0 comments/ 8656 views/ 1 favorites A Kuwait Man Becomes Christian By: Samuelx The path I've chosen to walk is a difficult one, but I feel that it's the right one for me. My name is Tariq Rahim Alkaabi and I was born on the island of Failaka in the State of Kuwait. November 17, 1988, I came into the world. An undersized little brown bundle of joy, as my grandmother Bashirah would constantly remind me in later years. My father Abdul Alkaabi is a Kuwait citizen, and my mother Abasah, who died giving birth to me, hails from Senegal. My father and I moved to the City of Boston, Massachusetts, in early August 1998. I grew up in one of America's most diverse cities, and considered myself an American, but my father raised me to be a good Muslim, albeit not a very strict one, and a proud son of Kuwait. I don't remember too much about Kuwait City, where I lived before we moved to America, but I will never forget the teasing and taunting I received from the other Arabs my own age because of my skin color. My father's family was wealthy, and they had been stunned when their favorite son chose a woman from Senegal to be his wife. The thing about the Arabs is that a lot of them are racist against non-Arabs, and they feel a special disdain for Muslims of African descent. They don't think much of African Christians either, or Christians of any stripe, really. My mother Abasah Camara of Senegal came to the State of Kuwait with an education in civil engineering and a desire to explore life in one of the Arab world's strongest economies. My mother studied at Oxford University in London, England, where she met my father. The sheltered son of a powerful Arabian dynasty fell in love with a feisty African woman who carried herself like a queen and expected others to respect her as such. I never knew my mother, you understand, all I knew of her I learned from hearsay around my father's house, and also from photographs and other articles connected to her. I knew that she was born into a Muslim family in the City of Fatick in Senegal, but lapsed into atheism after moving to the City of London, England, for higher education. While in London, she converted to Christianity, eventually joining the Baptist faith. Let's just say that her conversion to Christianity from Islam didn't go over too well with her family back in Senegal. She had by then earned herself British citizenship so they couldn't do anything to her. They were in Africa and she was in Europe, far from any of her relatives. Armed with her civil engineering degree from Oxford University, my mother traveled the world. She worked for a big firm in the City of Toronto in provincial Ontario, Canada, and another one in the City of Melbourne, in Victoria state, Australia. For a poor young woman from Senegal, traveling to all these Western countries and working for these big international corporations was a dream come true. Finally while visiting some friends in New York City, she ran into an old classmate, Abdul Alkaabi, the wealthy Kuwaiti whom she used to be friends with at Oxford University. The two of them hit it off, and Abdul ended up convincing her to come work for his father's company in Kuwait. He offered her a more than generous salary. That was in October 1987. While in Kuwait, they fell in love and got married. A most unusual pairing, to be sure. The son of a wealthy Kuwait family brought up in the Sunni faith marrying an ex-Muslim woman from Senegal who'd converted to Christianity, the Baptist faith, to be exact. Definitely not something you hear about every day, but my father was never very traditional or religious, and he was fond of my mother. I suppose that explains it. Two years later, I came into the world, and much to my everlasting regret, my birth pangs were my mother's death throes. Even though I never knew her, I'll never get over the sense of loss I would experience time and again in my life because of her absence. Guys need their mothers, they're not disposable. My father never married after we moved to Massachusetts, he often told me he found American women too wild for his liking, but he did have many flings with them. One of them who seemed to stick around longer than the others was Beatrice Kenney, a tall, blonde-haired and green-eyed tax attorney from the City of Plymouth, Massachusetts. She worked at my father's firm's new headquarters in downtown Boston. I'll never understand the fascination that so many Arab men and African men for that matter have for blonde, blue-eyed Caucasian women. What's so special about women with Teutonic looks? What places them above, say, redheads or brunettes? I don't know. I suppose it's a matter of taste for the gentlemen in question, I guess. Anyhow, growing up in Boston in my father's shadow, I nevertheless had far more freedom than most young folks my age because my father traveled to Europe, Asia, the Middle East and Latin America a lot. He was good friends with local politicians and businessmen, from the Mayor of Boston to the Governor of Massachusetts himself. Even in the post 9/11 world, money talks. When it comes to money, everyone's of the same religion, I think. My father raised me to be a good Muslim, but he insisted that I study at Boston College High School, a predominantly Christian private school. After I graduated from B.C. High, dad insisted that I study at Boston