Arab Femdom in Somaliland

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As-Salamu Alaykum, my brothers and sisters. My name is Jonathan James Korfa. My friends call me J.J. My family hails from the town of Dhamasa in the Gedo region of Somaliland. My father and mother moved to the City of Boston, Massachusetts, where I was born a few years later. I grew up in New England, and lived there for my whole life. One day, my existence changed forever. My family and I received amazing news in the mail. My father Ibrahim’s long-lost brother Tabaan Korfa somehow tracked us down all the way in New England, and came over for a visit. He introduced us to his Jamaican-born wife Isabella Winston Korfa and their two twin sons, Mustafa and Ahmed Korfa. Apparently, he’d been living in the Confederation of Canada since the early 1980s and had lost all contact with other members of the family. Wow.

I was fascinated by my newly found uncle Tabaan and his family, to tell you the truth. They were so different from us. Somali-Americans are as different from Somali-Canadians as night and day. My uncle was a practicing Muslim, and his wife was a convert as well. She wore the hijab and everything. Growing up in the City of Boston, I was a really secular kind of guy. My parents didn’t put much stock into organized religion, though they followed Somali politics closely. I was finishing my second year at Bay State College in Boston at the time of our family reunification. My uncle told us about his life back in the City of Ottawa, Ontario. The capital region of Canada. I found myself fascinated.

So much that the following semester, I opted to study for a year at Carleton University in the City of Ottawa, Province of Ontario, rather than to transfer to the University of Massachusetts at Amherst like I previously planned. Since my uncle and his family were citizens of Canada, they filed for me to become a permanent resident so I wouldn’t have to pay international fees for the duration of my stay at one of Canada’s finest universities. How cool was that? I moved to Ottawa, and stayed with my uncle Tabaan and his family in the town of Barrhaven where they lived. Uncle Tabaan is a Constable with the Ottawa Police Service. Aunt Isabella is a schoolteacher. As for my cousins Ahmed and Mustafa, they were both enrolled at Algonquin College. My uncle and his family had built a nice life for themselves in Canada, I must say.

Anyhow, my Canadian adventure had begun. I met a lot of Somalis in the City of Ottawa, and they changed me. For most of my life, I considered myself African-American. There aren’t that many Somali people in the United States of America, and most of them seldom venture outside of the State of Minnesota anyway. By sharp contrast, there were tons of Somali guys and Somali gals in the City of Ottawa. My uncle assured me there were many more in the City of Toronto, the biggest town in all of Canada, and the City of Montreal in the Province of Quebec. I endeavoured to visit those places, and explore my people’s long-lost culture. I was in for a surprise or two, ladies and gentlemen.

My father Ibrahim seldom spoke about his family’s past. All I know is that my father and his brother Tabaan had a falling out after leaving Somaliland as refugees in the early 1980s. They were just a pair of young men then, and the United Nations was searching for a host country for them. My father was selected to go to America, and his brother was chosen by Canada. They somehow fell out of touch shortly after that. My father embraced the American way. He attended the University of Massachusetts at Amherst, earned his degree in Chemistry and worked for the private sector for many years. These days, my Pops teaches applied chemistry at Emerson College in downtown Boston. My mother Fatima is a Corrections Officer for the Massachusetts Department of Corrections. She works at the Walpole State Prison.

In the Confederation of Canada I would discover what it meant to be Somalian. The Somali folks of Canada were radically different from the few I encountered in the United States of America. Somali Canadians are really conservative, and fiercely hang onto both their African culture and their Muslim faith. I know a lot about Islam, but I wouldn’t consider myself Muslim. I’ve always been kind of a party guy. I drink my Irish whiskey, I smoke, and I love the ladies. All kinds of ladies. Black women. White women. Asian women. Hispanic women. I didn’t discriminate. I love the female form regardless of skin tone, believe that. Also, I don’t limit myself to just women. I’m bisexual. That means I’m attracted to both men and women. I’ve hooked up with guys on occasion, just for fun. And I don’t regret it. From what I know of Somali Canadians, they wouldn’t be thrilled to hear that. Even though I am certain that there are gays, lesbians and bisexuals among the oh-so conservative Somali people I encounter in Canada.

