Zineb Jabrane of Morocco

"What kind of a name is Zineb Jabrane?" Jamaican Defense Force Corporal Jacobson Abrahams asked wryly, a big grin on his handsome face, as he sat across from me. I looked at the handsome young Jamaican guy and shrugged. Truth be told, I thought Jacobson Abrahams was an odd name for a black man. Most of the ones I knew back in my hometown of Marrakesh had ethnic African or Arabic names, due to the influence of Islam. As an Afro-Caribbean stud, Jacobson here is of a different breed...

"The name my parents gave me," I replied as I sipped my lemonade, and Jacobson nodded and stroked his goateed chin. As a tall, Hijab-wearing Moroccan Muslim woman walking around the City of Kingston, Jamaica, I knew I attracted a lot of attention. The Jamaicans weren't used to North Africans like myself, and openly gawked wherever I went. They were a friendly bunch, though, this I must say.

"Well, Zineb, you should be more careful around Kingston, the next Jamaican brother you meet might not be as friendly as I am," Jacobson said, and he shook his head, causing his stylish dreads to sway this way and that. The brother looked simply impeccable in his military uniform. I've always had a thing for men with dreads. I'm that closeted fan of icon Bob Marley you probably never heard about.

"Thank you kindly, brother," I replied, and gently laid my hand on Jacobson's. The young Jamaican man blinked, and pursed his lips. Nodding gently, he rose from his chair and wished me a good day. I watched him go, feeling utterly fascinated. An hour ago, I was walking around downtown Kingston, and that's when a mugger accosted me, knife in hand, and demanded my purse.

"Oh no," I cried, and the mugger, a burly, dark-skinned guy with a mean scar on the left of his face looked me up and down, then grinned. I threw my purse at his face and tried to run for it. That didn't amuse him, and thusly I found myself pinned against an alley, with a knife at my throat. If a certain Jamaican military man who was exiting the nearby post office hadn't come to my aid, I shudder to think of what Scarface might have done to me...

"Get your filthy hands off of her," Jacobson shouted as he squared off with Scarface, and I watched, amazed, as the two men traded blows. Fortunately, Jacobson was able to get the drop on Scarface, whom he subsequently knocked out. Afterwards, Jacobson retrieved my purse and handed it to me. I looked at him, stunned by his chivalry, and muttered my hands.

"Be safe, Miss Jabrane," Corporal Jacobson Abrahams said, and he briefly paused and smiled before walking away. I watched him go, and smiled wistfully. What a man, I thought. After Jacobson basically saved my ass from the mugger, he called the police and stuck around to make sure I was okay. Scarface was arrested, and Jacobson was about to return to his military base or whatever, but I couldn't let him go without a thank you. I invited him to get some tea with me, and we bantered for a bit.

"If all the local guys are like you, Jamaican women must be real happy," I whispered as I sipped my tea, and watched Corporal Jacobson Abrahams disappear into the distance. I called a taxi and returned to the safety of my plush hotel room in the Montego Bay resort. This was my first day in the Capital of Jamaica, and as you can see, it's turning out to be quite awesome, in more ways than one...

Now, you might be wondering what a Muslim woman from Morocco is doing in Jamaica, and you'd be right. I am far out of my element, that's true, but for once, that's okay by me. I, Zineb Jabrane, was born in the City of Marrakesh, Morocco, in 1990. My father Abdul Jabrane was Moroccan, and my mother Fatima Owusu was from Ghana and had been living in Morocco as part of the Ghanaian Embassy detail when they met and fell in love. As you can see, I am the daughter of two worlds...

Hailing from a well-to-do family has its advantages no matter where one might live in the world. My parents sent me to study at Carleton University in the City of Ottawa, Ontario, in 2009. I graduated with a bachelor's degree in civil engineering in 2013, and returned to Marrakesh. I got married to a Moroccan gentleman named Ismail Rabbah and settled into the life of a married woman. I'm sorry to say that not only my husband and I were wrong for each other, but I found life in Morocco suffocating after living in Canada.

There's a lot of racism in this world, and while a lot of you might be familiar with the treatment of black men and black women by the authorities in places like the United States of America, Canada and the United Kingdom, most of you ignore the glaring racism in the Islamic world. Long before the first English, Dutch and French ships sailed for Africa and began to enslave Africans, the Arabs had been at it for many centuries. And what they did to Africans made the atrocities committed by Europeans pale by comparison.

