The Hijab Hunter: Cleaning Lady

Another fine day in the City of Ottawa, Ontario. I got my tired Haitian ass off the bus and walked to the university campus. While in the student center I got myself some coffee and sandwiches, and stopped to chit chat with the light-skinned tomboy working behind the Tim Horton’s counter. I walked to the library and took the elevator to the third floor, and guess what I saw when I came out of it.

A pair of hijab-wearing, somewhat matronly Somali ladies…with big round butts. Hello sister Jabirah, I said to the six-foot-tall, pretty-face plump woman. Hi Stefan, Jabirah Muhammad said with a smile, her round face brightening up. I held the door for her as she worked the cart she was pushing into the elevator. Thank you very much Stefan, Jabirah said. I nodded at her respectfully. Have a blessed day my sister, I said as the elevator doors closed and she went down.

I went to my favorite spot in the back of the library and logged on the computer. I thought about the day’s events. I went to my church, and ran into a racist jerk. Now, my church is very multicultural, I just want to put that out there. The preacher, a good friend of mine, is a black man. He’s married to an Asian lady. There are lots of people from places like the Caribbean, Latin America, Africa and southeast Asia in the congregation. Yet this middle-aged white dude shot me a negative look when I went into the church’s study area to speak to my Jamaican buddy Craig.

The bearded middle-aged white guy stood at the entrance like he was guarding it. My pal Craig’s wife, a tall sister in a summer dress, asked the white dude if he was the study area’s bouncer. When he heard what she said, he relented somewhat in his attitude toward me. I walked past him and shook my buddy Craig’s hand. We chatted for a couple of minutes then I went on my way. I thought about the dude’s behavior as I caught the bus to campus. There are a lot of racists in Ottawa, but the most dangerous ones are the smiling ones who act fake-nice around us so-called minorities but deep down inside, they hate us.

Ontario, Canada’s Capital region, is a complex place. I’ve known that ever since I moved here from my hometown of Boston, Massachusetts. I attend a university in the Ottawa area, and for the most part, I am guarded in my interactions with the locals. I’ve met plenty of nice people of all shades, but I’ve also met my share of bigots and creeps. Caution guides my interactions with the Canadians. This isn’t progressive New England, where Deval Patrick got elected Governor and no one batted an eyelash.

The incident at my church surprised me because I considered the people within the congregation my sisters and brothers in Jesus Christ. Never occurred to me that there might be wolves amongst the sheep. Sometimes the most bigoted person you know isn’t the fool telling crude jokes in all-white company but the fake-smiling creep at a gathering full of ethnic people. Lesson learned. Got to keep my eyes on that creep from now on. In Boston, you know your friends and you know your enemies. The bigots walk up to you talking trash, and your pals back you up. That’s how we do it. It’s simpler that way. The subtlety and backstabbing ways of Canadians irk me. Give me an honest creep any day.

It’s not just white Canadians who have issues with the growing number of immigrants from non-European backgrounds multiplying across the country. Quite often different minority groups have issues with each other. A lot of the local Haitians had a problem with Somalis, for example. Not me. Coming into Canada from Massachusetts, I didn’t see the Somalis as outsiders. I saw them as my sisters and brothers from Africa. I befriended quite a few, and learned about their faith and culture. I was brought up Christian, you understand, so there were some tense moments between my new Muslim friends and myself but for the most part, my interactions with Somalis, Arabs and Lebanese have been overwhelmingly positive.

I’ve met the big, scary Muslims you hear about on the web and on television and they’re among the nicest people you’ll ever meet. I befriended Ali, a young Somali guy in the criminology program at my new university. Through him I met a few others, like a young Djibouti gal named Amina and a young Saudi guy named Ibrahim. See? I make friends wherever I go. I’m twenty eight years old and although I’m in graduate school, I still think I’ve got a lot to learn.

I went to Web CT and worked on my assignment, and after two hours of ceaselessly typing, I was bored as can be. I went downstairs to clear my head. While sitting in a corner of the building I saw a very familiar silhouette moving about and talking animatedly in a language I did not know. Isn’t that…oh yes it is Jabirah, the kindly Somali lady I sometimes talk to. She stopped talking on the phone and leaned against the building wall, sniffing loudly. I’d seen enough. I walked up to her and asked her if she was alright.

Jabirah looked at me, smiled sadly and shook her head. My world is crashing down my brother, the Somali lady said in a sad tone. Talk to me, I said, gently laying my hand on her shoulder. Jabirah looked at me and at my hand. I briskly apologized, for Muslim women don’t like to be touched by men they don’t know. Come to think, all women feel that way. Don’t apologize my friend, Jabirah said, and her fingers brushed against mine. Then she told me her tale of woe. I am thirty five years and useless because I’m barren, Jabirah said. She told me how Suleiman, the man she’d hoped to marry recently dumped her. The wedding she’d spent a year working to pay was off. I am useless, she said, shaking her head, tears streaming down her face. You are not useless, I told her.