College, thus I became a Double Eagle. The thing about most Muslims that Westerners don't know is that while they're not in love with Christians and Jews, they absolutely can't stand Atheists, and have no understanding of them whatsoever. My father told me that he respected Boston College as an institution because the men and women who ran it believed in God, even though they followed God the Christian way and not the truly proper ( read Muslim ) way. Still, dad didn't want me to attend a school like Northeastern University or even Harvard University because he considered them Godless. How's that for irony? While at Boston College, I decided to study Criminal Justice because I had a passion for law enforcement. I watched shows like Law & Order and CSI while other guys watched the NBA, Major League Baseball and the NFL. I've never been what you'd call very athletic. At six-foot-one, I sometimes get mistaken for a sportsman, though I suspect my African heritage might have something to do with. I have light brown skin, curly black hair and pale brown eyes. People often ask me if I'm Puerto Rican or something but I tell them that I'm Afro-Arabian. I'm half black and half Arab. Personally, I considered myself African-American. At Boston College, I joined the Black Student Union, and became friends with Sholonda Georges, a tall, absolutely ravishing, light-skinned and dreadlocked young African-American woman from the City of Atlanta, Georgia. She transferred to Boston College from Spelman College, a predominantly African-American all-girls school in the South. My whole life I've felt isolated from my African heritage, partly because I moved in mostly Arab circles. Even at Boston College High School, I was friends with the sons of Lebanese Christians, feeling closer to them because of my Arabic heritage which I raised to value over everything else. The few Black students at B.C. High considered me strange. I had an Arabic name, I spoke Arabic, Farsi, English, Spanish and some German. I learned a lot during my father's travels, during which I often accompanied him. I always wanted to learn about Black culture, but feared I wouldn't be considered Black enough, so I kept away from them. Sholonda Georges changed that. Until I came to Boston College, I had mostly dated Caucasian girls, though I liked redheads, and found blondes overrated. In high school, I dated this tall, red-haired and freckle-faced gal named Susan Thorkelson. She attend a private school not far from B.C. High. We dated for two years before she moved to the City of Hartford, Connecticut, and we lost touch. Yeah, I liked white girls, but I also felt drawn to Black girls, though for me they were the forbidden fruit because the ones in America were so loud, opinionated and sassy. They could cut you down with a single word and feared absolutely no one. Sholonda Georges, for all of her refined taste and impeccable manners, proved to be of the same breed. We first met in my Intro to Criminal Justice class, to which I arrived late on the first day of class. The class was packed, about three hundred students, and most of the seats in the vast lecture hall were taken. I stood there, trying to find a seat. Someone whispered to me, and I looked to see a very beautiful young Black woman. She smiled brightly at me and pointed at the seat next to her. I smiled and nodded my thanks as I sat down. The young lady extended her hand and introduced herself. I smiled, and did the same. And that's how I met Sholonda Georges. Sholonda and I were in a lot of the same classes, and she was a second-year student. Her father, Stephen Georges, was the preacher of the predominantly African-American Word of Truth Baptist Church. He got transferred from Atlanta to Boston to take over a new congregation. Sholonda moved to Boston to be with daddy, since she was a daddy's gal and all. Like me, I would later learn, she was motherless. Her mother Elisabeth Sandler, who was white, died giving birth to her. Even though we came from different worlds, Sholonda Georges and I got along. I guess that underneath it all, we had a lot more in common than I would have imagined at first glance. She was the vice president of the Black Student Union at Boston College and invited me to a meeting. There, I met a lot of the people who would end up becoming my closest friends for the next few years. Before joining the B.S.U. when I thought of African-Americana, I envisioned mostly black Americans with their rap music, their penchant for sports and their odd combination of bible-thumping and fast-living. At the Black Student Union, I realized how wrong I was. I met Jayson Bradbury, a tall young Black man from Trenton, New Jersey, who played basketball for Boston College. He was studying physics, couldn't rap to save his life, and worshipped the late Reverend Martin Luther King, whose face is emblazoned on eighty percent of his T-shirts. Civil engineering student Melissa Woodburn, a petite, light-skinned chick with an afro. Born of a white father and Black mother, she grew up in the region of Sussex, England, and had been living in the City of Boston, Massachusetts, for the past eight years. Wow, I was mightily impressed. Even after so many years in America, she sounded totally British. Pre-med student Jamal Fisher, a burly, tattooed brother from the City of Houston, Texas, who couldn't