0 comments/ 4777 views/ 2 favorites From Morocco With Love By: Samuelx The first time I laid eyes on Rama Abdel-Masih, I was mesmerized. I mean, I was walking through the Rideau Shopping Center with my boys, Timothy and Dalton, one Saturday night, and when I saw her I just froze, man. I see pretty girls all the time, don't get me wrong. I simply wasn't used to seeing tall, majestic ladies in hijabs and regal long robes. With her angelic face, curvaceous figure and heart-shaped derriere which not even her Islamic robes could hide, the lady simply took my breath away. I decided right then and there that I had to have her, and this led me to a life-changing journey. My name is Alessandro Carvalho. I was born in the City of Kingston, Ontario, to a Portuguese-Canadian father, Eduardo Carvalho, and a Haitian immigrant mother, Alexandra Jean-Baptiste. My parents came from different worlds, and as an interracial family in a lily-white small town in Ontario, we got our fair share of stares. At my old high school, we had about eight hundred students, and I could count the number of non-white students on one hand. Hard to believe that Kingston is not too far from Toronto, the most racially diverse locale in all of North America. A lot of people speak fondly of their birthplaces. Me? I hated Kingston and left it as quickly as I could. I used to get teased by other students because of my skin color. I grew up to be six-foot-three and by the time I was eighteen, I weighed two hundred and fifty pounds. The teasing and taunting stopped the day I became a giant, and learned to fight back. Nevertheless, I ditched Kingston, swearing never to return. I mean, there's not much left for me back there anyways. My parents got separated during my junior year of high school. After my high school graduation, Mom moved to the City of Montreal, Quebec, and Dad got a job in the oil sands in Alberta. Our old house, the site of so many fond memories, got sold. Part of that pile of cash went to fund my education. The rest? I don't even know. All I know is that you couldn't force me to go back to Kingston at gunpoint. I needed someplace more diverse than that. That's why I opted to study at Carleton University in the City of Ottawa, Ontario. I originally wanted to study at the University of Toronto but my grades were, ahem, less than stellar. Alright, I'm a bit of a slacker when it comes to academics, alright? I'm a B student on my best day. Anyhow, while living in the City of Ottawa, I experienced a brand new world. Ottawa lags behind places like Toronto, Montreal, Vancouver and Calgary when it comes to racial and cultural diversity, but it's generations ahead of Kingston, Ontario, that's for damn sure. I became fascinated by all the different cultures I saw represented in town. For the first time in ages, I actually felt happy. In Kingston, I could go for months without seeing a single black person other than my mom, or my cousins from her side of the family when they would visit us from Quebec. In Ottawa, I saw black folks every day on the bus, the train, at the mall, etc. Such a diverse population! Dark-skinned and absolutely gorgeous, lively girls from places like Senegal, Gambia and Somalia sporting their hijabs and brightly colored skirts. Doe-eyed Hindu women in their Saris. Graceful Arab women. Strongly built, cocky young Jamaican men. Nervous white guys with their man-bags and cell phones. Busy-looking Asian guys fiddling with their gadgets on the bus. Ottawa has all kinds. As a mixed-race guy from a small town, I delighted in what I was seeing. I enrolled at Carleton University, in the civil engineering program, and got myself a two-bedroom apartment in the east end of Ottawa. For work I became a shelf stocker at Loblaw's. It's not a bad job, pays twelve dollars an hour and all you do is stock shelves. I was liking my new town, and even got myself some friends. I didn't really have friends at my old high school in Kingston. Some of my acquaintances were pleasant enough, and we'd hang out a few times, that's about it. Who am I kidding? Kingston is pure hell if you're not white. People stare at you and say all kinds of racist stuff to your face. That's small-town Canada for you. Enter at your own risk if you're one of those they classify as "other". Seriously, if you're Black, Chinese, Hindu, Arab, Aboriginal, or anything other than European, avoid that place. Take it from someone who spent a lifetime there. I wouldn't go back to that place if you threatened to shoot my nuts off with a twelve-gauge shotgun. I hate it that much. Now, Ottawa can be quite racist sometimes. A lot of the local European-Canadians don't like the influx of Somalis, Arabs, Chinese people and Aboriginals flooding their pristine little capital. That's okay, though. Since I have it on good authority that the visible minority is growing by leaps and