Somali Lesbian Werewolf

Whatever you do, don't call me Manny. I absolutely hate it. What kind of name is that for a chick anyways? If you know what's good for you, you'll address me by my proper name Manal Muhammad. When I said that, the pudgy teacher's assistant glared at me balefully, a look of simmering anger filling his reddened face. His blue eyes were like ice cubes. I could literally smell the rage off him. I stood in his office, hands on my hips, waiting for his response. I can't stand that annoying little man who tends to give me grades much lower than I deserve. Finally, he nodded and apologized, and told me to take up my grievance about the paper with the professor. Snatching the paper out of his hand, I flashed him a cold smile and told him I'd do just that. Then I walked out of his cramped excuse for an office.

I don't suffer fools. It's not who I am. I'm a young Black woman of Somali descent living in the City of Calgary, province of Alberta. I'm five-foot-nine, neither chubby nor skinny but more than a bit on the curvy side, in a healthy way. I have dark brown skin and long, curly black hair that I typically hide under a baseball cap. People say I look like Raven Simone the Hollywood starlet but I always bristle at that. I don't look like her. Please, that bitch looks like me! I have a round, jovial face and people think I'm sweet until I open my mouth. Then they shake their heads and run for cover. Anyhow, I walked through the sciences department and finally arrived at the mailbox of one professor Gail Vincent, whose T.A. Barry "the piglet" Marvin is such an ass. I dropped the paper, along with a note explaining why I feel like I deserve a higher mark. With that, I walked back to the university center.

You've got to show them that you mean business out here in the City of Calgary, man. Especially if you're a minority because this town is full of rednecks and they don't like us immigrant types one bit even though we're what makes the economy grow. I'm a proud immigrant and tout my Somali heritage every chance I get. I was born in the Abudwak region of Somalia, and my parents, Abdirahman and Farah Muhammad moved to western Canada a few months after my birth. We've lived here ever since. My dad is a mechanic and my mom works as a nurse at the Foothills Medical Center in Calgary. Haven't seen either of them in ages. Why is that? I'll explain later. I work part-time as a security guard and study biochemistry at the University of Calgary. Yup, I'm a model of self-sufficiency.

I went to the Calgary University Center, and sat there with my good friends Ramona Vasquez and Jean-Marc Etienne. Ramona greeted me with a hug and smile. The petite, curvy, short-haired and bronze-skinned, Mexican-born diva has been my best friend forever. We grew up next to each other in the Monterey Park neighborhood of Calgary. It's kind of a pricy area but my parents got a good deal on the duplex we live in. Ramona was born in the City of Matamoros, Mexico, to Juan and Marianna Vasquez. Her parents moved to Canada when she was about six, and she's been here ever since.

We couldn't be more different as far as our ethnicities, faiths and lifestyles but we're best pals. Ramona is a staunch Catholic who goes to church twice a week. Me? My family is Muslim but I can't tell you the last time I went to mosque. I believe that there is a God but religion just isn't for me. Want to know what all the major religions have in common? They uplift men, place restrictions on us women and allow clerics to micromanage the lives of their flock. Not for me, thank you very much. I have other interests. I smoke, drink, party hard, hate wearing hijabs and I love my mannish clothes. I'm a die-hard tomboy at heart. No skirts for me. I love rugby, soccer and softball. I'm not the kind of chick they welcome at the local Masjid. I'm a happy sinner!

Anyhow, Ramona and I are a dynamic duo but there's a third musketeer in our little band. Jean-Marc Etienne, a tall and broad-shouldered, dark-skinned young brother originally from the island of Haiti. We don't get a lot of Haitians in metropolitan Calgary. Typically, French-speaking immigrants prefer the provinces of Ontario and Quebec, not the prairies like our dear Alberta. Ramona and Jean-Marc met while studying civil engineering at the University of Calgary library and I guess they clicked. The Haitian nerd and the Mexican bible thumper, with matching crosses and dopey smiles.

Jean-Marc, who hates it when I call him J.M. rolls his eyes at me and reads the Calgary Herald. Something about a schoolteacher found dead, her body torn to shreds, her throat ripped out. The corpses was discovered in the woods. Law enforcement suspected a wild animal at first but since this is the third such attack that they know of with such a modus operandi, they think there's a serial killer on the loose. I ignore J.M. as he reads and exchange a knowing look with Ramona. She nods and I smile, before going back to our usual antics. Snatching the paper from J.M. I ask him when he's going to propose to Ramona and he shoots me a wuthering look. I shrug and laugh. I tease these two lovebirds all the time but it's only because I love them. Around Ramona and Jean-Marc, I can be myself. I can't do that around my fellow Somalis. My fellow Somalis kind of frown on my being a L-E-S-B-I-A-N. and all.

Not that my parents and I have ever had a talk about my sexual orientation. In the Somali community, we don't discuss such things. We're kind of a conservative bunch. In Islam, being gay, lesbian, bisexual or transsexual is considered haram or just plain wrong. If I were still in Somalia, I would have been whipped publicly or perhaps even killed for being what I am, a woman who is sexually attracted to other women. The first gal I had a crush on, a young Somali chick named Aminah, returned my affections. We would kiss and make out and explore one another when nobody was looking. And it felt normal and natural to me. It's a shame she moved to Ottawa. I miss her. Loving women doesn't feel wrong to me. If you ask me, my people need to get over themselves. They're still hanging onto disgusting, barbaric and outdated practices like female circumcision and arranged marriages.

