A Somali Lesbian Couple in Love

Hijabi, that's what the world calls women like myself. We who wear the hijab as a sign of feminine piety and chastity in accordance to the rules of Islam. Yet so often, people pay more attention to what's on my head than they do about what's in it. My name is Halima Abdullah, and I'm a young Black woman of Somali descent living in the City of Ottawa, province of Ontario. I recently graduated from Carleton University with a Master's degree in Economics, and I work for the Canadian government in the Canadian Revenue Agency's auditors division. We're the tax agents that even other C.R.A. personnel don't like because we're essentially the financial police. Sounds fun, doesn't it?

After a long day at work, I like to go jogging. I wear a long-sleeved black T-shirt featuring the Toronto Argonauts football team and dark blue sweatpants, along with my Nike sneakers. Oh, and my blue and White hijab modeled after the Somali flag, of course. Off I go, and I run for five kilometers before I start to feel a little winded. I've always been very athletic. I stand five feet eleven inches tall, slim and fit but definitely curvy where it counts. As in I do have a big butt and a nice set of tits, thank you very much. I have dark brown skin, almond-shaped dark brown eyes and shoulder-length curly black hair that I always keep covered when I step out of the house.

I know this is going through your heads, dear readers, so I shall answer your unasked question. About the hijab, of course. I don't do it because anyone makes me do it. Seriously. My relatives live in the City of Calgary, province of Alberta, and I am unmarried. So much for Westerners theories about control-freak Muslim guys forcing Muslim women like myself to bend to their tyrannical will. Are there a lot of Muslim women out there who are oppressed? Absolutely. Lots of women from various races, faiths and backgrounds are oppressed. Am I one of them? Um, is there a polite way of saying hell the fuck no? I live my life my way. I do what I want. Got it? Cool.

I live in the Ogilvie area of Ottawa, in the east end. I've got a nice three-bedroom apartment that's neat, orderly and spacy. I frequently have guests over because us Somalis have big families and there's always a cousin, uncle, aunt or niece who needs to crash with you for a week or two. I try not to do too often because, even though I love my family I value my privacy but I somehow always get suckered into it. Welcome to my life, ladies and gentlemen. One of the unfortunate truths about my beautiful Somali people is that we're nosy, every last one of us. If gossiping were a sport, Somalis would be the undefeated Olympic champions. I'm just saying. A lot of my people reading this will deny it. Don't believe them. Trust me instead.

Anyhow, my jog took me from Ogilvie to Saint Laurent, and somehow I ended up in Vanier, and from Vanier I ran across the Montreal Road Bridge and found myself at Rideau Center. Damn, when I run I really run, huh? I went into the Rideau center to buy a drink, because I get thirsty when I jog, and while standing in line to buy a bottle of water inside the crowded food court, I ran into someone I hadn't seen in a long time. Alia Osman, a young Somali woman I knew when I studied at Saint Catherine Academy, a private school located in the opulent west end of Ottawa. There she was, standing in line behind me and I hadn't noticed, until I felt someone tap me in my rather ample booty. I whirled around, ready to smack the fool or bitch, and instead I gawked when I saw who it was.

Alia Osman, the short, round little Somali chick who was my best friend back at Saint Catherine Academy, where I swear we were the only Black students. Five-foot-six, plump, busty, big-bottomed and round-faced, with lively brown eyes and full lips, my pal Alia. There she was, with her hair uncovered, wearing a Boston Celtics football jersey, blue jeans and boots. I gasped in surprise, and Alia laughed before pulling me into a bear hug. Oh, man, I had forgotten how strong she was. Alia smiled at me, and gestured to the crowded food court. Instead of buying my water and getting the fuck out of the Rideau mall food court, which I considered one of the creepiest places in town, I ended up buying some Chinese food and sitting down with Alia so we could catch up. I hadn't seen this chick in more than five years, I think.

Alia and I caught up, and it was just like old times. Sitting in a crowded cafeteria with my ride or die chick, my best friend, the gal I considered to be the sister I never had. Brings back so many memories. I told her about how I looked for her on Facebook, Twitter and even MySpace and Hi5 when they were still popular. I never heard from her. I asked about her in Montreal, Calgary and Toronto, and nobody seemed to know where she went. Hell, I even browsed through LinkedIn and couldn't find her. The question is where in hell had she been? Alia drank her Pepsi and then answered my questions. And suddenly I wished I hadn't asked them. They say you should never ask questions you might not like the answers to. Well, I guess I am one Somali chick who should have heeded the wisdom of that old adage. I didn't, so here we are.

Alia told me how she left Ottawa, Ontario, for the bright lights of San Francisco, California. She attended San Francisco State University, where she got her Bachelor's degree in Criminal Justice, then went to the University of California's Hastings College of the Law for her Law degree. I was really impressed, Alia is a lawyer! How about that? Smiling, Alia told me there was more. While in law school, she met a young woman named Brianna Henderson, a tall blonde chick of Irish descent, and they fell in love. It was her first lesbian relationship, and it lasted a year. When these words came out of Alia's mouth, I was stunned. Alia Osman, my old buddy, my sister-friend, was a lesbian? Alia nodded, and told me she was indeed a lesbian. I looked at her and shook my head. Wow. In Somali culture, the three biggest taboos are female promiscuousness, homosexuality/lesbianism and apostasy, the fact of leaving Islam for another religion. All three are punishable by death, by the way.