stop going on and on about his idol Louis Farrakhan and the Nation of Islam. Law student Antoine Jean-Renaud, a chubby, bald-headed and crucifix-wearing brother from the island of Haiti. Cigarette-smoking architecture major Bethlehem Berihun, a tall and dare I say absolutely stunning, light-skinned and short-haired, proudly Jewish sister from Ethiopia. Farah Bilal, a petite, hijab-wearing sister in tight jeans with a Malcolm X T-shirt, a native of Mogadishu, Somalia, whose parents moved to the City of Minneapolis, Minnesota, when she was younger. She transferred to Boston College from Century College. Nursing student and proud Scientologist Nicole Saint-Preux, a tall and curvy, dark-skinned sister from the City of Montreal, Quebec. Kyle Howard Jacobson, a tall, slim brother with bleached red hair. A transfer from Norwich University in Vermont. He surprised all of us by declaring his intentions of becoming a Jesuit priest someday. Wow. Sitting at the meetings with these young men and women who shared my African descent but came from so many diverse backgrounds, I realized how much the definition of African-American was changing. In our little group, we had people from Haiti, Somalia, Ethiopia, Kuwait, Britain, and a bunch of other places. We had Christians, Jews and Muslims, oh, and one Scientologist. Different ethnicities, different nationalities and different faiths. I found myself fascinated by them. After the first meeting, I was hooked. I couldn't stop raving about how excited I was. I thanked Sholonda for bringing me to the meeting. She just smiled at me and told me that I was welcome. She bit her lip, then asked me what I was doing Sunday. I told her my weekends were always free. She smiled and asked me if I wanted to visit her father's church. I looked at her and she hesitated before telling me that she knew I was Muslim but would really love for me to visit her father's new church. I shrugged and said yes. Even though I was raised Muslim, I'd been to church many times, for the first communions, confirmations and even marriages of my school friends. Like I said, my father wasn't very religious, and the last time I went to Mosque, I think I was still in Kuwait. I shook Sholonda's hand and told her I'd be there. Little did I know that this decision would change the rest of my life. Sunday morning, bright and early, I visited Sholonda's church in the Dorchester neighborhood of Boston. I don't know what I was expecting, but Sholonda's church blew me away. Dorchester back in those days was still a predominantly African-American area of Boston, before the gentrification, and the gays, and yuppies moved in. The church was an old brownstone building, with a modest exterior, but the insides were something else altogether. The place was neat, very clean and well-decorated. The four-hundred-person congregation was mostly black, with a smattering of Hispanics, Caucasians and Asians. I was greeted warmly by just about everyone I met, and finally, Sholonda introduced me to the preacher-man, her dad. The gentleman in question was a tall, square black man in a suit, holding a large bible in his right hand. He had the bearing of a military man, I thought. I smiled at him and shook his hand. Upon hearing my last name, he asked me where I came from. I proudly told him that I was half Kuwaiti and half Senegalese. Born of Arabia and Africa, the best of both worlds. Sholonda gave her old man a hug, and we took our seats at the front of the church. The ceremony began, and I looked around. Having attended a catholic high school and a predominantly Christian institution of higher education, I was familiar with Christian lore. Still, the black Jesus Christ on the cross made me smile. Sholonda noticed me smiling and asked me what was up. I told her that Jesus Christ, called Isa Al Masih by us Muslims, was definitely not Caucasian. He looked like an Arab man because the Jews of the old days looked like Arabs, they hadn't mixed with Europeans yet. I'm not sure if Jesus Christ was black because I've met black Jews from Ethiopia at Boston College, but Jesus Christ was definitely not white. He had dark hair, dark skin and dark eyes. The holy man respected by billions of Christians, Jews and Muslims did not look like Caucasians, those who view themselves as the leaders of the world and the masters of Christendom. When I said that, Sholonda nudged me in the ribs and I smiled. The ceremony got underway, and I listened to Sholonda's father, the good Reverend Stephen Georges, as he preached the Word of God. After attending so many Christian schools, I knew the Bible better than most Christians. Of course, I could recite the Koran verbatim, and I knew most of the Torah. The three dominant faiths on this planet were known to me. As I watched these Christians all around me kneel and pray by invoking the name of the messenger of God who taught them how to be better people, I thought about my own faith. We Muslims revere the Prophet Mohammed as the last messenger of God, though we respect all those who came before him, especially Jesus Christ. We disagree with Christians on the matter of Jesus Christ's divinity and the oneness of God, but agree with them on almost everything else. Personally, I felt disconnected to organized religion. To me, rabbis, priests and imams were all men hell-bent on twisting the Word