From Guyana with Love

"Go back to sleep, babe, I've got this," I whispered to my wife Amal as I got up, and went to check on our son, Little Omar. Lying in his crib, in his small bedroom, ten and a half meters from our own bedroom, little Omar is awake in the middle of the night and crying, which is not an unusual occurrence. I take my son into my arms and smile at him, rocking him gently. Moments later he's back to sleep. I return to the master bedroom.

Lying next to me is my wife of two years, Amal Kumar-Etienne, I feel at peace. Gently I kiss her forehead, and Amal snorts in her sleep, and snores loudly. She's so beautiful when she sleeps. Of course, Amal is lovely while awake as well. Amal farted in her sleep and I snickered. Hey, it's natural, alright? I am a lucky man to have such a wonderful woman as my wife and the mother of our son. Seriously, I thank Heaven for these blessings.

I roll over on my side, a bit sore. Earlier, Amal and I made passionate love. Always a great stress reliever, let me tell you. Tonight, Amal came to me, and I sensed much unrest in her. Gently I pulled her into my arms and we embraced passionately. The feel of her supple, curvy body against mine never ceases to thrill me. I love my woman and can never take her for granted. I cherish my sweet Amal.

"Make love to me Octavius," Amal whispered, her voice filled with need. I smiled and kissed her, for I didn't need to be told twice. Gently I caressed Amal's soft, firm breasts and she sighed happily as I sucked on them. Kissing a path from her breasts to her slightly rounded belly, I kissed her stretch marks, for to me they made her beautifully human. The woman I love and mother of my son, my living treasure.

"So beautiful," I said quietly, and looked up into Amal's eyes, which shone in our darkened bedroom. Gently I spread her thighs, and began pleasuring her womanhood with my mouth, tongue and fingers. A sharp cry escaped Amal's lips as I licked her pussy, teasing her clitoris with my tongue while fingering her. I know what she likes, and I always give it to her.

"Don't you dare stop!" Amal hisses, and I smile before continuing. No two women smell or taste the same down below, and I for one absolutely love the way my wife smells and tastes. I continue to lick her until the floodgates open, so to speak. Amal cries out in pleasure, and I hold her until her pleasurable spasms subside. It's a miracle that our neighbors haven't filed a noise complaint by now. Amal and I are, ahem, loud, and we're renting a three-bedroom apartment in a residential area of Nepean, Ontario.

"That was fun," Amal says, smiling, and then she rolls on top of me. My already-hard manhood enters her swiftly, and I hear Amal's happy sigh as I wrap my arms around her. We begin making love, and I thrust into her, swift and deep. I slap Amal's ass as we fuck, and she laughs and playfully bites my ear. A few moments later I cum, exploding within her. Amal exhales. We exchange a kiss, and Amal rolls off of me.

Amal rests her head on my chest, and moments later, my wife resumes her thunderous snoring. She came home super stressed last night. As the assistant manager of a local branch of TD Canada Trust, my boo has a lot on her plate. After graduating from Carleton University's accounting program, Amal began working at the bank, and quickly distinguished herself due to her stellar service and work ethic.

Me? I'm a division manager at TELUS Mobility. It's a post I only obtained recently, come to think of it. I'm that guy at the mall who stops you, smiles at you a bit too much and generally goes about bugging you until you buy a phone plan. Not what I dreamed of doing when I was a dreamy-eyed University student but I have a wife and son to take care of. Welcome to my life.

Hard to believe that if you told me a couple of years ago that I would have embraced Islam and married a lovely Guyanese Indian Muslim woman, I would have laughed. For starters, I have never considered myself the marrying type. Seriously, when it comes to the longevity of my relationships, six months was my personal best until I met Amal. Now, how I met my future wife is a funny story...

Alright, picture this, if you will. I'm sitting in the Carleton University campus library, and there's this cute Indian-looking ( red dot, not feather, work with me here ) chick sitting in the same row at me. Day after day I see her sitting there, typing away on a computer, doing all kinds of mathematical stuff. Me? I suck at math and stopped taking it after high school. The question is, how do I get at her?

The name is Octavius Isaac Etienne, and I'm a big and tall young Black man of Haitian descent living in the City of Nepean, Ontario. I'm in the Applied Business program at Carleton University. Like a lot of brothers out there, I find South Asian ladies simply beautiful. Of course, few brothers ever get with these uniquely lovely ladies. There's many reasons for that, not the least of which is racism, along with cultural differences. Me? I don't let anything stop me and always go for what I want.

I've often been called "socially awkward" or "diplomatically challenged" because of my bluntness. Folks, I'm not trying to be mean or rude but that's just how I roll. There's too much bullshit and pussyfooting in this world. I feel this world would be a much better place if we were more honest with each other. Don't you agree?