bounds demographically while the Euro-Canadian population declines, I wouldn't worry about them too much. Anyhow, now that I was far from my favorite little hell, I could live a little. While wandering through the engineering building, I ran into a tall, muscular black dude. Goes by the name of Timothy Walters, and he's straight from the City of Kingston, Jamaica. From the way he describes his hometown, it sounds like a fun place. I have to visit the island of Jamaica one of them days. Timothy was in his second year at CU and studied electrical engineering. Even though Carleton University is a very diverse school, the engineering department is one of the most...old-school. Lots of white guys there, not a lot of females, not a lot of minorities. Timothy became my best friend, wingman and protector. He introduced me to Dalton Yamamoto, a tall, skinny, pale-skinned Asian dude with spiky black hair, sharp features and some mean-looking snake tattoos on his arms, shoulders and back. Dalton's father Anthony Yamamoto is originally from the City of Komaki, somewhere in Japan, and his mother Maria Martinez is from the Dominican Republic. Dude is mixed, like me. He's studying mechanical engineering. Together, we formed Los Tres Diablos. The Three Devils. Three minority guys determined to make it to the top of our game, academically, socially and in every other aspect. These guys were the brothers I always wanted but never had, man. We hung out together, smoked together, studied together, listened to music together and chilled together. Add to that the fact that all three of lived in the east end and you had a recipe for perfect male bonding. I live on Presland Street, Dalton lives in Ogilvie and Timothy lives off of Montreal Road. We're all within a couple miles of each other. The Three Devils were inseparable. We didn't let anyone intimidate us. And we partied hard. If you're a young minority guy in Ottawa, and you like the nightlife, you might run into some trouble. Seriously, the clubs out here have a policy of limiting the number of minority males on the premises, especially when it comes to young black men, just so the white guys don't get nervous. I remember one time when we went to Mansion, this club downtown, and while Timothy was doing the bump and grind with this blonde-haired white chick named Lori, the other guys in the club were hating on him big-time. Face it, even in the 2010s, people hate seeing young black men with white women. Remember the fuss people made over Kim Kardashian and Kanye West ending up on the cover of Vogue magazine? It had nothing to do with their public personas and everything to do with the fact that they're an interracial couple. And out of all the interracial couples out there, the one combo that everyone seems to hate ( and grudgingly admire ) is black men and white women. So, anyways, Timothy was dancing with Lori while Dalton flirted with this short, tattooed Goth chick named Miranda. As usual, I was my shy self, smiling at all the pretty ladies but unable to work up the nerve to chat one up. I sat at the bar, drinking Heineken and watching the Ottawa Senators lose to the Montreal Canadiens on TV. Not a big NHL fan but whatever. I saw a pretty Arab chick sit at the bar and just as I was about to use a lame line on her, some commotion on the dance floor caught my attention. Timothy was surrounded by three white dudes, and one of them was saying that Lori belonged to him. Naturally, Timothy wasn't having any of that. He got in the dudes faces and told them to get lost. When they got belligerent, I leapt to my buddy's aid. I wasn't about to let them get rough with him. When they found themselves facing two young men of color, two rowdy brothers at that, the white dudes looked less than thrilled. I hollered at Dalton and he promptly joined us. What followed is a violent brawl that ended with my buddies and I getting escorted ( unceremoniously tossed out ) off the premises by the burly bouncers and given a lifetime fan from one of Ottawa's top night clubs. It didn't seem to matter to the bouncers or club management that the white dudes started this shit, they sided with them. Whatever. That's Ottawa for you. I was disappointed but seriously, I should have seen it coming. Ottawa is more diverse than Kingston, Ontario, but some things never change. Those in charge typically look the other way when white guys break the rules but they're quick to jump on a minority if he's so much as defending himself. Fuck that club, man. My friends and I got on the OC Transpo bus and got our butts home. Then we swore we'd go clubbing on the Gatineau side. Ottawa sucks anyways, and we heard things are cheaper and livelier in Quebec. These unfortunate events took place the night before I first spotted Rama Abdel-Masih as Tim, Dalton and I walked through the Rideau Shopping Center. We were