Arab Femdom in Somaliland

That night, I sat at the dinner table with my uncle Tabaan and my aunt. My cousins were still out. They asked me how my first day went and I couldn't shut up about Nashida. My aunt smiled, and asked me if I liked that gal. I shrugged. I just met the chick. Aunt Isabella grinned, and told me that maybe Nashida thought I was okay since she touched me and all. A bell went off in my head. Hey, she did touch me! While we were talking, right after the Somali language class. Aunt Isabella assured me that women, Somali women included, weren't all touchy with men they didn't like. I smiled at that. Uncle Tabaan rolled his eyes, and asked me how my classes went. I assured him I felt academically confident. I was about to continue when my cousins Ahmed and Mustafa came in. They're identical twins, as I mentioned before. Each one is six-foot-three, broad-shouldered and slender, with dark brown skin, light brown eyes and curly Black hair. Ahmed keeps his hair real short, buzz-cut style. And he always wear military-style outfits with an urban flair. I nicknamed him Rambo G. He doesn't like it. Ahmed is cool, though. He's loud, friendly and easygoing. He plays soccer for Algonquin College and dreams of playing for Manchester United one day. As for his twin brother Mustafa, he's nerdy. He wears glasses, though Ahmed prefers contacts. Mustafa is quiet and moody, always hitting the books. He loves his comic books, his computer and his chess games. He keeps to himself. His only friend in the world seems to be Adrienne Chang, the chubby Chinese chick next door.

I exchanged dap with my cousin Ahmed the moment he came in. He bumped me on the shoulder, calling me J.J. and asking me if I met any hot chicks lately. I told him I was about to get all of Carleton on lockdown. He laughed, and told me I just got here. As for Mustafa, he said a general hello to all of us, kissed Aunt Isabella on the cheek, nodded at Uncle Tabaan and then went to the basement. Damn. Not the most social man in the world. Uncle Tabaan shrugged. He'd long since given up on trying to change who Mustafa was. I ate the delicious Halal chicken which Aunt Isabella prepared, and washed it down with bread and some orange juice. We talked about our day. I felt like telling them about Waleed and my new friends but remembered that they were real conservative and wouldn't understand. Just like my mom and pop. I could discuss my girlfriends at the dinner table but never my boyfriends. Welcome to the life of the tragic Somali-American bisexual. Episode number one million.

That night, I couldn't sleep. I went online, and checked my Facebook. I had two friend requests. One from Nashida and one from Waleed. I added them both. I browsed through Nashida's profile, and noticed that aside from a few pictures, it was set on private. Waleed's profile was....wide open. He had tons of pictures. Images of him in what I assumed was Saudi Arabia with his family. Shots of him on the beach with a bare-chested muscular Black guy. Okay. Waleed's gayer than a two-dollar bill. Cool. I sent him a brief message. Just hi, along with my cell phone number. I signed up with TELUS because my T-Mobile cell phone from Boston was costing me too much in Ottawa. I sent the same message to Nashida. Then I went to bed.

The next day, I went to class. I ran into Nashida, and she was a real chatterbox. Gone was the ice queen from the previous day. She seemed to have assigned herself as my go-to gal for all things Somalian. And I must say I really didn't mind. I sent her a text asking her if she wanted to grab a bite at the University Center after class and she said yeah. We went, and were joined by some of the Somali guys and gals from the Language class. Nashida introduced me to Dahir, a stocky Somali guy with a little afro and his girlfriend Aisha, a tall, light-skinned Somali chick who reminded me of Hollywood starlet Nicki Minaj. I also met Mohammed, a tall, dark-skinned Somali guy with a perpetual unlit cigarette on his lips. He wore a Samuel L. Jackson T-shirt and carried himself like a tough guy. Mohammed moved to Ottawa from Mogadishu, the capital of Somaliland, three years ago. He was really afro-centric, always talking about Malcolm X and Dr. King. Nashida teased him endlessly, saying that a real afro-centric brother wouldn't be dating a chubby White chick. That usually shut Mohammed up. Nashida's friend Nadya, a short Somali chick with a nose piercing, also teased Mohammed, even though she was dating Ryan, a nerdy-looking, red-haired White guy from the University of Ottawa.