of God so they could garner obedience from their followers and gain power over them. That's what's wrong with organized religion today. That's why I stopped going to mosque. And I think it's why many Christians stopped going to church, and why probably just as many Jews stopped going to synagogue. I still believe in God, it's the faithful that I don't like. Of course, the behavior of those around me in this life did nothing to assuage my fears. When I last spoke to an imam, the honorable Kasim Muhammad of a mosque in the City of Chicago, Illinois, he spent an hour going on and on about why he felt all Muslims should unite against Israel and destroy first the Jewish state then the Eurocentric Christian world, spread throughout North America, Latin America, the Caribbean, Australasia, huge swaths of Africa and Asia, along with western Europe, for many Muslims believe that Christians and Jews, the People of the Book, were idolaters and our sworn enemies until the Day of Judgement. If men like imam Kasim Muhammad had their way, Armageddon would begin today. As a Muslim I was taught that Allah is Merciful above all, and He does not want us to hate. Mosques are full of these radicals who eschew the Word to achieve their aims. Churches are no better. The congregations of many churches looked the other way while creepy old men sexually abused the most vulnerable members of their flock. See? Men who claim to speak for God are not trustworthy, and it doesn't seem to matter which religion you follow. And now, I found myself in a church, of all places. I looked around, at the black men, white men, Asian men, black women, white women, Asian women, and Hispanics of both sexes gathered in this house of worship. Were they just like so many hypocrites I had seen in other churches and mosques? I looked at Sholonda, who prayed next to me with her eyes closed. Was she different from the others? I can't tell you how many so-called "pious" women I've seen do some very unreligious things. Like this chick named Atifah Khader, a Yemeni national living in the south end of Boston with her uncle and aunt while attending Northeastern University's school of medicine. When her relatives were around, she was as pious and meek as any hijab-wearing Arab woman. When they were out of sight, she turned into something they wouldn't recognize. This chick liked to go to the clubs after Friday night prayers. Off comes the hijab, and out comes the slinky evening dress, the cheap perfume, the thong underwear. The first time I ran into her at Machine Night Club in Boston, I thought she was a Latina because no Yemeni woman would go out like that on a Friday night. I was wrong. Like a lot of Arab women out there, Atifah Khader liked black guys but you'd never catch her admitting it. The same way lots of Arab guys go for black women, many Arab women would go for black guys if their racist and sexist families wouldn't kill them for it. Atifah spotted me in the club and we started talking. She was definitely feeling me. Next thing I knew, I was in the bathroom with her, my pants around my ankles as she knelt before me and sucked my dick. I kid you not, folks, this Yemeni broad sucked my cock with gusto, and when I came, she drank my cum like it was nothing. Then she had me bend her over a toilet seat and spank her ass while I drilled my cock into her pussy. Yeah, she was straight-up nasty. When we finished, she readjusted her clothes, then went back to the dance floor. I went outside to smoke a cigarette. The next time I saw her, I was visiting my buddy Omar, a big Somali dude, at Northeastern University. Guess who I saw walking around campus, handing out flyers about Yemeni culture? None other than Atifah Khader, the chick from the club, only with a lot more clothes on. See what I mean about the hypocrisy of religious women? Of course, I shouldn't blame her. If her relatives knew she was out there, having fun just like any other young woman her age, they'd kill her. The Yemeni people are among the strictest followers of Islam. Their views on women's rights would make a caveman blush. Hey, it's a hard truth but you got to live with it, alright? A Kuwait Man Becomes Christian Atifah Khader wasn't the only religious woman out there with two faces, one for her family and fellow religious folk, and one which was her true self, her freaky self. I remember Josephine Saint-Mathieu, this pretty Haitian chick I ran into in the City of Brockton, Massachusetts. She was a student at Massasoit Community College, and a devoted member of a local Haitian Catholic church. I met her through my Mexican-American friend Hector Gonzales, whose sister Anna was Josephine's best friend. Josephine was a church chick but she was also a freak. She had a thing for light-skinned guys and I guess I fit the bill. That's why we fucked in her parents basement two days after we were introduced. The sexy Haitian diva laid me down on an old mattress and sucked my cock, then asked me to lick her kitty. I was more than okay with that. I spread Josephine's thighs and licked her pussy real good, then I put on a condom and shoved my dick into her cunt. A couple hours later, I walked out of her house with an extra bounce on my step. Getting laid will do that to a man. All these thoughts about my wild past ran through my head as I gazed at Sholonda's church in action. Among