coming down the escalator and making our way to the food court when I saw her...and walked after her as if in a trance. Timothy and Dalton went to grab some Chinese food while I saved us a table. My eyes were riveted on the tall, curvy, hijab-wearing Arab gal who sat with her friend, a short Asian gal. When my buddies came back, they teased me for making goo-goo eyes at Miss Arabia. Yeah, I know, but a guy can dream, can't he? We sat there, eating Chinese food and washing it down with Pepsis. From time to time I glanced at the tall Arab chick who sat there with her little Asian girlfriend like a queen with her handmaiden, eating something they bought at New York Fries. Great, now even immigrant women are into the dreaded poutine. As she ate a fry, her sexiness checked something in her Blackberry. Some bozo walking nearby bumped into her, causing her to drop the cell phone. The pretty Arab gal said something I didn't hear, and reached for the phone. The dude who bumped into her whirled around, and, red-faced, began unleashing upon her a barrage of expletives that would make a sailor blush. Damn. I mean, he was really laying it thick. That's not cool, I said, and got up. Timothy tried to restrain me but I batted his arm away and marched to the lady's table. Initially surprised by the brusque, rude bozo's verbal assault, the Arab gal rose to her feet and in an accented voice she told him to get out of her face. At this point, everyone in the food court was watching the scene. Rideau is a funny place, man. You see all kinds of people around that mall. From the lunatics to the wannabes and the rich snobs. This guy obviously belonged to the first category. I stepped between the loudmouth and the Arab gal just as he moved towards her. Fuck you want? the pimply-faced, short-haired and tattooed white dude with the sleeveless black shirt and faded jeans said. I glared at him. Leave the lady alone, I said, gritting my teeth and balling my fist. His eyes narrowed to slits and he looked me up and down. Too many of you fucking minorities in my town, he said, spittle flying out of his mouth as he spoke. I stepped closer, just in case this fool didn't get the message. Back the fuck off loser, I said angrily. We seized each other up. Ole dude was a couple inches shorter than me but wiry and muscular, and looked like he'd been in a few brawls. I'd battled his type before. Kingston, Ontario, is full of racist blowhards. I wasn't intimidated. I knew what I looked like to him. I'm big and tall and brown, the definition of scary for a racist motherfucker like him. If he wanted to throw down, let him bring it. I'm ready. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is when mall security arrived. Break it up guys, said a tall white dude wearing a vest and security uniform. Seriously, why is it that security people/bouncers always have it in for me? The security guy called for backup and next thing I know, a brunette chick and a bald white dude, both sporting security gear and vests, flanked me. The racist shmuck backed off, smiling smugly. The three rent-a-cops looked ready to arrest me. Timothy and Dalton were ready to jump in but I told them to stay out of it. Everyone inside the food court stared at us, more than a few of them smirking or shaking their heads. I knew how it looked, to them. The big minority guy is making trouble, that's why security has him surrounded. The racist white dude who verbally assaulted and threatened an Arab lady simply for being, well, a minority woman from another religion? Let's ignore that creep and let him get away. Hell, let's give him a good citizen award. That's how we operate in Canada. Right and wrong don't matter in the great white north, only skin tone. I figured I was either getting arrested and getting handed over to the punk-ass Ottawa police or I'd get tossed out of the mall. And then she spoke. This man came after me and would have hurt me if not for you, the Arab gal said, looking at me and smiling faintly. The security officers looked at her, then at me. The racist creep glared at the Arab gal murderously. Shut up you terrorist bitch, he growled. I looked at him and smiled. For once, I was glad the bigoted creep couldn't keep his mouth shut. I looked at the security officers. The female officer looked pale, while the bald dude scratched his head. You need to leave the mall, he said finally, pointing his chubby finger at the racist creep. Whatever, the bozo grumbled, then ran out the mall. He exited, and I distinctly watched him enter the McDonalds across the street. Classy guy, eh? The security officer looked at the Arab gal, apologized on behalf of mall management, and asked her if she would like to file a complaint. Dude all but ignored me. No thank you I am fine, she said. The two security officers nodded, then left. I stood there, trying hard not to laugh. I've