My parents know that I’m bisexual, but we don’t really discuss it. I tried having the conversation with my mother many times, but she just bitlis escort doesn’t want to talk about it. She just tells me to use condoms and stay out of trouble. As for my father, he pretty much tells me the same thing. We discuss my girlfriends but never my boyfriends. Sometimes I wonder if my dad is disappointed in me. I’m his only son. A six-foot-three, 250-pound Black man with medium brown skin, light brown eyes and long black hair braided into neat cornrows. I played football for Hyde Park Community High School in Boston for all four years. I could have won a scholarship to any of the big football schools like Boston College, Georgia Tech, UMass-Amherst, University of Florida or Texas Tech. Unfortunately, some bozo outed me as a bisexual during my senior year and for the some reason, the recruiters from the big football schools quit calling. Luckily, I had an academic scholarship offer from Bay State College so my dreams of higher education didn’t end.

Anyhow, that’s in the past. I embraced my new life in the City of Ottawa, Ontario. Carleton University was a really interesting place. A lot more racially diverse than I previously thought any Canadian school would be. It’s on that lively campus that I met the two people who changed my life forever. Waleed Wasif, a young Saudi Arabian guy I met in my psychology class. And of course, the unforgettable Nashida Rukan Baabur. A six-foot-tall, deliciously curvy and absolutely stunning young Somalian woman who seems like a goddess in every way. And I fell for both of them.

I met Waleed during my first day at Carleton University in September 2011. I was walking through campus, desperately looking for my first class of the day. Psychology. This five-foot-nine, slim young Arab guy with a buzz cut looked at my schedule and told me that he had the same class. He smiled, introduced himself and then escorted me to class. We seemed destined to become buds. Waleed was fascinated by my Boston accent, and he seemed really cool. I have absolutely no gaydar. How was I supposed to know he was into me? That same day, I met Nashida as I stumbled into my Business Law class. I showed up on Black Time, as usual. Damn.

I plopped down in a seat in the back, got comfortable and someone asked me to watch where I put my elbow. I narrowed my eyes at the interloper, and was in for the shock of a lifetime. A tall, statuesque Somali woman in a red silk shirt and long black silk dress gazed at me imperiously. I smiled weakly at her, and introduced myself. She looked at my hand, didn’t shake it and said something in the guttural Somali language. She might as well have spoken Japanese. I shrugged because I didn’t understand a word of it. I asked her to speak English, and she rolled her eyes at me. I looked her up and down, grinned appreciatively and at last looked at the teacher, a diminutive White guy with a ponytail. We were off to a nice start, huh?

After class, I approached the Somali chick who refused to shake my hand earlier. I apologized her and noticed that she was talking to a couple of hijab-wearing Somali chicks. I tapped her on the shoulder to get her attention. The three of them stared at me, stunned. I introduced myself as Jonathan James, formerly of Boston, and presently of lame-ass little Ottawa, Ontario. They nodded at me. The one I remembered from class looked me in the eye and asked me if I was really American. I told her I was born and raised in the States. She introduced herself to me, ( again with no handshake ) welcomed me to Ottawa, then she and her friends walked away. I stood there, puzzled. What is up with these Somali ladies, man? Someone tapped me on the shoulder. It was Waleed. He had been observing my little debacle with the Somali women. Shaking his head, he told me that Muslim women didn’t like inter-gender touching much. I nodded, and told him I wasn’t Muslim. I wasn’t raised in any particular faith, to be honest. Waleed nodded, then offered to show me the campus.

After a brief tour of Carleton University, Waleed introduced me to his friends at the University Center. The guy seemed to know everybody. His best friend Jennifer Williams was a tall, red-haired chick who looked Irish but turned out to be of British descent. He was also friends with Marco DeRosa, a short Hispanic guy from El Salvador and Anthony Kilpatrick, a chubby Black guy who looked Jamaican. Incidentally they were all members of the school’s GLBT network. Jennifer was bisexual, and the two guys Waleed introduced me to were card-carrying members of the guys-who-only-like-guys club. I don’t know how I didn’t pick up on it. I smiled at the whole gang, made small talk for a few minutes and told them I had to go. Waleed clapped me on the shoulder and asked me to join them for lunch. He’s the only person on campus who wasn’t an asshole to me. How could I say no? They led me to the campus cafeteria. As I spoke to Waleed and his friends, I noticed that a lot of people were looking at us. I shrugged. bitlis escort bayan I’m a big and tall Black man with a loud voice, tattoos and cornrows. I’m used to people staring at me.