all these throngs of true believers, how many of them were secretly gay or bisexual? How many husbands beat their wives and for that matter, how many wives beat their husbands? How many of these good church folk smoked marijuana, slept around and did all kinds of nasty things? How many of these young church ladies were college students and "good girls" by day and escorts by night? How many of these well-dressed church brothers sucked dick on the side? I've seen so many gay and bisexual guys in mosques that I shudder just thinking about it. In Islam, men and women spend a lot of time away from each other, so a lot of dudes fuck other dudes because they don't have access to women. Lots of Muslim women probably do the same thing. That's one of Islam's little secrets. The prevalence of hidden bisexuality among Muslim men and Muslim women. The way I figure it, hardline Christians must have the same thing going on. When the ceremony ended, Sholonda and I stayed behind. She wanted to rearrange the chairs, among other things. I was more than happy to help her. Her father joined us shortly, along with a couple of other volunteers. The church folk seemed remarkably close together, at least to me. They cooked together, prayed together, ate together, and kept in constant contact via cellphone along with Twitter, MySpace and Facebook, of course. That night, after church, I joined Sholonda and her dad for dinner. During that somewhat uncomfortable but eye-opening event, I got to know them both a bit better. The good reverend Stephen Georges, whom I had correctly judged to be a military man, was a stern man. A graduate of the Virginia Military Institute, he served the United States Marine Corps for twenty years before finding his calling as a preacher. His first church was a congregation in Atlanta, and the second one was his current church in Boston. This man was stern and proud, having come up through the school of hard knocks before righting his life and finding what he called "the way". He looked me in the eye when talking to me, which I found a bit daunting. He had a lot of questions about my family, my views on race, and of course my faith. I told him that my family consisted of my jet-setting, womanizing and hard-drinking Kuwaiti sheikh of a father and myself, that I was quite comfortable identifying as Afro-Arabian rather than merely African-American, and I was raised Muslim. How much of a Muslim was I at that point? Hmm. Let's see. I hadn't been to mosque in a decade. I mainly dated women from other religions and cultures because Muslim females come with too much baggage, too many bloody traditions and far too many restrictions. I also had a dog, a hairy brown mutt named Barker, because he barks a lot, and most of my friends are Christians and Jews. I don't really associate with other Muslims, with the exception of my buddy Omar, a Somali guy who considered himself an atheist these days. The good reverend watched me like a hawk as I answered his questions. There was something about me he didn't like, and Sholonda picked up on it. She smiled icily and asked her dad to stop interrogating me. I smiled politely at the good reverend. A lot of people make all kinds of assumptions about me before they get to know me. Let me answer some of the burning questions that Christians, Jews, atheists, feminists and others have asked me in the past. How do I feel about women's rights? I'm fine with women having the same rights as men as long as they embrace the same responsibilities and burdens. How do I feel about middle-eastern terrorism? Um, it's a bad thing. What westerners don't realize is that terrorist groups like Boko Haram, Al-Qaeda and Al-Shabab kill far more Muslims than non-Muslims when they're fucking things up. They're idiots. How do I feel about female circumcision? I oppose it. Hell, while we're at it, ban male circumcision too because I don't think foreskin has anything to do with a man's connection to God, whether he calls himself Jewish, Christian or Muslim. How do I feel about Bin Laden? I'm glad he's gone. Glad President Obama got rid of him. It's about time. Shows you us brothers often can do what the white guys can't. How do I feel about Sharia Law being applied in western countries? I'm against it. The Koran itself states that Muslims should follow the laws of the countries they're living in. How do I feel about honor killings? Men from Muslim backgrounds need to realize that Muslim women living outside of the Muslim world are more western than not, and that they have to adjust their worldview. Otherwise they can go back wherever they came from, if they miss it so much. