1 comments/ 8802 views/ 1 favorites Afrikaner Women Love Chocolate Too By: Samuelx A Chinese proverb says may you live in interesting times. I've seen it on many of those fortune cookies they give you in restaurants, and I can't but smile every time. If you ask me, people should strive for the ordinary and the mundane and avoid the extremes that come with leading an extraordinary life. They'd live longer if they did. Who am I kidding? We all want an interesting life, in spite of the risks that are bound to come with it. Otherwise why would any of us bother waking up in the morning? My name is Gustav Randolphe. That's right, with an E at the end. I was born in the City of Cap-Haitien, Republic of Haiti, in 1990. On January 12, 2010, my life and that of hundreds of thousands of my countrymen changed. I was attending the Universite Notre Dame D'Haiti ( Notre Dame University of Haiti, also known as U.N.D.H. ) at the time and like many provincial guys I was in awe of the Capital. I grew up in the small town of Quartier Morin outside of Cap-Haitien, and living in a Capital City of millions both thrilled and intimidated me. I came to P.A.P. to study and also to explore life away from my grandparents, Eugene and Maria Randolphe. They raised me on their farm after my parents, Richard and Nadege Randolphe died in a car crash. When the Quake hit, I was hanging around the marketplace during my lunch break, looking for my favorite vendor of sweetmeats. Oscar was the old man's name and he had the tastiest food I'd ever put in my mouth. That's why I always came to his shop. I love hanging around the marketplace in between classes. If you truly want to see the soul of the Haitian people, come to the marketplace. It's where all the social classes intersect. From those I call "Moun ki gen anvi blan" ( white wannabes ) to the middle class and the heartbreakingly poor. In Haiti, even centuries after the Haitian Army overthrew the French regime, people of mixed ancestry are seen as higher in status than those of pure black ancestry. Whatever that means. There are quite a few Arabs, Asians and Europeans living on the island of Haiti, mainly in big cities like Port-Au-Prince and Cap-Haitien. A sizeable minority of Hispanics, mainly from the Dominican Republic and the outlying islands also live among us. Even in our own country these people think they're better than us. I had the misfortune of falling for such a woman during my freshman year at the University. Rosario Gutierrez was her name. This five-foot-eight, curvaceous beauty with dark bronze skin and curly black hair was a mulatto, born of a Haitian mother and Hispanic father from the Dominican Republic. Like I said before, I grew up in a small town, far away from the big cities where the wealthy foreigners live, and I had seldom seen anyone who wasn't part of the majority of Haitians, purebred black one and all. To my eyes Rosario seemed exotic and beautiful, and I pursued her. I was new to the Capital and someone forgot to tell me the unwritten rules. It's considered okay for wealthy foreign men from the Hispanic, Arab and Asian communities to bed and even marry Haitian women but it's a rare foreign woman who will marry a Haitian man. Even though her mother is black, thus making her biracial, Rosario Gutierrez considered herself high above me. I could never be with a Haitian man, she told me the day I got the nerve to walk up to her and try to get her number. Damn, it's like that? This happened a week before the Quake, by the way. I was learning all sorts of things about Haitian culture, foreign people and the world itself. Indeed, my time in the Capital, short though it was, taught me a lot. I had seen a few white male students at my University, along with some Arabs and Chinese, and the black women flocked to them. In the Republic of Haiti, to be mixed is to be considered the epitome of beauty. Even if you're born in abject poverty, if you're mixed, a rich black person will seek to marry you. Mixed women are especially sought by Haitian men with money and education while on the island. Mixed women produce beautiful children, one of my classmates was fond of saying. Maybe that's why quite a few mixed women have won the Miss Haiti beauty contest in recent years. Can you imagine? A majority black country where black beauty isn't prized. Damn, maybe that's why the black person has difficulty advancing in this world. Too much self-hate. When I told my grandfather about my experience with Rosario, he told me not to fret. Things were better in the old days without foreigners on our soil, he told me. Whatever, I said, not feeling the least bit comforted by his words. I was twenty years old, and still a virgin. Thankfully, my classmates at the University didn't know that so they didn't tease me relentlessly like my buddies at my old school, College Notre Dame Du Perpetuel Secours, used