Turkish Princess For Somali Man

I've been everywhere in this cold-ass country, and sometimes, I honestly wish my parents had kept their asses in Somaliland. In case you're wondering who this is, my name is Omar Muhumed, and I am a brother going through hell these days. The Yukon is definitely no place for a Black man, I'll tell you that much. I work for a logging company in Dawson City, one of the biggest settlements in the Yukon, with a population barely above a thousand. I get stared at daily, and more than once I've had to deal with racist White folks who don't think a Black man belongs in their crappy little town. Yeah, there are a lot of assholes in the Yukon, and with my luck I managed to piss off the worst of them.

I'm referring of course to Jake Malloy, my nemesis and co-worker for this tale. Logging is big business in the environs of Dawson City, and it's how most of the local men and women feed their families. For a company to bring in outside workers, well, that's considered a slap in the face by these good country people. My employer, Scott O'Bannon of O'Bannon Logging Limited, did just that. I wasn't the only minority guy on the crew. There's an Arab guy named Djohar Ibrahim and a Hispanic guy named Joel Rodriguez, both of them from Toronto, Ontario. I'm the only Black man on the crew, though. What does that mean for me in the Yukon? We'll get to that in a minute.

You should see the way the plump White chick working behind the counter stared at me when I checked in at the Yukon Hotel. You would have thought she'd seen a ghost, man. I mean she stared and stared until I flashed her my fearless smile and asked her if I could help her with something. She grinned, showing too many teeth, and told me my room was upstairs. I took the card and keys, then left with a curd nod. The next day, before shipping off to the woods, I asked Djohar and Rodriguez if they encountered the same attitude from the locals. Nope, not really. Djohar told me a woman he met at the post office asked him if he was Italian and he told her he was born in Lebanon. That was all. Hmmm. I wished my buddies a good day, then we got in the cars and took off for work.

It's always cold in the Yukon, and even in the summer, it never really gets warm. At least not compared to warmer parts of Canada like Ontario or Quebec. Logging in such a place is far from easy. Due to environmental regulations, we have to go pretty far from Dawson City to cut down trees. Our supervisor, Jake Malloy, whom I mentioned before, is somewhat of a prick. The first time he laid eyes on me, he stared at me the way a man looks at a fly that landed on his dinner plate. I raised my eyebrows and squared my shoulders. He smiled that grin I would come to know and hate so well, and asked me that question which every non-White person living in Canada gets asked at least once a week. Where do you come from? Looking him in the eye, I told him I came from the City of Toronto, Ontario. Hell, I was born there! My answer seemed to surprise him, for he shook his head before asking me where my parents came from. Not that it's any of your business, I said evenly, but my folks come from Somaliland, in Africa. The other men in the crew stood around us, observing the exchange between Malloy and myself.

I let the prick know in no uncertain terms that I was here for work, and nothing else. I've seen a lot in my twenty five years, and I know a bozo when I see one. If you want to know who you're dealing with, a look a man in the eyes when you meet him. They say the eyes are the windows to the soul. In Malloy's eyes, underneath his coldness masquerading as curiosity, I sensed wickedness. I've got a well-honed sixth sense about such things and it's served me well everyplace I've gone. Here I am, in the Yukon, thousands of kilometers from home, with absolutely no friends or backup. I'm going to have to rely on my wits to survive, same as usual. I've been doing that since my early days, I guess.

Like I said before, I was born and raised in Toronto, Ontario. My parents, Amin and Fatouma Muhumed moved to Canada from Somaliland in the 1980s. I have an older brother, Ishmail, and two sisters, Mouna and Rashida. I'm the youngest in the Muhumed family, and the one who is "different". Everyone in the family is doing good except me. I'm the weird one, I guess. My father has never looked at me the same way when he caught me messing around with Peter, the Jamaican guy next door, during the summer after I finished high school. I guess I'm the black sheep of the family because of that, and other reasons as well. My brother Ishmail studied medicine at the University of Toronto and now works at a hospital in Calgary, Alberta. Somali doctors are enough of a rarity in Canada that he's seen as a hero and an inspiration to many of our people. He's the Golden Boy of the family, but not our only star.