Unexpectedly, I became the subject of conversation. The Somali brats of Ottawa had never met a Somali from the States before. They asked me if there was a Somali community in Boston, how often I went to Mosque, and was America really as hostile to Muslims as Canadian newspapers made it out to be. I told them that there were no Somali in Boston other than my family ( as far as I knew) and the last time I went to a Mosque, Bill Clinton was still President. Mohammed shook his head, and told me I had a lot to learn. He also volunteered to teach me. Nashida shot him a look and he backed off. A few moments later, a chubby White chick wearing a Wesley Snipes T-shirt came over to the table. She kissed Mohammed on the lips, and he excused himself from our table. Nashida and some of the gals watched him go. Nashida looked me in the eye and told me the only things I could learn from Mohammed was smoking weed and chasing fat White women. I happily told her I had no interest in any of the above. A slight exaggeration, since I did weed in the past and banged more White chicks in Boston than any brother I knew. However, Nashida is a woman and you got to tell women what they want to hear. She seemed pleased with my answer. As I talked with my Somali friends, I noticed Waleed and his pals sitting a few tables across from us. I smiled at them. Nashida followed my gaze, noticed Waleed and the others looking back, but didn't say anything. I kept my eyes on my plate for the rest of dinner.

The next time I ran into Waleed, he was really cold to me. I was sitting inside the campus library, browsing through Youtube. There were some really cool fan-made action videos featuring Hancock, with Linkin Park music in the background. I'm a big fan of Will Smith so I added these videos to my collection. Waleed plopped down on the seat next to me, and pointedly ignored me as I greeted him. I asked him what his problem was. Waleed told me that he didn't like closet cases. I reminded him that my Facebook account clearly indicated that I was interested in both men and women. I also reminded him that I texted him but he didn't reply to me. Waleed apologized, and then shrugged. He told me he was sorry for being an ass. I smiled and told him he had a nice ass. The Saudi stud laughed. He had a nice smile too. That's what went through my head as I leaned closer and kissed him. Right in the middle of the crowded library. Damn. A chubby Black chick walking by shook her head as she watched Waleed and I smooching. Oh, well. There goes my rep in this school.

Waleed told me he liked me. I told him I thought he was cool, but I wasn't looking for any drama. Or anything serious. I'm not the attachment type. At all. Waleed told me he could roll with that, then he handed me a flyer. Something about a house party on Canter boulevard in Nepean. Then he gave me a half-hug before getting up and walking away. I looked at that flyer. House party, huh? I might be new to Canada but I wasn't born yesterday. House parties with queer men usually turned into orgies. Not my scene. I should text Waleed and tell him I needed a rain check on the house party, but I didn't. A few minutes after Waleed left, guess who sat down on the seat next to me. None other than Nashida. My favorite Somali gal was simply shimmering with happiness. I asked her if everything was okay, and she nodded excitedly. I smiled. Clearly she had important news to deliver. Nashida told me that the Somali Language program at Carleton University was the recipient of a grant from the Toronto Foundation of Multiculturalism or T.M.F. I looked at her. This was good news, I guess. Nashida was so happy that she hugged me. Wow.

I looked at her and smiled. Clearly this was important for her. With unshed tears in her big brown eyes she looked at me, telling me how the Somali Language program struggled to get off the ground at Carleton University. Not too many Somali students were interested. They lucked out in finding a professor willing to teach it, but that was about it. The program lacked sufficient funding, and was slated for termination next year if it couldn't find sufficient financial support, which is an added benefit of student interest. I looked at Nashida, marveling at this amazing young woman who sat before me. She was so passionate, so devoted to her people and her culture. I had never met anyone like her. At all. Ever. Impulsively, I took her beautiful face in my hands...and I kissed her. It just felt like the thing to do.