to. I attended an all-male private Roman Catholic school when I lived in Cap-Haitien, that might explain why to me women are like an exotic species. All-male institutions do wonders for a man's academic prowess but leave him several steps behind his peers from coed institutions when it comes to dealing with the opposite sex. At my new school I tried to stand out in a bid to attract the ladies. I joined every club the school had, I think. I'm six-foot-two and weigh two hundred and fifty pounds. I'm dark-skinned and kinky-haired, and I suck at sports. I am a nerd through and true. People say I look like the burly black actor from the Underworld movie series. The one who turns into a werewolf. Yeah, the ladies from the Capital weren't feeling me. I was a scholarship student at U.N.D.H. and at all times I was surrounded by young men and women whose parents had money. The elite of the Haitian Capital studied at this school and as a farm boy, I stuck out like a sore thumb. Though gifted academically I wasn't what you'd call popular or sophisticated. I used to herd goats in the Haitian countryside. What did I know of big-city life? I felt lost and lonely at U.N.D.H. Indeed, my world was already a bleak place before January 12, 2010. When the Quake hit, I was in the marketplace. That's when buildings started collapsing, and people were screaming. By luck or happenstance I was miraculously spared any harm. Never in my life had I seen such devastation, such pain and suffering. I was among the throngs of Haitians of all hues frantically searching through the rubble for our countrymen and women. I participated in relief and rescue efforts with my fellow Haitians long before the international community mobilized to help. Long before Wyclef Jean and Angelina Jolie and all the well-meaning people with money from America's celebrity world came, I was there. I personally rescued more than a dozen people. I fought beside my people in our darkest hour. And by God's grace, we got through it. I made my way back to Quartier Morin four weeks after the Quake. The night I returned to my grandparents farm, a late-night phone call from an aunt I never heard of changed my life. My parents, Richard and Nadege Randolphe died in a car crash when I was young. I barely remember them. Little did I know that my father had a half-sister, Jeannette Dorvil, who lived in Canada. That lady tracked us down and contacted us. With the state of emergency in Haiti, many countries traditionally hostile to the Haitian immigrant began to relax. Canada allowed Haitians to send for their relatives on the island, especially the youngsters. The U.S. government stunned the world by granting Temporary Protected Status to all Haitians living illegally in America at the time of the Quake. Wow. Through the efforts of the aunt I never knew, I was allowed to come to Canada. On March 17, 2010, I set foot in the City of Ottawa, Ontario, for the first time. At the Ottawa International Airport I was greeted by a short, plump black lady in her early forties and a tall, skinny white dude. My aunt Jeannette Dorvil and her husband, a Quebecer named Edouard Lalonde, whom she met at the University of Montreal during the 1990s. Welcome home, she said, giving me an awkward hug. I wanted to ask this lady why she waited so long to contact me and my family. I wanted to ask her where she'd been since my parents died. Instead I hugged her back and said thank you. As for her husband, the skinny white dude gave me a strange look. It was the uneasy look that white men give black men every time they see us somewhere they didn't expect to find us. One thing would become clear to me in the coming days, just because you have a place to sleep and eat doesn't mean you have a home. In my aunt's white husband's eyes I read discomfort and mistrust. Clearly the dude hadn't signed up for this. Nevertheless, when he forced a smile and offered me his hand, I shook it. Thus began my journey in Canada. I came to this country as a refugee claimant, sponsored by my aunt. I had to go through the process like everybody else. I got a work permit, a social insurance card and began looking for work. I found a job as a shelf stocker for a grocery store in Vanier, the east end of Ottawa. Surrounded by mostly French-speaking people, I could finally get my bearings. The day I got hired I went to the nearby Bank of Nova Scotia and opened up an account there. Now that I had a job, I felt more like a man and less like a burden. I am a Haitian and we're a proud, hard-working people. My aunt's husband was not what I'd call helpful during my first days in Ottawa. Indeed, the dude would ignore me or stare at me awkwardly whenever we were alone in the house together. He worked for the City of Ottawa as an OC Transpo bus driver. As for my aunt, she's a nurse at Ottawa General Hospital. She's the breadwinner in their