To this day, in places like the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia, Morocco, Tunisia and Mauritania, people of African descent are treated like they're less than fully human by the locals. I saw this everyday as a young biracial Muslim woman in the racially diverse nation of Morocco. I remember the way people looked at my family, for we were different from the norm.

My father Abdul Jabrane was of Moroccan ancestry on his father's side, and of Syrian ancestry on his mother's side, so he looked like your average Arab man. My mother Fatima Owusu-Jabrane was pure Ghanaian, and although as a tall, curvy, dark-skinned West African woman of almost regal bearing, she was quite beautiful, she was seen as an anomaly in Moroccan society. Our family got stared at wherever we went. I still remember the taunts from random people on the streets of Marrakesh...

I think that's part of the reason why my husband Ismail Rabbah and I got divorced. As a tall, curvy young woman with light brown skin, angelic almond-shaped brown eyes and a thick Afro, I was considered beautiful. Mainly due to my mixed ancestry. Before I went to Canada and met so many black men and black women who loved their black cultures and identities, I told people that I was simply "Moroccan."

After living in North America, and learning about cultural and historical icons like President Barack Obama, artist Akon, Hollywood mogul Will Smith, and the fearless activists of Black Lives Matter, I was changed. A profound change occurred in my soul and consciousness, and I began to acknowledge the fact that as the daughter of a West African woman, I was part black, and that was okay. I embraced my blackness, and the kink in my hair, as they say.

In Morocco, just like most other places in the Islamic world, most biracial people you will meet have Arab or North African fathers, and African mothers. The Arabs and North Africans don't like to see black men with Arab women, even though nothing in the religion of Islam strictly forbids such couplings. I've seen a few black men with Arab wives and Arab girlfriends while living in Ottawa and I was amazed, and happy for them. In Morocco, this would never have been allowed because anti-black racism is alive and well in my homeland...

"I can't be with you, Ismail, I love my blackness, which you want me to hide, and I love black men," I said to my former husband Ismail, right before he struck me. Even as I staggered and fell to the floor of our fancy townhouse in the east end of Marrakesh, I knew I had made the right decision. I didn't want to be with Ismail. I wanted someone else. A dark prince who would make me his queen, that's what my heart yearned for...

"You filthy mixed-race whore," Ismail said angrily, right before he stormed off. I rose to my feet, in pain but more determined than ever. Thus, I left Morocco and returned to Canada. After a lot of patience and paperwork, I got a job for Braun Engineering, and applied for permanent residence. A couple of years later, I became a permanent resident of Canada. When the time came, I proudly became a citizen of this most awesome nation.

I fell in love with Canada all over again. The vibrant black Canadian culture that I saw everywhere in the City of Toronto, Ontario, immensely appealed to me. I became quite active in black cultural events, and have both marched with and donated money to Black Lives Matter. I went on dates with gorgeous, smart brothers from places like Nigeria, Ghana and the like. I had fun, lots of fun, but true love continued to elude me. Until I came to the City of Kingston, Jamaica, on vacation...

"Jacobson Abrahams, you will be mine," I whispered to myself on that fateful first night in Kingston, as I lay on my bed. Lying stark naked on the bed sheets, loving and hating the blistering summer night's heat, I thought of a certain tall, dark and handsome Jamaican gentleman. I licked my lips and caressed my breasts as I visualized Jacobson in all of his masculine glory. My hand slipped between my thick thighs and I masturbated to a guilty pleasure as I envisioned Jacobson on top of me...

"Oh fuck," I cried out, and I felt a fire begin down below as I visualized Jacobson wrapping his arms around me, his hands caressing my breasts, his lips kissing mine. I spread my thighs wide and welcomed him inside of me, and the Jamaican military stud thrust into me, and began fucking me. I wrapped my arms around his torso, pressing him into me, and Jacobson showed me what Jamaican masculinity was all about...

"Zineb, you are mine," Jacobson said in my fantasy, and the Jamaican stud bent me over, putting me on all fours. I got some good old-fashioned African DNA from my mother, and thusly I am blessed with a thick round ass. Jacobson caressed my ass with his eager hands, and slapped it playfully. I backed that ass up, pressing it against his groin.

