Somali Queen In Ottawa Ch. 13

As Salam Alaikum, dear friends and readers. Yasmin Hussein here. I'm your favorite tall and curvaceous, sinfully sexy brown-skinned Somali-Canadian Muslim cutie, and man have I got a story for you. The other day, I was walking through the Saint Laurent Mall in the east end of Ottawa with my Haitian boyfriend Steve Salomon when we ran into some old friends of mine from high school.

Rabia Khan and Salwa Hassan are a couple of Somali chicks I have known all my life. We drifted apart after high school, though we definitely kept in touch through Facebook and Twitter. It had been ages since I'd seen these two. Not since the summer after our high school graduation, actually. I chose to study at Algonquin College and they went to the University of Ottawa. Anyways, I was walking out of Sears and headed to the food court upstairs when I saw two very familiar silhouettes.

Excitedly I walked up to them, and recognized my two old friends. Happily I greeted Salwa and Rabia, and introduced them to my boo, Steve. They looked him up and down and I swear, disapproval rolled off them in waves. For they could tell that Steve wasn't Somali. The dude had Haitian written all over him. Clad in a red silk shirt, burgundy tie, dark blue silk pants and Timberland boots, Steve had just come back from an interview with a call center. My man was looking real good to me, but obviously Salwa and Rabia didn't approve.

If Steve picked up on Salwa and Rabia's sudden frostiness, he didn't let on. My boo was his usual confident, friendly self. I made small talk with Rabia and Salwa, then wished them goodbye before we parted ways. Steve and I caught the escalator leading up to the food court and Salwa and Rabia headed toward the postal office. Steve and I went to Manchu Wok and he ordered a plate of rice with potatoes, orange chicken and salty pork. Even though I consider myself super liberal, I'm still a Muslim woman. No pork for me. I ordered rice and potatoes, with chicken wings and a lemonade.

As we sat down to eat, I watched Steve as he all but devoured his plate. My man is an eater. I winced as he wolfed down several spoonful of pork. Steve saw me looking at him and asked me what I was wrong. I flashed a fake smile, told him everything was alright, and then resumed eating. As we ate, a couple of Somali guys walked by with two girls who were obviously not Somali. One of the girls, a tall, bronze-skinned and dark-haired gal, looked either Persian or Arab. The other looked Jamaican, either that or she was some type of Caribbean female. The quartet sat near us with their food, and began to eat. Just a regular foursome of twenty-something collegiate types, laughing and enjoying each other's company.

At some point, one of the Somali guys looked at me, saw Steve, and narrowed his eyes. I gritted my teeth and stared at him defiantly. Yes, I'm a Somali woman with a Haitian boyfriend. This Somali dude with his Arab girlfriend really shouldn't talk. He can't fault me for dating someone from outside our community, not when he's guilty of the same thing himself. He nudged his buddy, who looked up, saw me with Steve, and muttered something in Somali. Both guys shook their heads, then went back to laughing and talking with their dates or female friends or whatever.

Steve Salomon looked at me, a worried look in his soulful dark eyes. What's bothering you Yasmin? he asked me in a serious, concerned tone. I looked at Steve, and flashed him a brave smile. Swallowing hard, I finally decided to fess up. I was frank with Steve, about everything. Salwa and Rabia's disapproval of our relationship. My discomfort with Steve's dietary habits, especially his fondness for pork, which I, as a Muslim woman, consider haram or forbidden. I'm sorry, I said at last, sighing deeply and looking into Steve's stunned eyes.

There was much I hadn't told Steve. I've been estranged from my family for quite a while. No, it doesn't have anything to do with Steve. My family and I stopped talking to each other long before I met Steve. Why is that, you may ask? I've always been the headstrong type, and when you're a Muslim woman, that can be seriously hazardous to your health. The Somali community in Canada is facing an internal struggle over modernism and traditionalism. I straddle both sides of the fence when it comes to my Somali culture and my Islamic faith.

What can I say? I am a complex woman. I have many different sides to myself. I go out wearing a Hijab and a traditional long skirt, and I do carry my Quran in my purse. I also like to smoke, drink and party. I go to Masjid on Friday nights like a good Muslim sister. On Saturday nights I'm at the Honest Lawyer bar with my boyfriend Steve, wearing a tank top, baseball cap and short skirt, and chugging down Alexander Keith's beer like it's going out of style. I can recite Koranic passages about the importance of Muslim feminine chastity and purity. And I enjoy wild, kinky sex with my boyfriend Steve Salomon. Yeah, I've been leading a double life, as you can see. All this I shared with Steve.

When I finished my little spiel, Steve looked at me. In a calm voice, Steve told me he was sorry that loving someone like him was incompatible with my Islamic beliefs. As I looked on in shock, the big and tall Haitian man I called my boo, the person I cherished the most in the world, simply got up. Stunned, I asked him where he was going. Steve shook his head, and I noticed that his eyes looked moist. He seemed on the verge of tears. Steve said nothing, and simply grabbed his coat and left. Hurrying, he dashed across the food court and rushed down the escalators. And out of my life. I looked heavenward, stunned by this development. Why, Lord, why?