heard that every dog has its day but damn, looks like I won today. Thank you for helping me, the Arab lady said. I nodded and looked at her. Damn, she was even better-looking up close. Bronze skin, dark eyes, full lips, pretty face, and a curvy body that won't quit. Damn. I am Alessandro, I said, holding out my hand. After a brief hesitation, the Arab shook my hand. I am Rama, she said, and pointed to the Asian gal next to her. This is my friend Nadiya. Good to meet you, the shorter gal said. I smiled and nodded at them both. They packed up their belongings and walked away, and I reluctantly went back to my friends. You're the man, Timothy said, and clapped me on the shoulder. I smiled and shrugged as my buddies raved about the major cojones I must have for taking on a bigoted creep AND mall security on behalf of a chick I didn't even know. I got it like that, I laughed. I smiled and looked longingly at Rama and her gal pal Nadiya as they exited the Rideau Shopping Center. I couldn't help wondering if I'd ever see them again, or what I'd say if and when it happened. Guy rescues gal from a bad situation and they fall in love. Only happens in the movies, right? Well, a guy can dream, dammit! The following Monday, I set foot inside the Carleton University library for the first time. I've never liked libraries. They're full of annoying people with no life who like to shush you. I sat on the third floor, working on an assignment for the one class I hated the most. Sociology. I love civil engineering because it's mostly math and science and it's simple and beautiful. I hate stuff like sociology, literature and psychology, where there's no definite right answer. I've always excelled at math and science and sucked at 'human interest' subjects. I've got to take a humanities type elective and Sociology 101 was open. I sat at a computer, and stared blankly at the screen. I had Facebook and YouTube opened, along with Microsoft Word. I needed to write fifteen pages explaining why I felt that sociological perspectives could explain society and human nature. What kind of stupid question is that? I don't get it. I sat there, and after writing the cover page and writing down my name and student number, along with the course name and number plus the professor's name, I had absolutely nada. Seriously, I had nothing. And this assignment was worth twenty five percent of my grade. Shit. I'm not very religious but I was ready to start praying. Guess who sat next to me? Rama, the stunning Arab chick from Rideau. As Salam Alaikum Alessandro, she said with a smile. Hi Rama, I managed to squeak out. Damn, the lady looked gorgeous in a long-sleeved red T-shirt, blue jeans and black hijab. I watched as she logged on her computer, then opened up C-Mail, the school's online network, and opened up her work. I tried to focus on my work, failed miserably, and proceeded to make conversation with her instead. I was surprised to see Rama at Carleton, and she happily told me she was here studying psychology. I looked at the pretty lady and smiled. Does a psychology student know anything about sociology? Inquiring minds, especially mine, want to know. Rama grinned and told me that not only did she take sociology before but she was familiar with the professor I had. You're heaven sent, I told her, as I began thinking of ways to get her to help me. I didn't even have to ploy her, Rama volunteered. You math guys tend to suck at humanities stuff, she laughed, pointing to my Engineering Dynamics textbook. I smiled sheepishly. You got no idea sister, I laughed. Over the next hour or so, I got to know Rama Abdel-Masih. The tall, pretty lady turned out to be North African and not Arab like I suspected. Rama told me about her hometown of Sale, northwestern Morocco, where her parents, Imran and Latifa Abdel-Masih owned several restaurants. As to why a lovely lady from Morocco would move to freezing, boring-ass Ottawa? Rama told me she always wanted to study abroad, and Canada had always fascinated her. That's why she came to Carleton as an international student. Hmmm. Impressive. We didn't discuss much sociology, though I did bounce a few ideas off Rama and she told me she'd help me with the paper. When I asked her for a way to get in touch with her, the pretty lady logged onto her Facebook and sent me a friend request. I happily accepted her request on the spot, and regretted using the picture of a trio of big-booty Brazilian chicks as my background poster for the day. Look, most of my friends on Facebook are dudes. I typically don't have to worry about someone being offended by the borderline pornographic pictures of big-booty chicks in bikinis which I happen to collect. I'm single, alright? Nice buns, Rama wrote underneath the aforementioned background picture, then she 'liked' it. This she did while sitting right next to me. Man, I felt