relationship. Whenever he's not at work, all Edouard did was drink and watch TV. My aunt's marriage to this guy was rocky, and my living with them didn't help matters. Every black woman in an interracial relationship considers the white man to be a knight in shining armor. I'll never understand that one until the day I die, especially after seeing how Edouard treats my aunt when she displeases him. He calls her names, and more than once he's smacked her around. One day I had enough of his bullshit and told him that if he lay a hand on her one more time I'd kick his French ass. You should have seen the look on his face. Dude wasn't happy, but he knew better than to step to me. Get out of my house, he said, red-faced and angry. Gladly, I retorted. That night I went to stay with my buddy Ibrahim, a Somali dude I met at work. He's a security guard at the grocery store and also studies at Carleton University. He let me stay at his spot, and later asked me to be his roommate. I moved in, we signed a one-year lease, and life continued. I began to explore life in Ottawa, now that I was a free man, no longer bound by the dictums of my aunt and her sleazy husband. Canada is a fascinating place, but it's not as friendly as people think. There's a lot of racism in the great white north, especially in Ottawa. The arrival of immigrants from Somalia, Haiti, Jamaica, Lebanon, Syria, South Africa, Palestine, Brazil, China, Japan, Colombia and other places wasn't well-received by all residents of the capital. Indeed, many of them saw us immigrants as invaders. By the way, a white guy from Australia who moves to Canada isn't considered an immigrant. Immigrant is code for non-white in Canada. It became clear to me that the only way I could advance as a black man in this society is through education. I also quickly noticed a difference between foreign-born newcomers like myself and non-whites born and raised in Canada. A lot of Haitians born in Canada lack the drive and ambition that many of us foreign-born individuals possess. Take my buddy Ricardo for example. He's half black and half white, born to a Haitian mother and Italian father. The dude could have gone to any University and made something of himself. He was born in Ottawa with all the benefits and privileges of citizenship. Instead he became a hustler, dealing drugs and wasting his life. He was in and out of prison. What a waste of life if you ask me. A lot of black guys think they're getting back at western society by being thuggish. The one thing a white man fears is a black man who's smart and going places. Why else do you think so many white guys on the Republican side hate U.S. President Barack Obama? He's their worst nightmare come to life! Not only is he the son of a black father and white mother ( white guys hate seeing black men with white women, even though those same white guys date women of color ) but he also got an Ivy League education and took over the U.S. Presidency and the White House, the ultimate white man's club. Add to that the fact that whites are becoming minorities in various parts of the U.S. as the Hispanic, Asian, Caribbean and African-American populations boom and you've got a recipe for white panic. Now, this means good news for people of color around the world but we've got to be ready to seize these opportunities as demographics change. The black man in North America needs to pull his pants up, stay out of trouble, go to school, and then go challenge the white guys on their turf...as an educated black man with ambition and no fear. Instead of aspiring to become rappers and NBA players, brothers need to become lawyers and MBA holders. That's why I decided to go back to school. I learned English in a matter of months from interacting with everyday people and watching TV. I felt confident enough to take on the world of Canadian academia. The language barrier wouldn't hold me back. I vowed that nothing would. I registered through the Ontario Universities Application Center, and once I was in the OUAC I began looking at Canadian colleges and Universities. There are a few of them in Ottawa. As a French speaker I gravitated toward the Francophone institutions of higher education like La Cite Collegiale and the University of Ottawa. Algonquin College I bypassed, but Carleton University fascinated me. That's why I applied to it. I got in, but not before applying for a study permit, and going through the painful task of having the quake-battered U.N.D.H. translate my old academic records from French to English and mail the transcripts to Carleton University. Thus I enrolled at Canada's Capital University as an international student. I opted to study Criminology, since I initially planned to study Law at U.N.D.H. I enrolled at Carleton University, and come September 2010 I experienced a whole new world. When I first applied to the school, I thought