If you're Somali and you're gay or bisexual, you should keep it to yourself. These words of conventional wisdom, which I'd heard somewhere, echoed through my mind as I walked out of the Masjid located in Vanier, Ontario. Just an ordinary young man walking down the street, that's me. In case you're wondering who this is, the name is Mohamed "Mo" Shire, and I've got a story to share with you.
"I want your faggot ass out of my house, you Qaniis freak!" shouted my father, Abdullahi Shire, as he clutched a copy of a certain gay magazine which he found under my bed at our house. I had just come home after a long shift at work. I'm a security guard for a small company located in Ottawa, and they've been cramming twelve-hour shifts down my throat.
Just when I thought I'd go home and get some sleep after a long-ass shift, I got this shit to deal with. My father works for the Ontario Ministry of Corrections as a prison guard, and like many men working in law enforcement, he's both suspicious and nosy. I've always dated girls, and kept my secret under lock and key, but today, Fate chose to expose me.
"Papa, what is this?" I asked defensively, and my father's eyes bulged in anger as he threw the magazine at my face. I narrowly dodged that incoming missile, and then I had to run out of there because, in stereotypical angry Somali fashion, my father chased me around with a hammer. I ran out of the house where I was born, never to return.
"Brother, tell me again what happened and go slow on the good parts," said my buddy Ismail Rahman as I sat in his basement and told him what happened, three hours later. Ismail and I have known each other forever. Short and chubby, with light brown skin and curly Black hair, Ismail is one of my best friends. He's from Yemen, and up until recently, he's the only person who knew about my, ahem, you know.
"Dude, this isn't funny," I said meekly, and Ismail rolled his eyes then threw me a beer. Ismail lives in a basement apartment off of Montreal Road, not far from the big cemetery. I caught the beer, a Miller Lite, the type of weak stuff that Ismail likes to drink, and gulped down half of it. Oh, well. It's a good thing you can pick your friends but not your family.
"Whatever, Mo, you can crash here, now, let's go to One For One Pizza and you can tell me the rest of the story," Ismail said, and I nodded and got up. Twenty minutes later, we'd made the trek from Montreal Road to the Arab-owned pizzeria on Saint Laurent Boulevard, not far from the Saint Laurent Shopping Center.
"What can I get you, brothers?" asked a tall, muscular Middle-Eastern gentleman. Taking out my Carleton University MBNA Mastercard, I offered to pay for our pizzas and drinks, and Ismail nodded in approval. I left a generous tip for the salesman, for I like to support my fellow Muslims, and One For One Pizza knows how to treat a brother. It's not like at White restaurants where they take our money and treat us like shit.
"Thanks for the grub," Ismail said, as he wolfed down his cheese pizza while I sipped on my can of Orange Crush soda. We sat opposite each other by the window. Ismail and I have been coming here for years. This neighborhood is part of my old stomping grounds, and I am dearly attached to it. Hell, I smoked my first joint near the Donald Street Towers, right by the Boston Pizza restaurant.
"Goes without saying my dude," I said, exchanging dap with Ismail. I didn't feel like repeating myself or talking about what had happened and Ismail understood. That's what it's like to be best friends with somebody. Ismail and I go back a ways. We've got each other's backs, no matter what.
When Ismail screws up, I usually step in. Last year, when he was dating Veronique, that tall, big-booty Jamaican chick whose family weren't keep on her having a Muslim dude in her life, I stepped in and saved Ismail from the sound beating that Veronique's brothers, Andre and Raymond, dished out. Ismail is slick and a smooth-talker but his short, round ass can't fight worth a damn.
Me? I'm six-foot-three, dark-skinned and Somali, and I live in uptight little Ottawa, you know I HAVE to know how to fight. Everyone wants to take a shot at us Somali brothers, from the racist White dudes who hate seeing us with White women to other immigrant types who seem to have something against us. Oh, and us Somali boys fight each other all the time as well. I almost forgot that one. Almost.
"Stay as long as you like, but chip in for food and we'll be okay," Ismail said to me as we walked back to his spot, and I bunked down on the couch to catch some Z's while Ismail did his homework. Ismail studies business at Algonquin College and dreams of one day working for the CRA. Me? I'm in the criminology program at Carleton University, and unlike Ismail, I'm not crazy enough to try summer school.
"Cool, see you tomorrow bud," I said, and pulled the sheets over my face, made myself comfortable and passed out on Ismail's couch. When you've worked from nine in the morning to nine o'clock at night, you'd think it would be easy to fall asleep, and you'd be wrong. I wanted to sleep, but couldn't. My mind was racing with thoughts, haunted as I was by recent events.
I got up to go take a piss in the nearby washroom, and noticed that Ismail had fallen asleep with the TV on. I shut it down, and went back to bed. Try as I might, I couldn't sleep. It's hard to fall asleep when your whole world is going to hell, seriously. My cell phone is filled with angry messages from relatives, since my father ousted me. Somali families aren't keen on gayness or bisexuality, just in case you're wondering.
Want to hear something ironic? My family hates me for being queer but I've never even had sex. Not really. I once had a crush on this dude named Abu, a tall Moroccan brother I met at an Islamic community event in Nepean. Abu was tall, dark and handsome, married to a fine Somali sister named Hodan, with whom he has a son, Yousef, and he worked for the Canadian government.