As I bit into my burgers and fries, Waleed told me about himself. He came to Carleton University as an international student two years ago. He’d recently become a permanent resident of Canada, and was proudly out of the closet. He told us he would never go back to Saudi Arabia. Jennifer seemed glad to hear that, and told us with disgust that she found most Saudi men sexist because they refused to let Saudi women drive. As I pondered that, we were joined by a short, chubby Black chick. She planted a kiss on Jennifer’s lips and sat on her lap. Jennifer proudly introduced us to her girlfriend, Amanda Etienne. A Haitian chick, if you can believe that. Wow. I nodded at that. It seems there are a lot of queers at Carleton University. Hmmm. As I dined with my new friends, I noticed a familiar face. It was the Somali chick from earlier. The look she shot my little group was pure disdain.

Man, I couldn’t believe the look she gave me. That’s what puzzles me about them Black women, for real. I was trying to holler at her in class and she was not exactly responsive. Now she sees me chilling with other people, who are not Black for the most part, and she shoots me a look of disapproval. What gives? I ignored Miss Pretty and continued chilling with Waleed and my new buddies. Here were a bunch of friendly, racially diverse students who were comfortable with their sexuality. Mine never came into question, though more than once my queer pals shot me a look as I checked out some big-booty chick walking by. Hey, I like a gal with a big butt. I think it’s genetic because I don’t know any self-respecting Black man who doesn’t like a big butt.

My first day at Carleton University went by quick. A lot of people were warming up to me, and the feeling was mutual. I ran into Nashida Baabur again, this time at the gym. She looked really good in a gray sweatshirt, sweatpants and of course her habitual hijab. I smiled and said hello, and she nodded without saying anything. Never one to let myself get easily discouraged, I got on the stair master next to her and began running. Nashida was doing a full run on her machine, and I smiled as I looked at her big butt. Hot damn. Even with sweatpants on, her big butt was sticking out. As she paused to drink some water, I paused as well. I asked her about her major, and she told me she was studying computer science. I scoffed at that. I studied computer and internet management at Bay State College for a year before switching to Criminal Justice. I wish I never studied computers in the first place. My thoughts must have reflected on my face, for Nashida asked me if I disapproved of her choice of study. I smiled and shook my head, telling her that she made a great choice. A real money maker, career in I.T.

Nashida and I made small talk. Well, I talked. She nodded absentmindedly or smiled blankly for the most part. When some chubby White chick bent over to pick up something and my eyes zeroed in on her fat butt, Nashida rolled her eyes. I smiled and shrugged. Nashida asked me if I was Somali and I told her that I considered myself African-American, though my father and mother emigrated to the U.S. from Somaliland in the 1980s. Apparently, that answer didn’t satisfy Nashida. In a terse tone, she told me that I wasn’t really Somali. I retorted that I came all the way to Ottawa to learn about my Somali heritage after reuniting with my long-lost uncle. I also asked Nashida if they offered a Somali/English class at Carleton University. She nodded, and told me she’d show me where it was. An hour later, after showering ( separately, unfortunately) Nashida and I walked through campus. The usually reserved Somali gal suddenly got really chatty. She had a lot of questions about what life was like in the States. I proudly told her that among African-Americans, we referred to America as Obama Land. Nashida laughed at that, and told me she was glad that the U.S. President was more of a uniter than a divider, unlike the Kenyans she knew.

That kind of puzzled me. Nashida smiled at me, seemingly mystified. I told her I had nothing against Kenyans. She proceeded to tell me that there were hundreds of thousands of Somali people living in Kenya as refugees from perpetual civil war and the Kenyan government wasn’t exactly fond of them. I recalled my father saying something about Kenyan/Somali relations being somewhat tense, but he didn’t go too deeply into it. Nashida told me about tribal warfare in Somaliland, and how so many Africans, particularly Kenyans and Ethiopians, considered Somali people fair game for mistreatment. Man, the stuff she told me was crazy. I had no idea so many Africans were killing each other over ethnic nonsense. I looked Nashida in the eyes and told her that where I’m from, all Black folks considered escort bitlis themselves one people. In America, if you’re Black or half-Black, then you’re Black. Doesn’t matter if you’re the offspring of a Black father/White mother or Black mother/White father. Your ass is Black. Now and forever. Drink your Kool-Aid. Vote democrat. Support Obama. And always watch out for racist cops.