it would be lily-white since we were in Canada after all. Never in my wildest dreams could I have imagined the sheer size and diversity of the student population. Among the throngs of students I saw Africans, Arabs, Asians, Hispanics and others I could only guess at. I thought I'd be in the minority, a single black spot in a vast whiteness. All of a sudden I realized I wasn't as alone as I thought. I joined the African Student Union, one of the coolest student groups on campus. Imagine my surprise when I found out the vice president was a six-foot-tall, athletically built blonde-haired white chick. Tess Van Dijke, a young white woman from the City of Durban, South Africa. When I went to the first meeting of the ASU, and the group leaders introduced themselves to us new recruits, I thought they were joking. The president of the club is a tall Jamaican guy named Evan Rhodes, and his VP is a white woman. Damn, I wasn't expecting that. I was born in Africa and damn proud of it, Tess told me, looking me in the eye when I asked her a few questions to assuage my curiosity after the meeting. Welcome to Carleton, Tess Van Dijke told me, giving me a simple hug before going on her way. I watched her go, scratching my head and trying really hard not to notice the way her cute, surprisingly big ass sashayed from side to side as she made her way through the university center. White women got booty and it seems I'm the last to know, damn. As it turns out, Tess and I had more in common than I would have thought. Earlier I told you Australians and other people of European extraction aren't treated like immigrants while in Canada. I must amend that thought. Why is that, you may ask? You see, through my later interactions with a certain South African beauty I learned that cultural divides can be quite a barrier to overcome. When Tess told me that as a white woman from the Republic of South Africa she felt out of place in Ontario, I was shocked. Not a hockey fan, she said, laughing. Shrugging her shapely, strong shoulders, she told me at great length how much she hated the cold weather and anything to do with winter sports. Real athletes play rugby and football, she said with a smirk. We exchanged dap. I had to laugh at that one. Where I'm from, soccer is the number one sport. Most Haitians living on the island have never even heard of hockey. In spite of myself I became fascinated by Tess, and we became friends, of a sort. I wanted to make the most of my academic experience at Carleton University because I feared being sent back to Haiti by the Canadian government. The initial goodwill towards us poor downtrodden Haitians had vanished once news of the Quake stopped dominating the airways and the world's attention became focused elsewhere. Incidents of terrorism like the rise of the Somali terrorist group Al-Shabaab and the Underwear Bomber caused Canadians and westerners in general to be very distrustful of non-whites. It's even harder if you're Muslim, Ibrahim was fond of telling me. My Somali roommate shared with me some of his horror stories. It's not easy boarding an airplane or traveling around the world if you're a guy with an Arabic-sounding name in the post-911 world. Ibrahim told me how he'd gotten a cavity search at the Ottawa International Airport. Dude if anyone ever did that to me I'd kick some ass, I told him. Ibrahim shook his head. Don't give them an excuse to kill you my brother, he said, sighing. Yeah, I could commiserate with Ibrahim. We're from radically different backgrounds. He's a Somali-born Canadian citizen and I'm a Haitian-born refugee claimant. I'm a proud Catholic and he's a Sunni Muslim. Yet we got along just fine and even hung out sometimes. He showed me around Ottawa and even introduced me to his people. His tall, shapely cousin Yasmina and his aunt Fatouma sometimes visit us. Yasmina has taken a liking to me and even added me on Facebook. The gal is cute and has one hell of a booty. If it weren't taboo for Muslim women to date Christian men I think Yasmina and I might have gone out. Ibrahim didn't seem to care that we were real friendly. The gal is cute but I'm not changing my religion. I focused on my studies, and continued working at the grocery store, eventually getting promoted to night crew chief. I got a two-dollar raise, how cool is that? Now I'm making thirteen dollars and seventy five cents an hour. I was very much involved with the ASU and Tess and I began spending more and more time together. Due to my dedication to the club, she made me the operations officer. Meaning that I'm the go-to guy when it comes to planning events, trips and things of that nature. Getting promoted to Operations Officer meant spending more time with Tess, since no one is more dedicated to the group's activities than her. Spending more time with a gorgeous, intelligent woman who's actually friendly? I didn't