My sister Mouna studied civil engineering at Carleton University and works for Hydro One in Mississauga. She's married to a guy named Salim Adewale, a Nigerian dude who works for the RCMP. My other sister Rashida is a firefighter in Ajax, Ontario. Yeah, she's the first hijab-wearing Muslim female firefighter in Ontario provincial history. The news program RDI even did a documentary on her, if you can believe that. Yeah, I come from a family of special people. My folks moved to Canada from Somaliland with nothing but the clothes on their backs and now they own their own restaurant in Toronto. We're the Somalis that you never hear about. Hard-working, educated, law-abiding and well-adjusted to life in Western society while hanging onto our faith and our culture.

So, if I'm from such a fantastic family, how come I'm a grunt cutting down trees for a logging company in the middle of nowhere a.k.a. Dawson City, Yukon? Well, it's kind of a long story, and my being bisexual is only incidental to the tale. My bad luck has a lot to do with it. It started during my freshman year at Ryerson University. I was thrilled to have won a partial scholarship to Ryerson University. I was going to get my degree in journalism and become one of the few Black male reporters on Canadian television. I've always been told I've got a face for TV. I stand six-foot-one, lean and athletic, with light brown skin, curly Black hair and bronze eyes. People say I remind them of Hollywood actor Lee Thompson Young. Anyways, here I was, starting my freshman year, when I met this fine-looking Turkish chick named Meryem Yavuz. You should have seen her, man. Standing around five-foot-six, curvy, with light bronze skin, curly black hair and pale green eyes. She transferred to Ryerson University from Bursa Technical University in the City of Bursa, Turkey.

Meryem and I met in the campus bookstore while reaching for the last Oracle programming book. I guess we just clicked, for we exchanged numbers and added each other on Facebook. I thought she was Hispanic but she told me she was Turkish. I've always found women from the Arab world and places like Eurasia fascinating. Turkish women are definitely gorgeous, if Meryem is an example of what they look like. The two of us began dating, and I must say, we certainly made a cute couple. For the most part, I've mainly dated Somali girls and Nigerian Muslim women because I love Black women but I couldn't pass up an opportunity to date a gorgeous, exotic lady like Meryem. I mean, how many brothers can say they've dated a Turkish gal?

Meryem and I got along wonderfully, in every way. When I was with her, I felt like I was on top of the world. Even though we're from different cultures, we have a lot in common. For starters, we're both Muslim. Also, we're both nerds. Me with my computers and her with her fascination with mechanical engineering. The Turkish government was funding her studies at Ryerson University through an international scholarship program. She was truly brilliant. Yeah, my gal wasn't just a pretty face. I showed her the beauty of Toronto, my birthplace. We kissed on the steps of City Hall and used that picture as the background for our respective Facebook profiles. Corny, I know, but we were in love, you know?

I remember the first time we made love, in her off-campus apartment one night after coming home from the movies. We sat on the couch, cuddling while listening to our favorite song, Ed Townsend's classic "For Your Love". I had my arms around my beloved Meryem, and I honestly didn't want this moment to end. She turned around and grinned at me, and I read the desire in her eyes. Smiling, she kissed me passionately and I kissed her back. Next thing I know, we started making love right then and there. Slowly, we undressed, and I beheld my sexy lady in all of her natural glory. Meryem looked bodacious and hot, with her big breasts, curvy body and big round bottom. She once told me she felt self-conscious because of her curves but I told her that among us brothers, curves are definitely in.

I kissed her full and deep, then kissed the areolas of her big tits. Meryem moaned softly as I went to work on her. I kissed a path from her breasts to her round belly before spreading her shapely thighs. As I moved my face closer to her pelvic area, Meryem tensed and I looked at her, asking if she was okay. She nodded, then asked me to be careful. I nodded, and spread her thighs further, looking at her pussy hungrily. My lady was hairy down below, but it sure as hell didn't bother me. I inhaled the hot, womanly scent of her pussy. And then I went to work, licking her pussy and fingering her gently. I looked into Meryem's beautiful face while pleasuring her, and was thrilled to see her eyes closed and her face filled with joy. That was all the encouragement I needed as I continued working my magic on her.