Of course, in a world full of liars, hypocrites and fake people, being real doesn't win you points with people. The good folks at a predominantly Haitian church which I attended for most of my life in downtown Ottawa certainly didn't appreciate my lively ways, wicked sense of humor and keen mind. That's why I stopped attending. Can't go where you're not wanted, you know?

Lately, I've become fascinated by Islam. Now, don't get me wrong. I find the teachings of the Prophet Mohammed sound, and respect Islamic principles but the behavior and mindset of many Muslims irks me. The way they fight among themselves over who's Sunni and who's Shia is just plain stupid. Also, I love dogs and they are God's creatures. Anyone who hates dogs is definitely no friend of mine. Anyhow, where was I? Oh, yeah. I was telling you about how I met an unforgettable woman.

"Excuse me for a second, can I show you something?" I said with a smile, looking at the pretty Indian-looking chick. That day she wore a long-sleeved light green shirt and dark blue pants. Her long black hair was pulled into a bun, and she looked simply lovely. As I waited for her answer ( after waiving to get her attention ), my heart thundered in my chest.

"Um, hello there, what is it that you want to show me?" the Indian cutie said, licking her succulent-looking lips and looking at me. Those lovely brown eyes met mine and never wavered. I took a deep breath, and gestured for Miss Indian Cutie to come closer. I pointed to my computer screen, which opened to a page on YouTube where a certain video played.

"Men's farts are louder than women's but women's farts smell worse?" Miss Indian Cutie said, looking at the computer screen, then at me. I looked at her and smiled. She didn't smile. Instead she looked me up and down, and folded her arms across her chest, looking pointedly at me. I took a deep breath before replying to her. So she's one of those serious people, eh?

"I just came across this and found it funny, and, ahem, thought I'd share," I said, slowly letting out the breath I hadn't even realized I'd been holding. Miss Indian Cutie looked at me, bit her lips and I gave her a sheepish smile. Why is it that the most beautiful women often lack a sense of humor? Like, seriously. That might explain why I have such lousy luck with the opposite sex. Nah, I'm kind of a dick so that has a lot to do with it.

"What's with your fascination with female farts?" Miss Indian Cutie said at last, and I smiled. I was utterly delighted that she finally decided to join the conversation. Seriously, I don't like uncomfortable silences. I licked my lips and thought "show time", then shrugged and winked at Miss Indian Cutie, who almost flinched. Gotcha, I thought.

"Alright, lady, I see you here in the library everyday and just wanted to say hi," I said, dropping the act. When all else fails, try honesty, you know? I looked at her, and much to my surprise, and relief, Miss Indian Cutie actually smiled. A real smile, too, rather than just a stretching of the lips. What a lovely smile you've got, I thought dreamily.

"I'm Amal Kumar," the young Indian lady said, still smiling, and she extended her small, lovely hand for me to shake. I smiled, and, acting totally cool and nonchalant, I shook Amal's hand. I guess I held onto her hand a moment too long, for her smile changed. Hastily I let go, nodded respectfully, and then introduced myself.

"Good to meet you, Amal, I'm Octavius," I said, and I was actually taken aback when the Indian cutie began laughing. My smile froze. Seriously, laughter rocked Amal Kumar's hot little body, and I wondered why. Was this broad laughing at me? Certainly looks like it. She can't be laughing with me since I'm not laughing. Politely I waited for Amal to finish. No need for me to get unpleasant, yet...

"Oh, sorry brother, I'm not laughing with you, it's just that I am writing a paper on a Roman politician named Octavius," Amal Kumar said at last, once she calmed down somewhat. My smile returned. What man doesn't want to be compared to Gaius Octavius, better known as Augustus Caesar, Founder of the Roman Empire and its first Emperor?

"Glad you like my name, Haitian parents like to saddle their sons with odd names from ancient history, why, I have a cousin named Marcus Anthony," I said, deadpan, and Amal Kumar smiled. Man, this gal has one of those million-dollar smiles. I was quite surprised by the next words to come out of those pretty lips of hers, to tell you the truth.

"Mwen kontan konet ou," Amal Kumar said, and I was stunned to hear this authentic Indian chick tell me that she was happy to meet me, only in my native tongue of Haitian Creole. How cool is that? I smiled and nodded, and you can pretty much guess what my next words were. Where on earth did this Indian broad learn to speak Haitian Creole?

"Well said, with no accent, Amal, where did you learn my language?" I asked politely, even though inside, I felt a bit shocked. Seriously, I felt the same way when, during a trip to Montreal-Nord, I met a French guy who spoke Creole. Look, I'm not xenophobic or anything. I just sometimes forget that many non-Haitians speak Creole, alright?

"I'm from Guyana, there's a lot of you Haitians there, and I learned the language and culture while living there," Amal Kumar said, once more flashing that million-dollar smile. I looked her up and down, pleasantly surprised. Not just by her pretty face and killer smile, but by the fact that this cutie was full of surprises. Not the least of which was her knowledge of my culture. Wow.

