"Wahid, what would you do without me?" says my lady Nadira Singh as she lay against me, her lovely face covered in a fine sheen of sweat after some passionate lovemaking. I smiled and gently stroked her lovely face, then kissed Nadira on the forehead. What would my so-called life be like without her? I shudder to think. I found a rare treasure in this vivacious young woman, that's for damn sure.
Nadira and I met in the Carleton University library last year. I noticed the five-foot-ten, curvy and vivacious young Indian woman walking about the third floor with the Criminal Psychology book tucked under her arm, how cute her face was and how amazing her big ass looked in her too-tight jeans. I noticed a lot of guys checking out Nadira as she walked by, and knew I had to act fast...
Like any brother worth his salt, I had to holler. South Asian ladies like Nadira Singh are definitely a challenge for a brother, but the way I see it, if you're not man enough to approach a lady, you don't deserve her. I pretended to need help with citations and Nadira seemed the studious type, that was my excuse. We met, talked, laughed and exchanged numbers. The rest, as they say, is history.
"I'm nothing without you dear," I replied, and Nadira purred with contentment like a kitten and stretched luxuriously on our bed. The fact that Nadira and I are together is a miracle, in and of itself. You don't see a lot of Indian women with men of African descent, do you? Well, there's a lot of reasons for that, racism and cultural differences among them, but that's not what this tale is about. Not entirely anyways.
Outside our apartment, located in the South Keys area of Ottawa, Ontario, snow fell rapidly. That's to be expected, since we are in the Capital region and being blanketed with snow around this time of year comes with the territory. I was born far from Canada, in a town called Mogadishu, Capital of Somalia. Yet I love the Canadian winter. Yeah, guess I must be a unicorn or something.
My name is Wahid Yusuf, and I'm a man with a story to share with you. I am the son of two very different worlds, and in my own way, a walking contradiction. I was born in Somalia and raised in the City of Ottawa, Ontario. My parents, Abdullahi and Choukri Yusuf came to Canada during the sixth summer of my life. They were part of that wave of Somali immigrants who came to Ontario, Canada, and Minnesota, USA, during the early 1990s due to political strife in Somalia.
I consider myself as Canadian as anyone living in the great white north, up to and including our famous and oh-so popular Prime Minister Justin Trudeau himself. That's why it irks me when someone, usually a middle-aged white person, asks me about my origins. The way I figure it, anyone who isn't an Aboriginal is technically either a direct immigrant or the descendant of immigrants. A lot of people in Canada tend to forget that, unfortunately.
What little I remember of Somalia continues to haunt my dreams. My dear Nadira doesn't get my sense of nostalgia about the place. You see, she was adopted by a white couple and doesn't remember anything of India, the land of her birth. I try to hang onto what little I remember of Somalia, the land of my ancestors. It's part of who I am, like it or not.
When I think of Somalia, I remember a bright, sunlit place. I remember a stone house, and a beach, along with dirt roads. I remember that the place was hot. These days, in spite of my best efforts to reconnect with my fellow Somalis, I continue to be apart from my people. There are many reasons for that. Not the least of which, drumroll please, is the fact that I am bisexual. That's right, bisexual Somali men do exist. Deal with it.
You'd never guess it to look at me, though. I stand six-foot-four, broad-shouldered and burly, with dark brown skin and thick, curly black hair that I've styled into an Afro. I have a thick beard and only shave once every three weeks, like clockwork. I am a practicing Muslim, believe it or not, and attend Friday prayers at the Masjid just like I was taught by my father and mother when I was little. A lot of people say that you can't be a gay or bisexual person and still be a Muslim. I say we leave it up to the Most High.
I recently graduated from Carleton University with my bachelor's degree in Civil Engineering. These days, I work for Ren Engineering, a small company located not far from Tunney's Pasture Station. We do a lot of work for the City of Ottawa, including renovations to several of the buildings owned by the Canada Revenue Agency. What I like about my boss, Mr. Wilson, is that he's not afraid to compete with the big guys, or take chances. Hence why he hired me right out of school. Guess I'm lucky.
Ren Engineering has a lot of employees and subcontractors, but I'm one of maybe six black guys working for the company here in Ottawa. They have an office in Toronto, and another one in Calgary. All in all, about a hundred people work for Ren Engineering. I do get stared at when I show up on a site to do inspections, or to talk to the construction workers and the government people. Ottawa lacks diversity in the major professions, and that's a damn shame.
"Yusuf, you know you're damn lucky the boss took a chance on you," said my co-worker Jake Wyatt, a red-haired white dude with glasses, as we inspected the work done by our guys on a CRA site in downtown Ottawa the other day. I took a moment to process this, and then decided not to let it go. I looked Jacob in the eye, took a deep breath and then took the bait, if only to reel him in.
"Luck has nothing to do with it, bud, now, do your job and I'll do mine," I replied with a shrug, and Jacob flashed me that fake smile which a lot of white dudes in Ottawa give to you when they really, really don't like you. I've been on the receiving end of that fake smile my entire life. During my undergrad days at Carleton University, I didn't see a lot of black guys in the engineering department and since I was smart, well-spoken and unafraid to call people out on their bullshit, I got a lot of stares. Like I said, I'm used to it. Too bad Jacob and his ilk are the least of my problems...
"Something troubles you, Wahid, and don't say it's nothing," Nadira says, snatching me out of my train of thought. I look up at Nadira, and hesitate. Should I tell her the truth? Truth is best, as has been said many times before. Nadira and I have been through a lot together, and she's been in my corner the entire time. I figured I owed her that much.
"Alright, I got into an argument with a racist co-worker the other day, a bozo who's not used to seeing professional brothers handling their business," I replied, and Nadira nodded, and then kissed me on the lips. I ran my hands all over her curvy, sultry body, and stopped at her thick, firm ass. My favorite part of her body is her booty, and we both know it.