Soon I had my pretty lady moaning in pleasure, her breath coming in a most staccato fashion. Meryem looked at me, her emerald eyes filled with wonder. I winked at her. Yeah, I got skills, I said with a grin. Meryem looked at my hard dick, and told me to take her. Her hand reached for my member, stroking it. I rolled a condom on my dick, and took her like that. Meryem spread her arms and thighs wide, welcoming me inside of her. I pressed my dick against her pussy, and pushed it inside. A sharp cry escaped Meryem as I penetrated her. Her arms gripped me tightly, but not as tight as her pussy. Our eyes met, and I read a burning desire in hers. We began making love with wild abandon, with me thrusting my dick deep inside of her as she screamed in pleasure, her fingernails digging into my back, drawing blood. I pumped my cock into her, slamming it hard and deep inside of her. Meryem howled like a woman possessed and urged me to fuck her harder. What kind of man would refuse such a lady's request? I did as I was told, and I did it happily. I fucked Meryem until we both lay exhausted on the carpeted floor, our bodies covered with sweat and other bodily fluids, spent at last.

Yeah, that was our first night of love. I wanted to be with Meryem for the rest of my days. I even introduced her to my family. Now, I knew what we were up against. In the Muslim world, no matter what they tell you, there's a lot of racism. The Arabs are at the top of the food chain in Islam. Next in line come the Turks, and they've been friend, foe and rival to the Arabs for quite some time. Both groups look down on other Muslims, especially darker-skinned folks like Black Muslims, Indonesians and Pakistanis. A lot of Arab guys and Turkmen take African, Indonesian and Pakistani women as their concubines and occasionally as their wives. Those same Arab men and Turkmen would never let African Muslim men, Indonesian men and Pakistani men marry Arab women or Turkish women. They consider us inferior, even though the Prophet Mohammed himself declared that racism is haram in Islam.

Meryem and I wanted to be together, but the odds were against us. Her family back in Turkey would kill her if they knew she was involved with a non-Turk, especially a Black man. I wanted to be with this woman something fierce, and I gathered my courage and one day told her exactly who and what I am. One of Islam's big secrets is that a lot of Muslim men mess around with other men and lots of Muslim women mess around with other women. It's frowned upon and considered haram but it's prevalent across the Ummah. The more conservative the Muslim nation, and the more apart men and women seem in public life, the greater the prevalence of same-sex experimentation. I'd imagine that places like Saudi Arabia and Yemen are rampant with closeted bisexuals, both male and female, but don't quote me on that. I resolved to tell Meryem about my bisexuality, and when I revealed my true self to her, she was most understanding. Then she made me swear that I would never lay down with another male as long as she was in my life. I knelt down before my beloved and swore on my honor before Allah and before her that I would be faithful to her.

Meryem and I continued seeing each other, and even though I knew that unforeseen changes and difficulties lay ahead for us, I cherished every moment we spent together. The end came unexpectedly. One night, Meryem was out walking in downtown Toronto with her roommate Gina and some female friends. Just a gals night out, I guess. They were about to cross the street when a truck swerved unexpectedly and barrelled toward them. As the terrified young women fled, the driver lost control of the truck and smashed into them. Of the four women present at the time, three sustained crippling injuries, and one died on her way to the hospital. Thus was the fate of my beloved Meryem. Dead at the tender age of nineteen, thanks to a drunk driver.

I didn't take it too well, as you can imagine. I tried to jump off Meryem's building rooftop a week after her death, but crashed on the hood of a passing truck instead of fatally hitting the ground. I was in the hospital for a few weeks but eventually made a full recovery from my suicide attempt. My family tried to help but they couldn't understand what I was going through. I had just lost the love of my life. I had nothing to live for. Absolutely nothing. I dropped out of Ryerson University, and started drinking and getting into fights with random people in bars. I got arrested, and my mom bailed me out. Eventually, people got tired of cleaning my messes. While in rehab, I thought about Meryem. What else did I have to do? Absolutely nothing except reflect on my sorry excuse for a life. A dark and dreary existence whose sole bright spot got taken away.