"Well, mon amie, I am glad we met," I said, and Amal Kumar nodded. I sensed that the lady had just about had enough of our little talk and was eager to return to her seat. I wanted to ask for her number, but didn't want to come across as a skirt-chaser. As I struggled to come up with something to say before Amal returned to her seat, I accidentally elbowed my keyboard, and my screen vanished, replaced with my Facebook profile.

"Oh cool, you've got Facebook, add me," Amal Kumar said enthusiastically. Before I could reply, the pretty Indian gal leaned over, totally invading my personal space ( believe me, I did NOT mind ) and clicking away. I was already logged on Facebook, since I always check my messages and my newsfeed to see what my friends are up to. Amal typed her name on the search engine, and sent herself a request through my page.

"Awesome," I said, and Amal Kumar smiled and patted me on the shoulder, then returned to her seat. As the pretty Indian gal walked away, I caught a glimpse of Amal's spectacular derriere. Seriously, whoever said that Indian girls don't have booty has clearly never met her. Moments later, Amal added me on Facebook as a friend. I smiled to myself. Fine morning I'm having, eh?

I was still smiling when, a couple of hours later, Amal rose from her seat. Got to say something to the pretty Indian lady before she leaves. Think fast, I told myself. Lucky for me, Amal, ever the decisive type, walked up to me, smiling, and I held my breath.

"Say, Octavius, my friends from the Muslim Student Club are having a little get-together tomorrow afternoon at a Lebanese restaurant on Rideau, care to join us?" Amal asked, and I smiled at her. Of course I didn't know Jack about Amal's friends but I jumped at the thought of spending time with her.

"Sounds good to me, sister, your faith fascinates me," I said, and then I said "Salam" for emphasis, which made Amal smile. The pretty Guyanese Indian Muslim gal smiled, and then whipped out her cell phone. My heart skipped a beat when Amal asked me for my number, and I told it to her, once I got over my shock, and then she winked at me.

"Let's keep in touch, Octavius, I just texted you the details so save my number, guess I'll see you tomorrow night at six," Amal Kumar said, and then the pretty Indian gal excused herself, and walked out of the library, presumably off to her next class. I watched her go, amazed by what just happened. Seriously, things like that don't usually happen to me.

In hindsight, I considered myself lucky but later, Amal Kumar told me that she'd had her eye on me for ages. As the well-dressed brother who was always in the campus library, either doing homework, browsing Facebook or watching Islamic videos on YouTube, I caught her attention. The Indian cutie made it her business to sit next to me until I finally got the nerve to speak to her.

That evening, I did go to the Shawarma King restaurant in downtown Ottawa, where I met with Amal Kumar and her friends, a bunch of African, Arab and South Asian Muslim students at Carleton University. I thought they'd be uptight, but they were chill. Five guys and three girls, including Amal. They were friendly, just regular folks hanging out, and I had a nice time. Afterwards, Amal and I walked around together for a bit.

"I have something for you, Octavius," Amal said, and the pretty Indian lady smiled and pulled something out of her purse. A thick book with a dark green cover and arcane symbols on it. Can you guess what it is? Why, the Holy Koran, of course! I smiled at Amal nervously, and hesitantly took it from her.

"Thank you, sister, I shall read it and treasure it," I said with a smile, trying to make my voice grave and failing miserably. Amal grinned, and then did something which surprised the hell out of me. Honestly, I didn't think a Muslim chick would be so forward, but since then I've learned never to underestimate the female of our species, regardless of color or faith.

"I have a good feeling about you, Octavius," Amal said, and I smiled and nodded. We stood at the bus stop on Bank Street, and from the way Amal looked at the approaching 96 Kanata Bus, I thought it must be the one she's waiting for. I was about to reply to her when Amal stood on her tippy toes and gently kissed me on the cheek. Seriously dude, if lightning struck my black ass right then and there, I honestly wouldn't have been more shocked.

"Salam, good night Amal, see you at school," I said meekly, and Amal grinned, waved at me and then swiped her green Presto Card on the machine as she got on the bus. I stood there, and watched her bus go until it disappeared into the distance. That's when it hit me, this gorgeous Indian chick likes me! Guess what I did next? I did the victory dance, right in the middle of downtown Ottawa. Folks looked at me like I was crazy but I didn't give a damn. I was on cloud nine!

Yeah, that's how it all began. Fast forward a few years and I go by the moniker "Brother Ishaq" to reflect my new Muslim identity. Ishaq is simply the Arabic word for Isaac, my middle name. My sweet Amal and I are happily married and we're the proud parents of our little angel, Omar Etienne. A Haitian-Canadian Muslim guy and his Guyanese Indian wife, now that's a pairing you don't see everyday. I love Amal and our son Omar and I am proud of our little family. I thank the Most High for His blessings.