When we came apart, Nashida stared at me, stunned. I kind of noticed everybody in the vicinity was sort of looking at us. Yeah, I just kissed a conservatively dressed, hijab-wearing Somali gal. Got a problem with that? Nashida smiled at me hesitantly. Like someone who was pleasantly surprised. I smiled at her, and told her I was really happy for her. She grinned, and told me she didn't usually kiss guys she just met. I reminded her that we weren't total strangers, and we did come from the same people. Nashida laughed at that. She told me she had to get certain things ready. She was helping professor Cisman with a lot of forms he had to take care of. I offered to walk her to his office. She acquiesced. Linking her arm with mine, I strode through campus with her. My second day on campus, ladies and gentlemen.

I walked Nashida to professor Cisman's office, and left the two of them to take care of business. I walked back to the library. I had a little time to kill before my next class. It was fall in Ottawa, and the leaves were falling everywhere. The very first Fall that I'm spending away from Boston, to tell you the truth. I've only been outside Massachusetts once while I still lived in the United States. It was a couple of years before my big move to the Province of Ontario. I was visiting my mother's best friend and her husband in the City of Hartford, Connecticut. Fall always makes me think of beginnings and endings. I'm living outside Boston, away from mom and dad for the first time ever. The town of Ottawa isn't what I expected but it's an okay place for the most part. I like Carleton University. I wish they had a football team. They're bringing football back in a year or two. I might not be around to try out when they officially start filling out their roster. I think of the old life I left behind in Bean Town. I miss riding the Red Line train from Ashmont all the way to Alewife, and making fun of eggheads along the way. I miss hanging out with my buddies from Hyde Park on Boston Commons. Ottawa has few places like that.

I am starting to really like Nashida. As I walk out of the library and head through the quad, I receive a text from her. She tells me that I've got sweet lips for an American roughneck, and she also thinks Saint Laurent Mall is a cool place. Translation? She wants to hang out with me. I text her back, telling her that we can meet tomorrow, grab a bite together and also catch a movie. She tells me she's down with that. I smile, text her a smiley face and tell I got to go. I receive another text, this one from Waleed. He promises me his party's a tame affair to celebrate his best friend Jennifer Williams birthday. Translation? It's a lesbian party, not a gay party. Think lots of chicks walking around, all militant and stuff. Not too many guys on the premises, and only gay ones need enter. Fat chance of it turning into an orgy. Sounds cool. I just got here and I'm not trying to get mixed up in anything. I text Waleed that I'm definitely coming to the party. I zip through a nearby store and buy a copy of Imagine Me And You, a lesbian romantic comedy featuring Lena Headey. The tough chick from The Sarah Connor Chronicles. Sounds like a good birthday present for a queer woman, huh? I thought so.

Smiling wistfully, I go back to campus. I've still got class. And man, I'm getting texts left and right. The first one is from Waleed, and it contains a picture of him in his boxers. He looks surprisingly buff. Cool. He's got a nice body on him. Amazingly, the second text is a picture message from Nashida. I did not know Muslim women went to the beach. From my aunt Isabella I learned that conservative Muslim women wore a shroud-like swimsuit called a Hasema at the beach. It really covered everything. Like an astronaut's suit, almost. Gee. Well, imagine my surprise when I saw a picture of Nashida wearing a head scarf, and a regular swimsuit, showing off her spectacularly hot body. Wow. If you want to know what Nashida looks like, you're going to be stunned. Imagine a Black woman with the face of Alicia Keys, the body of Ashanti, the ass of Serena Williams ( from the old days, when it was bigger) and the grace of Beyonce Knowles. That's Nashida in a nutshell. In other words, perfect. I texted her back that she was a goddess, and nearly gave me a heart attack. LOL was her reply, followed by some sweet words. I stood there, shaking my head.

What is it about me draws both women and men to me like moths to the proverbial flame? I am attracted to both, but I don't like commitment. I got my heart shattered into a trillion pieces once. I don't ever want to go through that again. The problem is that I care for both Nashida and Waleed. What am I going to do? God, Allah, Yahweh, Buddha, Jehovah...whoever's listening....help this confused brother please! I stood there in the middle of the quad, cell phone in hand while looking heavenward. And the answer came to me. I'm going to get to know both of them really well. Whichever one I fall in love for will be the one I choose. That's the best I can do. The universe can't ask any more of me. Wish me luck, people. I'm about to go through the crucible in this insane thing called love.