One night, I had a dream and Meryem was in it. In this dream, we were married, and on our honeymoon in the Yukon. She always spoke of visiting places like the Yukon and Alaska. Growing up in Turkey, Meryem was fascinated by adventure novels taking place in North America. Her favorite book ( after the noble Koran ) was Jack London's White Fang. I remember reading it with her, side by side in the campus library, in between make-out sessions. When I woke up the next morning, a new resolution dominated my consciousness. I would take a trip to the Yukon, and I would honor Meryem by seeing all the places she wanted to see. It's the least I could do. When I announced to my family my decision to move to the Yukon, they looked at me like I was nuts. In Canada, the further North you go, the more racist people you get. If you're anything other than white, stay in places like Toronto, Ottawa, Montreal and Calgary. Avoid small towns, and definitely avoid the Northern Territories and the Prairies. Being black and moving to the Yukon is like asking for trouble. These isolated, backwards communities aren't very racially diverse, and the mentality down there is pretty hostile to non-whites. Still, I've never backed down from a challenge so to the Yukon I went.

Now you know what I'm doing here, in the middle of nowhere. Here I am, under my tent, looking at my pendant with a picture of Meryem and I on it, kissing on the steps of City Hall in Toronto. Earlier that day, as we got ready to head back to Dawson City after a hard day of work, I got into a scuffle with Malloy when I overheard him and his goons use the N-word while referring to U.S. President Barack Obama's triumph over his Republican challenger, that filthy rich bastard Mitt Romney. I guess a lot of white guys around the world find Obama threatening because he's got intelligence and power, and he doesn't look like them.

If there is one word that gets me riled up, it's that one. If you're not Black and you use it around me, I will go crazy and knock your ass out. That's exactly what I did to Malloy. I walked up to him and asked him to repeat what he just said. The smug redneck did just that, and had the gall to look surprised when I punched him in the face. Malloy went down like a sack of potatoes. Next I faced his buddy Roy, a hairy son of a bitch with a tattoo of a cross on his neck. I struck Roy, and although he staggered, he didn't go down. Other guys from the crew jumped to Roy and Malloy's aid, and I found myself outnumbered. Lucky for me, Djohar came to back me up, flanked by Rodriguez. There we were, three minority guys facing ten angry white guys in the Canadian wilderness. This wasn't going to end well. Fortunately, the crew chief, that old Irishman Scott O'Bannon, stepped in. With that loud voice of his and his rifle in hand, he separated us before the brawl turned into a bloodbath. For this scuffle, I got decked a day's pay, which I didn't like, but when I found out Malloy and Roy's pay also got slashed, I couldn't help but smile. The chief is a roughneck but he does play fair. He doesn't play favorites with anybody when someone on the crew fucks up. The next day, he summoned Malloy and I to his office. He told us that if we pulled any stunts like we did last night while in his employment, he'd fire us then shoot us. I nodded, and smiled. Malloy shot me a look a viper would recognize, but otherwise kept his mouth shut.

I returned to work, well aware that everyone on the crew now hated Djohar and Rodriguez as much as they hate me. We're minority guys in the Yukon, where everyone is either white or Aboriginal. No Blacks, Asians, Hispanics or Arabs. The four ethnic groups that are changing Canada's demographics in the provinces of Quebec and Ontario are virtually nonexistent in the Northern Territories. Yeah, a lot of Canadians aren't ready for our nation's diversity. That's why guys like Malloy and his buddy Roy hate me so much. The sight of a black man still evokes powerful reactions in places where our people are rare. Never mind their talks of diversity, inclusion and multiculturalism. Even in an age where the President of the USA is a Black man, and white people will be minorities in the continent of North America, from the States to Canada itself, within a few decades. That's the kind of change this Somali-Canadian brother believes in, ladies and gentlemen.

Night comes, and I look at the pendant. I kiss the picture of Meryem's smiling, beautiful face and sigh, allowing myself to reminisce about happier days. In a few weeks I will leave the Yukon and head back to Ontario. I'll spend a few days in Toronto to recover from my Arctic-style adventure before heading to Alaska. Today I placed a ribbon belonging to Meryem on the tallest tree I could find, one I refused to let my coworkers cut. I shall do the same thing in a forest in Alaska when I get there. Meryem told me she used to climb trees and leave her ribbons on the tallest treetops back in Turkey. She did the same thing at a certain park in downtown Toronto when she moved there. What a beautiful tradition. She left me her box of ribbons, which she planned on planting on treetops across North America before returning to Turkey for the summer. A trip she never got to make, thanks to a certain drunk driver who's now serving fifteen years at a penitentiary in the City of Kingston, Ontario. I will go to Alaska and fulfill my beloved's last wishes. It's the least I can do to honor the memory of the young woman who showed me true love.