"Make me yours, my Jamaican prince," I whispered, and Jacobson laughed, and then took me. I gasped as he gripped my hips and thrust into me. I cried out as his long and thick, dark member entered me. Jacobson fucked me with gusto. Jacobson fucked me roughly, grabbing my hair, which I sometimes let flow on my shoulders and sometimes tucked away under a Hijab, and yanked my head back as he drilled his dick into me. I moaned deeply as he fucked with deep, powerful thrusts. And I called out his name as I came, suddenly and violently...

"Oh damn," I whispered, smiling wickedly as I lay in my bed, alone, reeking of my womanly juices. I slid my fingers into my pussy and brought them to my lips, then tasted myself. I smiled. After masturbating to erotic thoughts of Jacobson Abrahams, I slept peacefully. When I woke up the following morning, I did Saleh like the good Muslim gal that my parents raised me to be. I ate breakfast, showered, got dressed and then went out. I'm a woman on a mission...

The good thing about the Internet is that pretty much everything about everyone can be found easily these days. A simple search on Facebook found Jacobson Abrahams. The brother came from a fairly interesting background. I thought he was a purebred Jamaican, and was surprised to see that he was born in the City of Boston, Massachusetts, to Jamaican immigrant parents, and returned to Jamaica after graduating from the University of Massachusetts in Amherst with a bachelor's degree in Criminal Justice in 2008.

"You've come home to your people and left America just as I left Morocco," I whispered to myself, admiring the pictures on Jacobson's Facebook profile. Pictures of him in a cap and gown next to his proud parents at UMass-Amherst. Pictures of him in his Jamaican Defense Force uniform, and images of him with family and friends. There was no special lady on his arm and his profile stated that he was single. I am going to change that, I promised myself.

Later that day, I "accidentally" ran into Jacobson Abrahams outside the local military base. From his profile, I gleaned that he was really fond of a certain Griot restaurant not far from the base, and went there. You should have seen the look on the tall, handsome military man's face when he spotted me. I smiled at him, and approached him casually, as if I were just as surprised to find him there...

"Salaam, Jacob, imagine running into you there," I said innocently, and Jacobson looked at me and smiled. Everyone in the crowded restaurant looked at us, and Jacobson and I stood there, chatting away. After a few minutes, like the gentleman I knew him to be, Jacobson invited me to grab lunch with him. I accepted after a brief hesitation, and then bent down to tie my shoelace, and smiled as I knew that every brother in the Griot restaurant was staring at my thick ass...

"Miss Zineb, I hope you don't think this is too forward but I think we were destined to meet," Jacobson said with a smile, once I finished tying up my shoelaces and smiled at him innocently. The Jamaican military brother looked at me and shrugged, clearly mesmerized by yours truly. I pursed my lips then smiled, and nodded in agreement, then gently patted his arm.

"Me too, Jacobson, hey, did you know that in Arabic, your name is Yakub Bin Ibrahim? It literally means Jacob, Son of Ibrahim," I said, smiling as Jacobson chivalrously pulled a chair for me. We sat down at a quiet corner of the restaurant, and Jacobson introduced me to Jamaican cuisine. All eyes were on us as we talked and laughed as we ate. I discretely checked Jacobson's hands, and saw no wedding ring. Nice, I thought with a smile.

"Zineb, once you get to know us Jamaicans, our food, our music, our culture, you're never going to want to leave our island," Jacobson said, smiling as he brushed his hand against mine. I looked at the tall, handsome, oh-so charming Jamaican military man sitting across from me, and smiled and shook my head, as though I doubted his words. Jacobson clearly wants me, and now, all I had to do was reel him in...

"Hmm, we'll see, Mr. Jamaica," I said, and I 'accidentally' bumped my hand against Jacobson's thigh while reaching for my cellphone. I took it and turned it off, and then innocently apologized for bumping Jacobson, who laughed and told me it was okay. Jacobson is handsome, employed and very promising. The brother thinks I'm what I appear to be. A soft and sweet, demure and polite, Hijab-wearing sweetheart. Wait till I get my hands on him. Mr. Jamaica definitely won't know what hit him...