I guess my shock showed on my face, for Alia gently touched my hand and told me she was the same person she'd always been. I resisted the urge to shrink from her. Homosexuality, bisexuality and lesbianism are Haram in Islam, I said confidently. I looked at her, trying in vain to get her to see reason. You cannot be a Somali person, brought up in the Islamic faith, and be gay, bisexual or lesbian. That's not who we are as a people. Having sex with the same sex or with both sexes is something Westerners do. We are Muslims. The Koran tells us how to behave properly as a God-fearing people. Let the Westerners with their liberal faith, Judeo-Christianity, do what they want. A Muslim is supposed to rise above sexual immorality. Ours is NOT a merciful God.

All these words came out of my mouth before I could stop them. A sad look filled Alia's beautiful face, and amazingly, tears rolled down her cheeks. She shrugged and sighed deeply, then told me she was sorry and then got up. She walked away. I sat there, stunned. I just wounded my best friend. Alia walked out of the Rideau Shopping Center, and out of my life. I sat there, feeling like shit. I didn't mean to hurt her, I just didn't know how to react. Among Somalis, our religion is our culture. Regardless of where we live, from Canada to Europe, from America to Australia, Islamic rules impact Somali life. We are who and what we are. That's how things have been in the Somali community for a thousand years and they're not going to change overnight...

I went home that night feeling like shit, and after much soul-searching, I resolved to find Alia Osman, so I could apologize. Now, let me make it clear that I am not a cheerleader for the gay rights movement by any means, but one of the most sacred tenets of all the true faiths ( Judaism, Christianity and Islam ) holds that only God can judge mortals. We shouldn't judge others, because judging others makes us feel superior and pride is a sin in the eyes of Allah the Beneficent, God and Creator of All. By judging Alia for her way of life, I broke one of the most sacred rules of my faith. So I hired a private detective to find her. A week later, the detective told me that Alia was living in a rented apartment in Barrhaven. He gave me the exact address and everything. I gathered my courage, and went to knock on Alia's front door.

I waited a long time before an answer came. While waiting, I thought about all the good times that Alia and I had. I remembered how we supported each other at a school where we were the only non-Whites and also the only non-Christians. Alia had always been the strong one, dealing with the bullies and the racists. I was always the smart and sensitive one, but not the fighter. I still remember how one guy, a rich blond-haired and blue-eyed creep named Kelvin Hauser, tried to force himself on me and Alia was the one who pulled him off me. Jabbing a pen through his thigh, she punished my would-be rapist, and he howled in pain before fleeing, limping all the way.

When we went to the school authorities, they did nothing. Keep in mind that in those days, just like today, racism is alive and well in Canadian institutions. If you're Black, and you're filing a complaint against someone who is both wealthy and white, you don't stand a chance. When I went to my parents, as families often do when a Muslim female is a victim of sexual assault, they blamed me and called me slutty. I shut up about it, and that was the end of it. Or so they thought. I never forgave Kelvin for what he tried to do to me and for years afterwards, my relationships with the opposite sex were strained. At the age of twenty six, I've never had sex and I have never even been kissed. Yeah, I'm damaged goods, but without Alia, things could have been much worse.

Finally, Alia came to the door. Wearing her bathrobe, she seemed surprised to see me. Suspicion filled her eyes, and she looked ready to slam the door in my face. I held up my hands and pleaded with her to let me in. Alia looked me over, then finally let me in. We went to her living room, and sat down. I apologized for my earlier behavior, and Alia smiled and told me she'd forgiven my ignorance. She did seem puzzled by how I was able to find her house, and I came clean with her. Alia smiled and asked me if I was stalking her, and I shook my head. Sitting on the couch across from me, wearing only a bra and panties underneath her bathrobe, Alia looked distractingly beautiful. In fact, I found myself staring at her. A lot. Alia noticed my stare and asked me what was up.

When Alia said that, I gulped. What was up with me indeed? I thought about the past few years of my life. How lonely I'd been. How I was never able to let anyone, man or woman, get close to me. I focused on school and work, and I basically had no life. If I was totally myself, I'd have to admit that occasionally, when I saw a beautiful woman, my gaze lingered on her. One woman haunted my thoughts more than any other all this time. I took a deep breath, and looked Alia in the eyes. Then I told her the truth I'd been hiding from myself for such a long time. I think I'm attracted to you, I said. Alia stared at me, stunned. For a moment, I thought she was going to pass out.

Alia smiled, and asked me how long I'd felt this way. I smiled and told her I'd probably been subconsciously checking out her big butt and big tits while we prayed together in the small prayer room they gave us back at Saint Catherine Academy. Alia laughed, and slapped her thighs. She gestured for me to come sit next to her, and I obeyed. Sitting so close to her, my gorgeous friend looking so luscious, it was...intoxicating. Alia smiled and all of a sudden, our faces were much closer. That's when she kissed me...and I kissed her back. It was my first kiss, and also my first time kissing a woman. I liked it a lot. When we stopped kissing one another, Alia and I just sat there, giggling like a couple of fools. She winked at me, and I felt a rush of desire for her. Hand in hand, we went to her bedroom.