mind at all. Tess and I began hanging out together off-campus, going to the movies together and I must say I thoroughly enjoyed myself on these outings. Having been in Ottawa a year longer than I have, Tess knew her way around. I'll show you the cool spots, she promised me. We went to a big park on Kanata Lakes and played paintball there. She shot me in the face and I retaliated by shooting her in the butt, which unfortunately left a bruise on her posterior. Pissed off, Tess chased me and tackled me and for several moments we wrestled on the snow. Somehow she ended up on top of me. For the record, I didn't let her win. I got you, Tess crowed victoriously, smearing my face with snow. I give up, I said, spitting out a tiny snowball. Afrikaner Women Love Chocolate Too Tess looked at me, and I looked at her, and that's when it happened. Something in her eyes changed, and all of a sudden she wasn't laughing anymore. She leaned over, and suddenly her face was inches from mine. And my hands found themselves on her hips without my remembering having put them there. Reflexes, eh? Anyhow, that's when she kissed me. It wasn't the type of kiss you see in movies or on television these days. But it was a kiss, on the lips, and it lasted about sixty seconds. You've got sweet lips Island man, Tess said with a grin. I just lay there and grinned. Um thanks, all was I could say. Not my best moment, I know, but if you saw her you'd understand. Tess and I walked back to the bus stop with our paintball gear, and for several long moments neither of us said anything. Tess we should talk, I finally said. Tess looked at me, and licked her lips. I'm listening, she said, crossing her arms. I think I like you, I said, trying to sound cool and nonchalant, like Will Smith, my favorite actor. Tess smiled and without warning punched me in the shoulder. Ouch lady, I said, rubbing my shoulder. This chick has been playing rugby her whole life and it's made her rather strong, so I definitely felt the blow. So you do like girls, she said, grinning. What? I stared at her. Tess smiled and said that she'd been eyeballing me for a while and had never seen me flirt, date or even speak to any women on campus. I was starting to think you liked guys, she laughed. I scoffed at that. Nothing could be further from the truth. I'm all about the ladies I just get shy sometimes, I shrugged. Tess smiled. Anyone in particular? she asked, rolling her lovely eyes. I took this as my cue. Pulling her close, I planted a kiss on her lips. A real one. I like you Miss Dijke, I said with all the sincerity I could muster. Tess kissed me and gave my behind a squeeze. That's a very good answer Gustav, she grinned. Arm in arm, we boarded the bus leaving Kanata Lakes for Terry Fox station and from there we caught the Hurdman bus. Tess and I sat on the back, just talking and laughing. Our hands were all over each other, people stared but we didn't care. Thus began our relationship. Going out with a young white woman in the Canadian capital opened my eyes to a lot of things. First and foremost, white guys and black women do NOT like seeing Tess and I together. Never mind that if you go back half a millennium, anywhere in the world, it's perfectly okay for a white man to take a pleasure with a white woman but heaven help the non-white individual of the masculine persuasion who has a relationship with a white woman. Tess told me that even in post-Apartheid South Africa, interracial relationships are still frowned upon. We were hanging out in her residence on campus one Saturday night after watching a movie. You see a lot of white men with Asian women and women of other races in RSA but fewer white women with men of color, Tess said, a strange sadness creeping upon her face as she told me about her country's recent social upheavals. Brothers in South Africa don't date white women? I asked, finding that more than a bit strange. A few here and there, Tess shrugged. I gently stroked her chin. Good girls from the Dutch Reformed Church of South Africa are supposed to avoid you lot but I've always loved my chocolate, she said naughtily. I kissed her full and deep. Prove it, I said. Tess licked her lips. Gladly, she said, pulling her T-shirt off. My heart skipped a beat when I saw her breasts. Hesitantly I touched them. Grab'em, Tess said. I did, gently palming them. I took one into my mouth and sucked on it gently. Harder, Tess barked, and I obeyed. I felt myself grow hard as Tess eased her shorts off, revealing her hairy bush. I looked at it, fascinated. Tess looked at me, her eyes narrowing. You're a virgin, she said. It wasn't a question. How to answer that question? I felt a bit ashamed, sure, but what the heck. Might as well tell her the truth. Yes, I said evenly. I'm going to fuck your brains out tonight, Tess said. I smiled, knowing she would make good on that promise. Lying on