"How did you meet your spouse?" That's the question every couple has been forced to answer since the beginning of time. My name is Amina "Mina" Kanu-Dumont, I'm a young woman of Gambian descent living in the City of Ottawa, Ontario. I was raised Muslim, but consider myself a secularist these days. I am the happy wife of Marcus Dumont, the devoted mother to precious Tiffany, and how my boo and I met is truly one for the ages. Get ready to laugh and maybe cry, and cringe, ladies and gentlemen. You were warned.
September came and I greeted it with mixed feelings. I was starting my fourth and final year in the Accounting program at Carleton University. So much happened during that fateful summer. I marched with Black Lives Matter in Ottawa to protest the death of a Somali man at the hands of Ottawa police in Hintonburg. I broke up with Colin Woodson, the young man I'd been dating since I finished high school. I thought that Colin and I were meant to be, and then he cheated on me and ruined everything.
From the beginning, the odds were against Colin Woodson for a variety of reasons but I thought we would make it. For starters, we came from different worlds. I was born in the City of Lamin, Gambia, and moved to the City of Ottawa, Ontario, with my parents Ismail and Fatima Kanu during the sixth summer of my life. I've lived here ever since and consider myself as Canadian as anyone. Being a five-foot-ten, chubby, big-bottomed and very dark-skinned Black female in a land that worships skinny white girls isn't easy, but my parents raised me to be strong and love my blackness.
Colin Woodson, the blond-haired and blue-eyed lothario destined to break my heart was born in Uxbridge, England, and moved to the City of Ottawa, Ontario, with his mother Colleen Woodson a decade ago. We began dating shortly before our first year at Carleton University. I was crazy about him. Interracial relationships are never easy, especially given that Colin's mother and her less than enthusiastic attitude towards our being together. Still, we stuck it out, and would have made it if it hadn't been for Colin screwing up.
"How could you cheat on me with Khadija?" I shouted, confronting Colin about his infidelity, having discovered steamy texts and nude photos of my best friend Khadija Malik in his iPhone. The kind of punks who cheat on their significant others have one thing in common. They never think they're going to get caught and they almost always do. We were sitting inside the Starbucks located near the Ottawa public library downtown, one of our favorite spots, and Colin sat opposite me, a frozen smile on his pale face, which I once found so handsome.
"Mina, Khadija was a one-time thing, she meant nothing to me," Colin said, and he looked at me with those blue eyes I once found oh-so charming, and I seethed with rage. Before I could stop myself, I slapped Colin hard across the face, causing him to flinch and spill his Espresso all over himself. Rising to my feet, I grabbed my purse and got ready to go, but got in one last parting shot.
"Hope the bitch was worth it," I shouted at Colin, and he looked at me like I had two heads. Everyone inside the Starbucks stared at me, and I didn't care. I walked out of there, and hopped on the first bus I saw. Thus ended the longest romantic relationship of my adult life. In one fell swoop I lost my boyfriend and my less-than-trustworthy best friend. I felt like I was in hell. Life sucked. What's a gal to do? I had to move on.
Ladies and gentlemen, it sucks being single when you've been in a relationship for so long. Nostalgia gripped my heart, and the school year was just beginning. Life was forcing all sorts of changes on me. I had been at Carleton University for almost half a decade, and it was a wonderful time for the most part. Even on this racially diverse campus you'll encounter a few jerks and a few fake-smiling, passive-aggressive racists, but by and large, my experience was a positive one.
That fateful morning, I lined up at the Tim Horton's on the first floor of the University Center Building with my fellow peons, and got myself an egg and cheese sandwich, a bottle of lemonade and hash browns. I sat down and ate my meal, and then went to take the service elevator to get to the fourth floor. There was a tall, burly black dude in a construction worker's helmet and blue overalls pushing a heavy cart, and I had to squeeze by in order to get into the service elevator.
"Good morning," said the construction worker, and I looked at him and smiled. The dude was tall, easily six-foot-three, handsome and well-built, with dark brown skin and stylish dreads. Cute butt, I thought. There was a lot of construction going on at school, especially around the Mac Odrum Library and the Loeb Building. I personally couldn't wait for them to be done, because they're kind of in the way, you know?