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, those are the burning questions I get asked about my erstwhile faith. Anything else? I thought the good reverend was done questioning me, but the man had to get one last shot in. Pastor Stephen Georges smiled at me beatifically, then asked me that question every guy dreads when meeting some chick's daughter. What are your intentions regarding my daughter? Sholonda sighed with exasperation, and rolled her eyes. The reverend's eyes never left mine. I smiled at him and thought about the question. How to best answer a question often depends on a person's understanding of the underlying motives behind every question. When the preacher of a Christian church asks the Muslim male friend of his daughter what his intentions are, the male friend in question has to read between the lines. What does this mofo want? Does he think I'm one of those crazy Muslim guys who try to convert every person they run into? Fuck that, I wouldn't run around doing that shit even if I was getting paid. Sholonda shook her head and told her dad to relax. I smiled at her and told her everything was okay, then I answered the reverend. I told him what I knew he wanted to hear. You see, rabbis, priests and imams aren't as different from one another as they might think. When the daughter of a rabbi introduces him to a young man, the dad often starts hearing wedding bells and wonders about the suitability of said young man. Same thing goes for a preacher or an imam in a similar situation. I smiled at the reverend, and used my best acting chops to cause my eyes to go moist. Not teary, mind you, but moist. I looked at Sholonda, smiled at her gently and brushed her hand with mine ( without laying my hand on hers ) , a gesture the reverend's eyes tracked. I licked my lips, then told the boldest lie I've ever told, an even bolder lie than when I told a state trooper in Easton that I was new to America and wasn't used to the mile system, thinking instead in kilometers, as far as to why I exceeded the speed limit. I cranked up my accent and everything, and the state trooper, a fat redheaded white chick, actually bought it. I told Sholonda and her dad that I was in crisis, that I felt spiritually barren. I stayed away from the mosque because I felt bad when the imams raged against the Jews and Christians, who represented most of my friends. I told them that after attending no less than two Christian schools, I honestly felt curious about Christianity as a religion, even while struggling with the realization that Islam wasn't working for me, as far as who I am today. If lightning had struck Sholonda upon hearing those words, she wouldn't have been more shocked. Her eyes widened and her mouth was agape with surprise. Her father didn't react, though. The reverend got up from his seat at the end of the table, and walked up to me. He laid his hand on my shoulder, and told me that it was God's will that I had come to his church today. I tried really hard not to smile, and succeeded. He laid his thick hand on my arm at the precise moment that Sholonda gently touched my hand. Our three hands were joined, so to speak. Father and daughter exchanged a look, and he smiled at me. You are going in a good direction, he said. I smiled as I realized the deep shit I was in. I wanted to get the good reverend to back off. Even though I was no longer a practicing Muslim, I still believed in Allah. Islam is more than just the Masjid ( mosque). I told the dude that I was interested in Christianity to get him to back off. Instead, I was plunged in the thick of things as both he and Sholonda suddenly developed an unhealthy interest in my spiritual life. Allah Afiz, what's a guy to do? I'm in deep shit! That's how it all began, ladies. How I found myself attending church weekly with Sholonda, much to the delight of reverend Stephen Georges. I swear I just wanted to get in her pants. Before I knew it, Sholonda was inviting me to bible study, whose membership surprised me. This chick and her dad had some kind of talent for reaching wayward souls. I mean, I was stunned to see guys who looked like gang bangers and chicks who looked like hookers attending bible study and church service. Again and again I was called upon to speak in front of them, about how I felt lost in Islam and basically began to look elsewhere for answers, which led me to Christianity. Many people in church stood up every week to give their testimony, but mine was the story they all wanted to hear. These church folk were used to hearing about Christians who switched to Islam, but Muslims leaving Islam for Christianity was completely unheard of. Now, I never told them that I wanted to convert to Christianity. I only told them that I wanted to learn about the bible and Jesus Christ. I figured I'd teach reverend Stephen Georges a lesson for ambushing me back at his house that night by banging his daughter. And the way to Sholonda Georges' heart was through her Christian faith. As I began to spend a lot of time with her, people started noticing us together and many assumed that we were a couple. Sholonda herself did nothing to dissuade them of these notions. I was okay with the attention, but didn't want word to get back to my father, or the Muslim community at large. You see, many Muslims aren't practicing, but if a Muslim guy or gal makes waves by saying publicly that they're leaving Islam, sooner or later, someone's going to take them out. Sholonda blew my cover by stating in a meeting of the Black Student Union at Boston College that I was 'changing' through the power of Jesus Christ. The two Muslim students in our group, Farah the Somali chick and Jamal the brother from the Nation of Islam got really pissed off at me. Farah boldly challenged me, calling me a kafir and an apostate. Jamal called me a punk for allowing myself to get brainwashed by some female. I was about to explain to them that I wasn't really becoming a Christian, that I was still Muslim, but I got pissed when Jamal questioned my manhood. No one does that. I rushed over