so embarrassed but it's good to see she's got a sense of humor. For a moment there I thought Rama was one of those super-conservative broads, since she's Muslim and wears the hijab and all. Nope, she seems fairly relaxed. That's a good sign. I was about to ask her for her digits when she got up and said she had to get to class. Let us keep in touch Masha'Allah, Rama said. I nodded and smiled, for I didn't know Jack in Arabic. Rama smiled at me and walked away. I sat there, watching her big butt practically busting out of them jeans. A lot of hijab-wearing girls wear tight-fitting Yoga pants or leggings or super-tight jeans. As someone who gawks at them every chance I get, I don't mind but isn't it counterproductive if they're going for chastity and modesty? From Morocco With Love As soon as Rama was gone, I went to the stairwells, took out my Blackberry and called Timothy. Dude I ran into her at school, I whispered loudly into the phone. My brother I'm in class, Timothy snapped, then hung up. I stared at the phone, stunned. It's like that? Alright, then. I returned to my seat, and resumed my work. I sat there from eleven o'clock in the morning until around three that afternoon. I got six pages done, not counting the cover page. Yeah, I'm definitely going to need Rama's help with that stuff. I tried calling Dalton, but he text me that he was chilling with Miranda. Apparently, the Goth chick from that club we got tossed out of is totally into him. Good for you Timmy, I texted him, then went back to my apartment. That night, as I lay on my bed, I thought about the events of recent times. I'm nineteen years old, my parents are divorced, I finally escaped from the boring, racist town I grew up in but I'm not faring much better in the more diverse big city. I keep getting into these incidents, and it won't be long until something serious happens. I came to Ottawa to start a new life, get a university degree, find a job and eventually, find the right lady. Or a lady. The sole sexual experience of my existence happened in the basement of one Natasha Granger, two weeks after my high school graduation. Natasha and I had an interesting history. Her father, Steve Granger, is a Constable with the Kingston Police Service. A stocky, red-haired, fiery-eyed, ill-tempered redneck. Dude's originally from Red Deer, Alberta, but he moved to Ontario a a little over a decade ago. Natasha's dad is the perfect example of the stereotype of the redneck lawman, gun-toting, and not very well-disposed towards citizens of color. Since I'm a mixed guy born and raised in Kingston, one of the whitest municipalities in all of Canada, I often felt that the good ole constable had a gruff disapproval of my very existence. Natasha Granger was a rebel, and what a fine rebel she was. Born in Alberta, she kept her accent even after living in Ontario for most of her life. Made her exotic to me, that redneck accent. Tall and curvy, with long blonde hair and icy blue eyes. The gal had a cute face, curvy body, naturally large breasts, legs that won't quit and the kind of big, round derriere that I hadn't seen on a white female since the lady Coco, rapper/actor Ice-T's wife. We got involved during my senior year of high school, and kept it hush for obvious reasons. Ladies and gentlemen, I banged the redneck cop's daughter in her father's basement. Right there on a mattress, near his empty beer kegs and old American Rifleman magazines. Natasha and I fucked like rabbits that summer. It wasn't just sex, either, at least not to me. I told her I was leaving town, forever, and invited her to come with me. Natasha had no plans for college or university. Indeed, she still works at Cecil's Diner, a quaint little place in downtown Kingston. If I pass through town at some point in the next twenty years, she'll probably still be there. That's just the kind of person she is. Small town gal with small dreams. A shame, though. Odd that I'm lying in bed thinking about folks I knew back in Kingston, though. I used to look forward to the summer, for my parents would send me to stay in Montreal, Quebec, with my aunt Jacqueline, her husband George and their daughters, my cousins Mira and Nadine. I'm part Haitian on my mom's side and I absolutely love that culture. I learned to speak Creole during those summer months in Montreal. If I have any appreciation for black culture, it's because of my aunt Jacqueline, my mother's older sister. She's a strong black woman through and true. Taught me about Haitian history and the shared experiences of black folks worldwide. I learned a lot from her. It wasn't cool to talk about race in the household where I grew up. As a Portuguese-Canadian immigrant, my father is considered white by the good folks of Kingston but my Haitian mother and my mixed self will always be considered the cultural other. Dad tried his best to shield