What happened next surprised us both. One moment I was gently holding Jabirah in my arms to comfort her, and the next we were kissing. Yup, I’m a big and tall, cross-wearing Haitian-American catholic, and I made out with a hot-looking, hijab-wearing, pleasantly plump and rather tall Somali cleaning lady. And her lips were the sweetest I’d ever kissed. I shouldn’t have done that, I said to Jabirah. Smiling, she shook her head. Me neither, she giggled. I am fond of you milady, I said in a mock English accent. Jabirah laughed, and we began the kisses again.

That’s how it began, ladies and gentlemen. My romance with a woman from another ethnicity, another culture and another faith. We embarked on a secret, passionate relationship. Dating a Somali woman changed my life. There was so much about African culture I didn’t know. My parents Pauline and Jean-Francois Casimir are Haitian immigrants who moved to Massachusetts from the Caribbean. Until I came to Canada, my knowledge of black culture was limited to my interactions with folks from the Caribbean and America. Somalis are something else altogether. Jabirah was surprisingly open-minded, considering we’re from very different faiths and walks of life. Muslim women typically avoid dating men from other religions. When I asked her why she took a chance on me, Jabirah laughed. Every Muslim guy I’ve ever been with treated me like shit and the only man who was ever kind to me is a Christian, she said with a knowing smile. Good answer Miss B, I said as I gave her a peck on the lips.

Jabirah and I have a lot of fun together, and I treasure every moment of our relationship. I love taking her to the movies. The Silver City movie theater is our favorite spot, followed by East Side Mario’s restaurant. I love taking her ballroom dancing, and this tall, pleasantly plump sister is surprisingly light on her feet. We’d been seeing each other for six months before consummating our relationship. We were hanging out at my place in Vanier, watching a rerun of the old television series Highlander on my laptop.

Lying on the couch together, with her body pressed against mine, I felt super comfortable with Jabirah and hoped she felt comfortable with me. Indeed she did for she let out a loud fart out of the blue. Damn baby, I said, mock-coughing for effect. My farts don’t smell, Jabirah laughed. I gave her big round ass a hard smack. Playfully we wrestled, jockeying for position. I’m six-foot-four but kind of spry at two hundred and ten pounds. Jabirah outweighed me by a good fifty pounds. Jabirah looked at me, and I looked at her, and next thing I knew we were wrestling on the floor. Um, she kind of pinned me.

I looked up at Jabirah. Gosh she was beautiful. You want me, she said, licking her lips. It wasn’t a question. Indeed I do, I said. Smiling, Jabirah began removing her clothes. First came her dark blue long-sleeved T-shirt, followed by her bra. The only things that remained were her hijab and long skirt. Got no panties under there, she whispered into my ear. My eyes widened as I saw her breasts. They were big and round, and totally natural. Gently I cupped them in my hands. Squeeze them, Jabirah said lustily. I did just that. I took her left breast into my mouth and gently sucked on it, much to Jabirah’s delight, for she moaned in pleasure. Sweetie I’m going to rock your world, I promised.

A little while later, I had Jabirah on her back, her skirt up and her legs spread. I had my face buried in that hairy snatch of hers and I was eating her out like my life depended on it. Lick it good, Jabirah moaned, licking her lips. I licked that sweet pussy of hers, sticking my tongue inside and teasing her clitoris. Drove her absolutely nuts, and I loved every minute of it. I’ve gone down on a few women and Jabirah was different, to say the least. You see, in Somali culture, they ‘modify’ women in the name of chastity and purity. Jabirah told me what to expect, and I was ready. I will pleasure you like no one before, I told her. And I definitely kept my word, for I licked, probed and teased that hot pussy of hers for hours.

Are you ready for more? I asked a breathless Jabirah after polishing her sweet cunt with my tongue. I want you to fuck me silly you freaky Haitian man, she said sexily. I aim to please, I said as I raised her thick, sexy legs in the air and rolled a condom on my dick. Looking into Jabirah’s eyes, I gently eased my hard dick into her pussy. Finally, we were one. At last, she said, wrapping her arms around me. I smiled and began making love to her, thrusting my dick deep inside of her. We made love like this for hours, going at it until all of our urges were sated. Oh, we did in a myriad ways. At one point I put Jabirah on all fours and spanked her big butt while slamming my dick into her from behind. That was my sweetest experience in a long night of passion. What can I say? I love my lady’s thick Somali booty.

After making love, Jabirah and I lay side by side on my bed. I live in a modest apartment in Vanier, the east end of Ottawa. A one-bedroom affair with a small kitchen, living room and washroom. Yet when I first brought her for a visit Jabirah acted like she was being given a grand tour of some palace and told me she liked my place. Your place is cozy, she told me reassuringly as I watched her poke her nose around. I looked at my Somali sweetheart as she slept. I’m really fond of this woman and I honestly want to ask her to move in with me. Of course we’ll have to find a bigger place but that’s alright. I’m going to ask her in the morning. Maybe. Wish me luck, eh?