the bed, Tess took me on a guided tour of her sexy body. I looked at her, mesmerized by her lovely eyes. That fearless smile, those eyes, that sexy athletic body, those shapely thighs, strong and sexy arms, hot damn. An alabaster canvas of loveliness. A world of woman I longed to explore. Lick me, Tess said, spreading her thighs wide open. I didn't hesitate. I kissed her pussy, inhaling her hot, womanly scent. Stick your tongue inside, she ordered. I did as I was told, tasting her womanly folds. Never before had I been this close to a woman. Her smell, the taste of her, it was all new and wonderfully intoxicating to me. I licked her like there was no tomorrow, a couple of times she told me to do this and that, and I obeyed. All in all, I'd say she was pleased. Good job for a beginner, Tess said, taunting me. I aim to please my lady, I said sincerely. Tess laughed, then grabbed my dick without warning. You're uncircumcised, she noted, surprise in her voice. I'm all natural, I said, somewhat self-consciously. Tess stroked my hard dick, her eyes lighting up as I grew even harder under her touch. Let me taste you, she said. My eyes widened as she crouched until her face was inches from my manhood. Hot damn, was she about to do what I thought she was going to do? Indeed. I sighed as she took my dick into her mouth. How to describe the feel of her warm mouth engulfing my dick? Hmmm. Tess sucked me for a few minutes, causing my knees to buckle as she flicked her tongue over the length of my shaft. I think you're ready, she said, pulling my dick out of her mouth. Grabbing a condom from a nearby drawer, she rolled it on my dick. I lay flat on my back, my dick as hard as it's ever been. Tess climbed on top of me. Ready for me? she asked. Yes ma'am, I said. Laughing, Tess lowered herself onto me until my manhood was sheathed inside her vagina. Put your hands on my hips and don't let go, Tess said. I did as I was told. And just like that, my sexy lady began riding me. Slow down, Tess said. I did, slowing the speed of my thrusts into her pussy. Her lovely breasts swayed from side to side as she began riding me. With her long blonde hair cascading on her shoulders, her strong and sexy body on top of me, our flesh joined so neatly, she was absolutely glorious. I couldn't believe I was having sex with such a sexy, wild and absolutely beautiful woman. Suddenly Tess grabbed my face. Fuck me like you're a man dammit, she snapped. Then she smacked me, hard. Surprised and outraged, I gripped her hips tighter and began fucking her harder, slamming my dick into her cunt. Tess screamed passionately as I fucked her roughly. That's the spirit, she yelled, urging me to go harder. For the next hour or so we went at it just like that, and then collapsed in each other's arms, sweat-soaked and spent but happy as can be. Tess rested her pretty blonde on my hairy chest. Guess what? she asked, suddenly grabbing my face. What? I was getting a bit tired of her out-of-the-blue type questions. You're not a virgin anymore, she whispered into my ear. I smiled. That's right! That night, I lost my virginity to Tess Van Dijke but even more importantly, it was our first night of love as a couple. Kind of cemented our relationship now that we've gotten freaky with each other. We continued seeing each other, and I can honestly say I fell hard for her. To me she was my golden beauty, my South African princess and my love. I knew she cared for me too but I was definitely more into her than the other way around. In hindsight, I might have been somewhat naïve in our interactions but what did I know? This was my first real relationship. And in every relationship, someone's got to do the heavy lifting. Time passed, and important events took place in this little life of mine. I was summoned to a courthouse downtown for a hearing with Citizenship and Immigration Canada. They had to make a decision in my refugee claim. Unfortunately for me, the judge, Mr. Davis something or other, ruled against me, though my Legal Aid-appointed lawyer assured me we had grounds for an appeal. I felt thoroughly discouraged. It was as if a knife had gone through me. For a whole year I'd been living, working and studying among Canadians. I worked really hard at the grocery store to pay for my rent, and my astronomical fees as an international student at Carleton University. I dreamed of becoming a permanent resident of Canada. That way I wouldn't have to pay huge fees at school, and I could find a better job than being a grocery store clerk. I could live like a normal person instead of having the endless worries that plague the lives of immigrants. Always worrying about expiring documents, having to go to this government office or that one. All this running around. My suffering could have been over, had the Judge been open-minded. Instead, I got screwed over. Great. Never one to throw