"Racism against black Muslims, is indeed one of the dirtiest little secrets of Islam," I said to myself as I walked down Hadrian Street, on my way to Marketplace Station in the plush Barrhaven suburb of Ottawa, Ontario. Just another sunny day in the Canadian Capital, and a Hijab-wearing Arab lady just switched sidewalks when she saw me coming. Wonderful. I wonder what the rest of the day holds for me.
My name is Morris Farrell Kale, but you can call me Brother Mustafa, it's my Islamic name. I am a recent convert to Islam, and I love my religion. The behavior of my fellow Muslims sometimes irks me, but I love my faith. I was born in the City of Cornwall, Ontario, to a Jamaican immigrant father, Edwin Kale, and a white Canadian mother, Martina Beaulieu. Believe me when I say I'm no stranger to adversity.
I moved to Ottawa to study at Carleton University. These days, I live in Barrhaven with my uncle Kelvin Kale, my father's younger brother. He works for the Canadian government and has a house out here. I pay rent and help Uncle Kelvin out with stuff. It's not a bad life. Growing up in a small, lily-white town, the only son of an interracial couple, I've endured my share of racism. That's why I left Cornwall for the big city. I thought things would be better here in Ottawa. I was so frigging wrong.
Seeing people switch sidewalks when they see me coming, or spit on the ground, or suddenly cough in my direction, all these things are not new. The thing about folks from small towns is that they're brutally honest about their likes and dislikes. I'm used to dealing with them. They don't intimidate me in the least. I can handle whatever they throw at me. They're only dangerous in large numbers. One on one I can handle them because they can't fight worth a damn.
The City of Ottawa is much larger than Cornwall, the town where I was born and raised, and far more racially diverse. With so many Africans, Arabs, Latinos and Asians living in Ottawa, I thought the local whites would be friendlier and more tolerant, but I was wrong. Dead wrong. Big-city folks are just as bigoted as small-town folks, they're just more passive-aggressive and discrete about it. This makes them more dangerous if you ask me.
"Can I help you?" I said pointedly to the old white lady who glared at me as I opened up the green box containing the Metro newspapers. I grabbed one, and took a look at the headline. The local media is still going on about a certain Conservative politician, a senator who faced numerous charges of fraud and misconduct, and apparently got away with all of it. Sounds like an Ottawa politician to me.
The old white lady said nothing, and I shrugged and browsed through the newspaper. I was halfway through the sports section when the 95 Bus pulled up, and I held up my wallet, displaying my bright green U-Pass to the driver, a middle-aged plump white dude in a dark blue uniform. I sat in the middle of the bus, my favorite spot, and the old white lady from before sat across from me, her lips pursed, staring at me while pretending not to. Great.
Not that it matters, but for the record, I'll state it. I'm dressed professionally. Long-sleeved gray silk shirt, black tie and black silk pants. Black Timberland boots. I work as a manager at one of the numerous Telus stores in the City of Ottawa. It's nine o'clock in the morning and I'm taking a summer class at Carleton University. I don't work till three o'clock in the afternoon, but I don't feel like going home after my eleven o'clock class. I'd rather go straight to work.
The point I'm trying to make is that I'm a hard-working professional and a university student. Not a thug. Not that any of this matters to the bozos I seem to attract like a magnet. Or perhaps the fact that I'm a six-foot-one, burly, handsome and well-dressed person of color intimidates them. Whatever.
What those bozos don't realize is that Ottawa's demographics are changing. We who are called minorities are changing the game. Like us or hate us, we are here to say. The bus finally reaches Bayview Station and I hop off. I walk down that steep little hill on my way to the O-Train. The bright red train pulls into the station right as I reach the bottom of the hill. It's practically empty. Wonderful.
I sit in the first car, and look out the window as the train gets on its way. I try not to think of recent events. That's right, dear reader, I've got bigger problems than the closeminded bozos I encounter on a daily basis. I've got woman trouble...and man trouble. Um, sorry if it's a shocker but I am bisexual. I do it with girls and guys. Male bisexuality does exist. Get over it.
"Mustafa, I can't take this bullshit anymore, I'm leaving," those are the words that my former paramour, Henry Singh said hotly last night. I looked at the tall, barrel-chested young man with whom I shared so many passionate moments, and all I could do was shrug. Our relationship was coming to an end, and I honestly can't say that I didn't see it coming. We've had our fun, but Henry had become something of a problem lately.
"Cool, if that's what you want," I replied, and Henry glared at me angrily, his thick eyebrows arching over his dark eyes. I used to love looking into his eyes after making love, or fucking, whatever you want to call it. Tall, dark and handsome, born to a Jamaican immigrant mother and a Hindu father, Henry was something else. That rare mix of good looks, intelligence and sex appeal. Too bad he's a bit needy, and has an ego the size of Montana.
I watched Henry walk away, and felt a pang of regret. I regretted the end of our relationship. I shall miss Henry's ass. Dude is a power bottom all the way. One of those rare masculine guys who love a big dick up the ass and doesn't apologize for it. I remember that time when we got it on one night in the men's washroom on the first floor of Minto Center, and it was absolutely fantastic.
"Let's do it here," Henry said to me in that deep, sexy voice of his, and he looked so damn good in his burgundy Carleton Engineering leather jacket that I actually agreed to this impromptu hook up. Henry grinned and unzipped my pants, then grabbed my long and thick dark dick. I smiled as my favorite stud got on his knees and took care of me. Henry sucked my dick with gusto, and had me hard as hell in no time.
"Gimme that ass," I said as I pulled a condom from my wallet. I always come prepared, ladies and gentlemen. I bent Henry over the washroom counter, pulled down his pants and smacked his plump ass before sliding my dick inside. Henry groans as I penetrate him. I fucked him real good before we were rudely interrupted by cleaning staff. Good times. Henry has a sweet ass and I shall miss fucking it. Frankly, it's the only reason why I bothered putting up with him.
"Forget you, Henry," I said to myself as I headed to the University Center building at a brisk pace, once I got off the O-Train. At this hour, the Tim Horton's located on the first floor was packed, and I dutifully got in line behind my fellow drones. Coffee is an addiction of mine. There were about twenty people in front of me, and I hated it. Kind of wish I could skip to the front of the line, but these fucks wouldn't go for that.
"Hey, Morris," came a voice, and I felt someone tap me on the shoulder. I turned around, and forced myself to be calm. I hate being touched. I willed myself to be calm, and found myself looking into a vaguely familiar face. Tall, somewhat chubby young woman with long black hair, dark bronze skin and dark brown eyes. The beautifully ethnic face that can be either Arabian, Latin or even Indian, depending on who's looking. Where have I seen this gal before?