Thank God I haven't been sliced like so many Somali sisters around the world. Typically, Somalis living in America, Canada and Europe send their daughters to Somalia for a summer when they come of age and while they're over there, the women of the family hold them down and...you can guess the rest. Thank God I was spared that grisly fate because I ran away the summer after my first year of high school, when my parents spoke of sending me to Somalia to visit some aunt I never heard of. Like hell, I knew what they REALLY had in mind!

I went to my favorite teacher's house, Miss Leech, and begged her not to let my parents send me to Somalia to get circumcised. She contacted social services. My parents fought to have me back and for two years I was ward of the province of Alberta. I became kind of famous because of that case, and to the Somali community I became a traitor and a pariah. My parents and I don't talk, and I've got a permanent restraining order against both of them. Just in case they want to do the honor killing thing, which you shouldn't put past any Muslim by the way. Trust me, I know what I'm talking about.

Yeah, life hasn't been easy for me, and I haven't even gotten to the hard part yet. I'm different, and I don't mean just because I'm Somali, queer or from a Muslim background. I mean that I'm different because of what's in my DNA. What do I mean by that? Earlier, I told you that I could smell the rage off that T.A. Marvin back at his office. I meant that literally. People smell different when they're scared, angry or horny. Chemicals released by special glands cause the odor change. Now, people can't smell those things but I can because I'm no ordinary human being. I have ultra-sharp senses, and I can also shape-shift at will from human form to that of a six-foot-tall, muscular, bipedal wolf-like creature. Yeah, I'm a werewolf. The only person who knows this about me is Ramona. How that happened is a story I will never forget.

I remember that summer night when Ramona and I were coming home from the movies and we were walking through the park near our house and all of a sudden, a tall older white guy came out of the bushes and rushed us. He grabbed Ramona, and when I tried to stop him, he struck me and I fell. Dazed, I lay on the grass, watching helplessly as he subdued my best friend and tried to shove her in his car. Something came over me right then and there, and next thing I knew, my body was twisting and changing. It was the first time I realized what I was, more than human, cursed by mother nature to become a wolf-like monstrosity every time I got worked up. I bounded after Ramona's assailant, and I pounced on him. It was a grisly scene. I don't like to think about it.

What happened next, though, I can't forget. After tearing out the man's throat, I tasted his flesh and blood, and they sickened me. My body was wracked with convulsions as I morphed back to human. From a massive bipedal beast with thick brown fur, yellow eyes and fangs to a chubby African girl. I lay there, shivering. The transformation takes a lot out of me. I didn't know that at first. How could I? Being a werewolf doesn't come with an instruction manual. I know of no other like myself. Ramona saved me that day. My best friend had seen me transform into a beast and slaughter the man who sought to abduct her, and then shift back to human form. She wrapped her arms around me, and told me everything was going to be okay. She's the one who got me home safely that night.

The man who came after us that day in the park was Lionel Dawson of Houston, Texas. Wanted in the U.S. for the murder of five women. There were rumors that he'd crossed over the Canadian border and the disappearance of several women in Calgary, Alberta, suggested foul play of the serial killing kind might be happening in town. His death was ruled an animal attack. Lots of coyotes and even wolves roam Alberta, though they seldom come close to the metropolitan areas. Yeah, I killed my first serial killer when I was still in high school. And he wouldn't be my last. The world is full of men and women without conscience, people who kill for pleasure. With the honed senses of a werewolf, I can easily detect them.

Three nights ago, I killed Nancy Thompson, forty-something schoolteacher in the west end of Calgary, loving wife to certified public accountant Timothy O'Connor and devoted stepmother to little Anthony. This lady seems like a saint. A petite, lively blonde who seems like the nicest person in the world. What people don't know is that she killed people. I know of at least two victims of hers, her former co-worker Neal Tartan ( with whom she was having an affair ) and her seventy-year-old grandmother Annette whom she killed for the insurance money. I've become a pretty good investigator. It's amazing the things you can find out about people by using the internet or simply by following them around and looking through their stuff when they're not around.

Believe me when I tell you that Nancy Thompson needed killing. I don't discriminate based on race, religion, gender or sexual orientation. If you're evil, and you're in my town, better look behind you. I'll hunt you, find you, and kill you. It's what I do. Ramona knows what I do but we don't discuss it. That first night changed us both. There is evil out there. The thing about evil is that all too often it wears a disturbingly familiar, ordinary and nonthreatening face. People who become terrorists, serial killers, mass murderers, sexual predators and genocidal maniacs don't look like Darth Vader. They look like you and me. They're out there and they need stopping. I have the power so I seek them, I hunt them and I destroy them. As a wolf-woman, I have the urge to kill. I've had to make my peace with it. Therefore I only kill those who kill the innocent. My way of balancing the universe. There's a full moon tonight, and lots of creeps out there. Happy hunting to me.