When I told her that, Nashida smiled. She told me she wished Black folks in Africa were as united as African-Americans in the States. I smiled. I was about to ask her something else when she told me we had arrived at our destination. I looked at the old brownstone building in east campus. Hmmm. Nashida and I went inside, after she swiped her student card on the reader. And then we were in. We walked down a hallway before stopping at a nondescript door. Nashida knocked on it, and a tall brother with a high forehead (i.e. Somali) answered. He greeted her in Somali, then shot me a puzzled look. I bumped my fist against his hand, and introduced myself as J.J. Nashida smiled at me and we went inside. Immediately, I took in the scene. There were thirty people in the room, ranging from ages eighteen to the mid-twenties. Most of the students were Black, though I counted two Asian chicks, two White guys and one Mexican-looking dude among them. Nineteen gals and eleven guys, not counting myself or Mr. High Forehead. Nashida introduced me as Jonathan James Korfa, of Boston. I smiled at her and waved at my Somali brothers and sisters. I tried the tradition Muslim greeting but it didn’t come out right and they all laughed. I laughed too, trying to play it off. I later found out I needn’t have bothered. Most of the students in class, even the Somali ones, didn’t speak much Somali. How about that?

As it turns out, Nashida was one of the special professors assistants on campus and she taught the Somali/English language class. Mr. High Forehead, whose legal name was Cisman, was one of the few Black professors at Carleton University. He was apparently a big-shot, having been educated at McGill University in the City of Montreal, Quebec. Cisman was the official professor but it became clear to me that Nashida really ran the show. He wasn’t very good at public speaking. Or maybe we made him nervous. I ignored him and focused on Nashida. The tall, lovely young Somali woman looked simply radiant as she instructed the class. She was only a year or two older than most of the students, but she was quite mature. It wasn’t just that. She had…presence.

One of the White guys grinned nastily as Nashida turned around and wrote on the board, her big butt nearly sashaying in her sweatpants. I shot him a look, and he cocked an eyebrow. Normally, I didn’t care when a dude ogled a chick’s ass, mainly because I’m often guilty of doing the same, but I kind of respected Nashida. So I told this clown to cut it out. He mumbled something and went back to taking notes. The Somali language was hard to pronounce, man. It kind of hurt my ears. My ancestors had been speaking this for centuries? Damn. I sat through the entire class, though. When Nashida gave us a break, half the class didn’t come back. I came back, and sat on the first row. I had my hand up the entire time. For some reason, the guttural Somali language sounded less harsh when Nashida spoke it in her soft, gentle yet firm voice. Hmm.

After class ended, I told Nashida that I wanted to sign up for it. She handed me the form, and told me to go to a special advisor with a Muslim-sounding name. That advisor would make sure I got the class as an elective. Cool. We walked through the campus and I was all smiles. Nashida seemed more relaxed. She asked me if I was serious about wanting to learn. I told her that growing up in Boston, I had never seen any other Somali people. The Black people I saw in New England came from the Republic of Haiti, Jamaica, Trinidad and Brazil. Or they were the descendants of Africans who’d been forcibly brought to the United States by Europeans centuries ago. Direct immigrants from African countries like Somalia, Eritrea, Ethiopia, Nigeria and Gambia preferred New York or Texas. Multicultural Houston was fast becoming a mecca for immigrants from Africa. Nashida’s eyes held a softness I hadn’t seen in them before when I told her that I felt like Tarzan among humans while around Somalis in Ottawa. They looked like me, recognized me as one of them but I was clearly different.

Nashida suddenly stood very close to me. Gently, she touched my arm. Looking me in the eyes, she told me that we must never forget where we came from. She also promised to help me reconnect with our people, and our faith. I nodded at that. Smiling gently, she told me she had never seen anyone like me before. Then she said the words “Allah Afiz” then wished me a good night and walked away. I watched her go. Tall, statuesque, prettier than a goddess and smarter than Einstein. Damn. What a woman. What did I just get myself into? If all Somali women are like that, I’m so frigging converting to Islam. Not for the religion but for the women. Waleed told me that among Muslims living outside North America and Europe, taking multiple wives was considered okay. Wow. Islam is starting to sound really good to me, player.

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