"Fourth floor please," I said to the construction guy, and the brother smiled and nodded, and punched the fourth button, and the fifth one. I stood there, and checked my cell phone. My cell phone provider has lousy reception when it comes to basements, and I'd been meaning to switch companies or at least get a better plan. As the elevator reached the third floor, I heard a loud, metallic noise, and the elevator stopped.
"Oh damn, looks like we're stuck," the construction dude said, and I sighed deeply. I should mention that I am slightly claustrophobic, and began to hyperventilate almost immediately after the elevator stopped moving. I absolutely hate the confines of these hellish machines. The last time I got stuck in an elevator, I nearly passed out. I swore to never use them again. Of course, given the way the world is set up, that's really not practical. I tolerate the service elevators at Carleton University because they're big and roomy, not small and tight.
"What the fuck? Open the door!" I shrieked, and I started banging against the elevator doors with my fists, to no avail. The construction worker looked at me, shook his head and slowly let go of the cart handles. I knew I was having a spaz moment and needed to calm down, but knowing something and doing it are two different things. To make things worse, the sandwich and hash brown I'd just had at Tim Horton's didn't seem to agree with my stomach, and then the stomach rumbling began.
"Ma'am, calm down please, it's going to be alright, I'm Marcus, and I've been in such a situation before, just relax," the construction worker said, and he held his hands up. I nodded and forced myself to calm down, and when I opened my mouth to speak, I was about to introduce myself to the dude, and then the unthinkable happened. Looking back on that day, I laugh. A very funny series of unfortunate events, some might say. I didn't laugh then. It's not funny when it happens to you.
At a certain point in life, all of us have had our bodies betray us and fail us. The human body is fallible. That's just a fact of life. I don't care what anyone says. Sometimes you think you can keep working and you fall asleep. Other times, something more serious happens. For me, I accidentally let one rip. That's right, I farted. Girls fart too. Deal with it, men! We're not perfect, alright?
"Oops, I'm sorry," I said sheepishly to Marcus, suddenly wishing I could fall through the elevator floor and vanish like a ghost. Marcus looked at me, pure disbelief on his face. I started mumbling incoherently, and that's when the elevator doors opened. I took a deep breath, and all but bolted out of there. There were several people in front of me, but I cut through all of them and made a beeline for the Atrium. I ran and didn't stop until I reached the library, which was a good distance away. Yeah, it was that kind of morning.
A week or so later, guess who I ran into while waiting for the number four bus at the Rideau Shopping Center? I just had lunch at Creole Sensations, this quaint little Haitian restaurant located in the Vanier area, and took a bus to Rideau. It was eleven forty five in the morning and I needed to be at Carleton for my one o'clock Micro-Economics class. My professor, a lady named Catherine something or other, is one tough broad and I didn't want to be late during the first few weeks of school, you know?
"Hello, mademoiselle, you look really familiar," came a deep, masculine voice. I turned around and saw a disturbingly familiar face. That of the construction worker from the service elevator at Carleton University. I looked at him and smiled, and suddenly remembered his name, which he revealed to me a few seconds before I farted and bolted, pun unintended.
"Uh, hello there, um, small world," I said, and Marcus looked at me and flashed me a knowing smile. The number four bus came, and like a gentleman, Marcus nodded at me and I curtsied, and got on the bus. Once inside, I showed my brand new high-yellow U-Pass card to the bus driver, a middle-aged white man in a blue uniform, and headed for the middle seats, my favorite.
"Don't worry, the coast is clear this time, mademoiselle, I don't foresee any mishaps," Marcus said, and he sat opposite me, a wicked smile on his face. On that day, he wore a red silk shirt, black silk tie and black silk pants. The brother looked good, I must admit. Thinking about that time in the elevator, I no longer felt embarrassed. In fact, I was oddly cheerful about it.
"Alright, Marcus, is it? Let's try this one more time, I'm Amina, from Gambia," I said, extending my sleek, well-manicured hand, which Marcus shook. Thus we were properly introduced, without any funny business. Marcus and I talked for a bit, and I was surprised to hear that he studied Sociology at Carleton University, graduated in 2013, and then went into the trades, because that's not what he wanted to do with his life.
"My parents, God bless them, are typical Haitians, all strict and all, they pushed me to study Sociology at Carleton even though I really wanted to do construction work, they flipped out when I went to Algonquin College afterwards," Marcus said, shaking his head. I looked at him thoughtfully, and wondered whether I might have seen him around campus a few years back. Probably, but I didn't know him then.