to the mofo and decked him. The big guy from the Nation of Islam fell and I rained on him with my fists. Farah leapt on my back, clawing at my face. I howled in pain as the bitch went for my eyes. That's when Sholonda jumped in, grabbing Farah and pulling the crazy Somali bitch from me. All around us, the gathering of students erupted into hooting and hollering. Security escorted us out of the building. So much for a peaceful gathering of Black students from diverse cultures and religions, huh? As we walked off campus, Sholonda and I paused by a bench on a nearby park to catch our breath. What a night! Sholonda kept apologizing profusely, telling me that she was sorry for outing me like that. I looked at this beautiful young Black woman, and found myself mesmerized by her beauty. Lord she's beautiful. For the past few months I've thought of nothing besides bedding her, and ridiculing her uptight father the church preacher by doing so. I wanted to do her wrong, and she was trying to do me right the entire time. She believed in me and supported me. What an amazing woman. Impulsively, I leaned closer and kissed her. Sholonda seemed surprised, but did not hesitate to put her arms around me and kissed me. I smiled at her and told her I'd been dying to kiss her for ages. Sholonda grinned, smacked my ass and told me she was in the mood for more than just kissing. Translation? The lady wants to fuck. Or make love, whatever. I looked at Sholonda, and my dick hardened as I thought of her big round booty and how fantastic her tall, curvy body must look underneath them clothes. I wanted her as badly as she wanted me. We couldn't go back to my place. What's a guy to do? Sholonda came up with the solution. She whispered in my ear that her dad was out of town for a conference, and she had the place all to herself. I grinned at her. Perfect! We drove from Boston College to Sholonda's place. As soon as we got there, we unleashed the storm of our passions, so to speak. I once heard somewhere that church chicks are the biggest freaks. I guess whoever said it must have been right because as soon as we got to her place, Sholonda the afro-centric church-going sister turned into something a porn star would recognize. Didn't know she had it in her, but I liked it! We lay on her bed, and I quickly made her clothes disappear, along with mine. Gently, I kissed her lips while caressing her big and firm, all-natural breasts. Sholonda caressed my hairy chest and reached for my groin as I licked a path from her tits to her pussy. Gently I spread her thighs and began practicing the timeless art of muff diving. Down there, Sholonda was all natural. I doubt she's shaved even once in her life but I don't mind because I'm freaky like that. I licked that hairy mound, thrust my fingers into her pussy and licked away. I had her moaning my name in two languages, English and profane. I love eating pussy. Some dudes go at it like it's a chore or a preliminary for the main event. I see pussy eating as an integral part of pleasuring a woman. If you are a good to her, she'll be good to you. And I was so good to Sholonda that I had her shrieking and convulsing in pleasure by the time I was done licking her kitty. Next, I wanted to stick it in but Sholonda told me that she wanted to taste me. Before I could stop her, she grabbed my dick and began sucking me like her life depended on it. I lay on the bed and smiled to myself as yet another gorgeous, deeply religious young woman took my dick into her mouth. Still, Sholonda wasn't like the others, at least not to me. As she pleasured me, I murmured words of encouragement to her, and also told her how beautiful she was. I don't normally bother doing that shit to chicks who are going down on me. They know what the deal is at that point. Sholonda sucked me really good, so much that she had my toes curling. I warned her that I was about to cum and she just winked at me. Shoot, I came. And she just took it all. Hot damn. I didn't know she got down like that. It's all good, though. Sholonda and I continued with our fun, and she climbed on top of me. For several moments we playfully wrestled, as if she wanted to get away from me and my hard dick. I put on a condom before slipping my cock into her pussy. Like hell, she wasn't getting away from this jimmy. She straddled me, and I saw a look of lust and hunger in her smoldering dark eyes. She wanted this, and I wanted to give it to her. I was about to enter her when she stopped me. Damn, we've come this far and she wants to stop now? I looked at her, wondering if everything was alright. Sholonda nodded, then asked me to be gentle with her. I smiled at that. I can definitely do gentle. Gently I pressed my dick against her pussy, then eased my cock inside of her. Sholonda let out a sharp cry as I penetrated her. We began making love slowly, taking our sweet time. She wasn't going anywhere and neither was I. Looking into her eyes, I saw more than a wild, sexy woman who was giving me her all in the bedroom. I saw the woman who changed my life. I saw the woman I wanted to be with, always. And I gave her my all, mind, body and soul. When morning came, it found Sholonda Georges and I, Tariq Rahim Alkaabi, entwined in each other's arms. When Sholonda opened her eyes, she saw me looking at her and smiled. I smiled too, though at that moment I