a life in Canada and the immigration authorities are making a brother jump through hoops," I blurted out, and Miss Somalia looked at me, and suddenly her smile faded, replaced by a look of empathy. The 85 bus came, and she fumbled with her purse. I nodded at her, and let her go first. I barely noticed the fact that Miss Somalia had a rather thick derriere under her traditional Islamic skirt. That's the kind of foul mood I'm in...
When my turn came, I took out my Presto Card and pressed it against the machine. I shook my head as the machine went "bleep" and stated that it was low on funds. I took out my wallet and fumbled for change. I had a toonie, and a loonie, and a silver dime, that's about it. These days, riding the bus costs you three dollars and forty cents. The drivers are super anal about that. Fuck it, can this day get any better?
"It's alright, brother, I have it," Miss Somalia said, and as I looked on, amazed, she took out a couple of toonies, dropped it into the tray, and took the paper transfer that came out of the machine and offered it to me. I hesitated briefly and then took it, while Miss Somalia smiled at me. I went to sit in the middle of the bus, my usual spot, and she sat opposite me.
"Thank you very much, ma'am," I said, and Miss Somalia smiled, and mentioned something about Ramadan being the month of forgiveness and generosity in the Islamic religion. I nodded, and took another look at her. This gal is about six feet tall, beautiful, well-dressed, and super friendly and generous. Even when dealing with a perfect stranger like myself. What's the matter with her?
"You're welcome, brother, I'm Nimco Ali, you can call me Nene," Miss Somalia said, and I smiled and nodded. I was about to offer her my hand to shake, then remembered that Islamic women who dress all conservative and traditional aren't big on shaking hands with men. Awkwardly I clasped my hands together and nodded respectfully, as though I were meeting the Pope or something. There's definitely something about that lady...
"I'm Omar Gordon Jr. and my friends call me O.G. most of the time," I replied, and Nimco, or, ahem, Nene, smiled. Thus I met the most amazing woman I'd ever encountered in my twenty five years upon this earth. As the bus rolled down Carling Avenue, Nene and I spoke, and I learned a bit more about her. Miss Somalia is a volunteer for the local Islamic community, and does a lot of stuff for poor people in Ottawa around Ramadan. Wow, I didn't know people like that existed...
"Brother Omar, this coming weekend it's Open Doors across Ottawa, and the West End Islamic Center is open as well, I'm volunteering there Saturday morning, if you want, you can come, it would mean a lot to me," Nimco "Nene" Ali said to me, flashing that beautiful, fearless smile. I looked at her and smiled, and we both knew that after all she'd done for me, there was no way I could refuse her. I heard accept the invitation, and accepted the card that Nene offered to me...
"I wouldn't miss it for the world, Sister Nimco, I mean, Nene," I replied, and Nimco Ali smiled and nodded. I was still staring at her and smiling when the O-Train Stop came, and I had to excuse myself and run off. Nimco waved at me, and I made a beeline for the O-Train. I took the steps three or four at a time, for I'd seen the train pull into the Carling Avenue station. As I got in, I noticed three burly white guys in uniforms, and realized they were fare inspectors. Remembering the transfer that Nimco had given me, I flashed it to them. Nice save, huh?
I reached Carleton University and got off, and even though I bumped into a construction bozo who didn't excuse himself, I was in such a good mood that I didn't cuss him out. I made my way to the campus library, reached the third floor and sat at a computer. I logged on Facebook and looked up Nimco Ali. As it turns out, the Somali cutie's page was an open one. Let's see what we have here, I thought to myself as I browsed through her profile.
Nimco "Nene" Ali's profile was quite interesting. A picture of her in traditional Islamic feminine attire, standing next to a couple of younger Somali gals. Pictures of her playing basketball while in a dark Hijab, T-shirt and sweatpants. Pictures of her playing Paintball. And last but not least, a picture of her holding hands with a tall, dark-skinned dude. Nene is married, I thought. And then I looked at the comments under the picture, lots of "Rip" and then shook my head. Nimco is a widow...