in the towel, I asked the lawyer from Legal Aide to file the appeal. Maybe the Canadian government would show mercy and let me stay in Canada instead of shipping me back to the quake-ravaged island of Haiti. Yeah, and maybe pigs would fly. When I returned to Carleton the next day, I felt jealous of my fellow students. Whether Canadian citizens/permanent residents, exchange students or international students, they were all in a better place than I was. They came to Canada of their own free will. I was summoned here, then left to fend for myself. My aunt Jeannette and I are no longer on speaking terms. That white dude she's married to has done a real number on her. These days she blames me for the problems in her marriage, including her white knight in shining armor's penchant for smacking her around when she pissed him off. Wow. My aunt might have a Master's degree in Nursing from the University of Montreal but she doesn't have the common sense that the good Lord gave a mule. She's actually buying into Edouard Lalonde's bullshit. Oh, well. Maybe some black women enjoy getting beat up by white men. Most black women I know don't take shit from a black man but they'll bend over backwards for a white guy who does the same thing. If you ask me, Aunt Jeannette and her Quebecer deserve each other. Thanks for nothing, bitch! I continued going to school and working, though my relationship with Tess Van Dijke began to suffer. Maybe it's because my outlook on life has changed since my immigration case took a turn for the worse, or maybe it's because people change but we began to grow apart. For Reading Week ( that's Spring Break vacation for those of you who are from outside Canada ) she and several members of the African Student Union went to Boston, Massachusetts. I couldn't come because I wasn't cleared for travel by the Canadian government. They seized my passport when I came to Canada as a refugee claimant. Can't have me as a flight risk as they decide my fate, right? While Tess and the ASU guys and gals were out of town, I had a lot of time to think. I was invited to this Nigerian church in the east end of Ottawa by a friend from class and during the service, I swear the preacher was speaking to me when he preached about selfishness and its evils. I had been focusing on myself for far too long. I'm not the only person in the world going through a tough time. I reached out to my grandparents in Haiti, and sent them three hundred bucks via western union. Now, three hundred dollars Canadian translated into Haitian funds is a nice chunk of change. My grandparents were moved by my generosity. I was moved to tears by their gratitude. You're all the family I've got and I love you, I said. We spent two hours talking on the phone that afternoon. I used up a dozen phone cards, but it was worth it. Family is everything. I went to bed that night thinking about the day's events, and all the weird turns that my life had taken. I thought about my grandparents, my friends in Ottawa, and my relationship with Tess. Even though things hadn't gone my way with the immigration bit, I had a lot to be thankful for. I'm attending a great school, I have a job, a roof over my head, and my health along with my freedom ( for now ). I really shouldn't complain. I asked God for forgiveness, and the next moment, filled with inspiration, I contacted Tess in Boston via Skype. I'm sorry I've been a dick, I told her. I didn't ask her how Boston was treating her, or anything of the sort. I skipped the preliminaries and went right to my main reason for contacting her. For a long moment Tess's face was void of emotion. Finally, that fearless smile I knew so well was etched on her pretty face once more. You're cute when you grovel, she laughed. We spent an hour on Skype, just talking and catching up. Tess couldn't stop raving about Boston's Copley Mall, the theater district, the Boston Public Library, the Charles River Bridge, and the fact that the State of Massachusetts had a black Governor, a gentleman named Deval Patrick. How awesome is that? she giggled. Brothers are coming up in the world, I said. Good to know that African-American men are doing alright. I hardly ever hear any good news about the black community in the U.S. and I think the racially biased media is to blame. I can't wait till you come back, I said wistfully. I'm so going to hump your brains out the moment we land, Tess laughed. I shook my head. Same old Tess. That's one of the many reasons why I love her. Tess kissed the screen, then waved and clicked off. For a long moment, here in the silent dark, I thought about her, and my new life, with its struggles and triumphs, trials and tribulations. Thank God for His blessings, I said as I went to sleep. Got no idea what tomorrow shall bring but I make sure I appreciate every moment of the present day. You should do the same. Good night.