felt very scared. Not of her, of course. I was scared of all the things which were happening. Too much was happening, things were going too fast. Yesterday the Muslim students at the Black Student Union found out I was considering Apostasy, the most grievous crime in all of Islam. Anyone who leaves the religion of Islam becomes an Apostate and it becomes the duty of all true Muslims to destroy him or her. Apostates know too much and must not be allowed to live. I looked at Sholonda, at the oversized crucifix hanging ominously above her bed, and at our reflections in the mirror. I was no longer Muslim, so what was I? I asked myself that aloud. Without realizing it, I had begun to tremble. It wasn't supposed to be like this. When all this started, in my mind it was just a game. I would bed Sholonda, and make sure that her proud Christian father, the good reverend Stephen Georges knew that his darling daughter had given it up to me, a Muslim, one of the people his ex-U.S. military ass hated. Hell, I told myself I might even convince her to leave her religion and embrace mine. What an affront that would be to her uptight Christian father. Seducing Christian girls and getting them to leave their religion and their families, it's what many young, good-looking Muslim guys like myself do. It's called Romeo Jihad, and we're GOOD at it. In hindsight, though I didn't think it through, that must have been the plan. Until everything started to go wrong. I found myself falling in love with Sholonda, with her church, and with the life she showed me that could be mine. If I was truly honest with myself, I had to admit that I felt far more welcome at Sholonda's church than any of the mosques which I once attended. Back in Kuwait, I was seen as the mongrel son of a wealthy Kuwaiti sheikh who bedded an exotic African woman. In America, in the black church, I was surrounded by people who were more like me than not. I was...home. I looked at Sholonda, and realized that I had tears in my eyes when she rushed to me, wrapped her arms around me and asked me if I was okay. I looked at this young woman who changed everything I was, without even trying, and smiled. Women are mysterious creatures, aren't they? I kissed her forehead, then told her that I loved her, and her church, and the life she showed me I could have. Sholonda grinned and kissed me passionately. She held my hand afterwards, and told me she'd be there by my side to help me weather the storm. How right she was. A storm was coming. News of my apostasy spread like wildfire among the Muslim community of Boston, and beyond. Overnight I found myself thrown out of Boston College. Apparently, even at this predominantly Christian school, lorded over by Jesuit priests, the Muslims had pull. I got expelled from Boston College, they blamed it on the fight at the Black Student Union meeting. I was saddened by that, but that was nothing compared to what my father would unleash on me after he found out. A Kuwait Man Becomes Christian Now, I told you that my father Abdul Alkaabi of Kuwait isn't a very religious man, but even the least practicing Muslim will object to apostasy when he or she sees it. It's something we've been conditioned to reject and abhor from the moment we were born. My father called me on the phone, calling me all kinds of names, and making all kinds of threats. He seemed mystified that I could even think of leaving our faith, and warned me of dire consequences. I feared his wrath, for sure, but with Sholonda by my side, I felt strong. I told my father that I didn't want his money, or his support, and I definitely did not want or need his faith. I had one of my own. I told my father, the ruler of a clan of Sunni Muslims from Kuwait, that I was a proud Christian. That was the death knell of our father/son relationship. In a calm and clear voice, he told me I was dead to him, and told me that he wished any member of the Ummah ( Islamic community ) would do a public service by slaughtering me. Through gritted teeth, I told him to bring it on, then I hung up the phone. Thus, the next phase of my life began. Sholonda and I left Boston College and enrolled at Bridgewater State University. I still want to study Criminal Justice, in preparation for a career enforcement. I got my relentless drive and ambition, of course, but my lady Sholonda comes first. We were married at the Word of Truth Church, and the ceremony was presided over by none other than our favorite reverend, my future father-in-law, pastor Stephen Georges. Sholonda and I live together in a decent-sized apartment in the City of Brockton's south side, a short commute from our school. The towns of Brockton and Bridgewater are right next to each other. Man, my life sure has changed. I was raised the son of a multi-millionaire, and I had to adjust to a drastic change of lifestyle. Applying for scholarships while looking for a part-time job. Filling out a FAFSA form. Things I was very unfamiliar with, considering my background. Luckily, Sholonda was there to help me and even then, I still struggled with these new adjustments. Still, nothing worthwhile is easy, that's what my father-in-law told me on our wedding day. I am happy, though, for the first time in ages. I'm a proud Christian man and I'm married to the most wonderful woman in the world. God be with you, my brothers and sisters.