us from the worst of what Kingston town folks threw at us but he couldn't be everywhere. That's why I always prayed for summer. In Montreal, with my black relatives, I felt happy. I belonged. I always cried when it was time to return to Kingston, the dreadful little town where I got teased because of my skin color. And yet I had taken to bed the daughter of the most bigoted son of a bitch in town. Maybe I do like to play with fire. I thought of Rama Abdel-Masih. This Moroccan gal fascinates me, and not just because she's real pretty, with a fine body and mesmerizing ass. As much as I fancy myself a knowledgeable and open-minded sort, I'm still a small-town hick. I'm half black and half white, and I've never been outside Canada. I only know four cities, Kingston and Ottawa in Ontario, along with Montreal and Gatineau in Quebec. Rama had already seen the world outside Canada. Hell, she was born and raised in Morocco. I could only imagine the things she'd seen. All I know about Arab/Muslim countries is what I see on CNN. I desperately wanted to feel and experience more, but had no idea what I truly sought or how to get it. I felt lonely in Ottawa, in spite of hanging constantly with Dalton and Timothy. I talked to my Dad twice a week, and he told me he was loving it in Alberta. He was dating a Native woman he met in Calgary, an Ojibwe woman named Christine Sooleawa. Damn, I guess my father really likes minority women, eh? I talked to my mom and from what I hear, she loves it in Montreal. I've been meaning to visit her. I love Montreal and hope to move there someday, maybe after I graduate from Carleton. I'm fully bilingual, having learned Parisian French from my Haitian immigrant mother. I ought to do fine in la belle province. On that note, I fell asleep, dreaming big, like I always do. The next day, I went to school and checked my messages. I had three from Rama and she was inviting me to Moroccan Cultural Night, an event being held somewhere on campus. I cannot remember the last time anyone invited me anywhere. Hell, I didn't even go to my senior prom. Natasha Granger was fine with sleeping with me when no one was looking but she wouldn't publicly date a gentleman of color like myself. You might see a lot of interracial couples in places like Toronto, Ottawa, Montreal and Vancouver but in Kingston, Ontario, it's just not done. It's the reason why my white father and black mother were so hated. I can only imagine at what those hicks would say or worse, do, if they saw a white gal with a black guy. Small town Canada is a different world, ladies and gentlemen. I showed up at the event wearing a blue silk shirt, black tie and black silk pants. My Sunday best, if you will. I thought I'd be the only non-Arab at the party but it turned out to be quite diverse. Thank you for coming brother, Rama said, greeting me at the door. I smiled and nodded, then gave her a quick once-over. Rama looked gorgeous in a long red dress that seemed to hug her curves, and she had on a shiny white hijab. You look lovely, I said. Rama smiled and nodded graciously, then ushered me inside. Man, the place was packed. I saw a lot of young people, mostly Arabs or Middle-Easterners, with a few black guys and black gals and some Asians here and there. Rama went around introducing me to her pals. This is the man who rescue me from that creep I told you about, Rama said, as she walked me over to a tall bearded young Arab dude who looked like the head honcho. As Salam Alaikum brother, the guy said, and introduced himself as Ibrahim. I shook his big hand and introduced myself. Later I learned he was the President of the Islamic Students Association. Cool, I'd never met a president before. After a few more meet-and-greets Rama sat me down at a table with four guys and one white chick, and then excused herself. I'm performing tonight, she giggled excitedly, then walked away. I watched as the proceedings began. Ibrahim took the floor, and thanked everyone for coming. I looked around, and was quite taken with the place. They'd artfully decorated a vast lecture hall and set a stage, complete with Arabic-looking imagery on the walls, and fancy decorations. I saw four tables packed with food and drinks, and smiled. These people sure know how to entertain... The whole presentation looked like something out of The Thousand And One Nights, a book my father once read to me. I smiled and watched as one performance followed the other. Dances, singing, even an arm-wrestling contest, which surprised me. And then finally Rama took the stage. I watched as she took the mike, greeted everyone, thanked them for coming, and then began singing in both French and Arabic. It was a long, slow and very sensuous song. One that aroused me and had me on my feet, clapping with the best of them, even though I didn't understand half of what she said. The lady's voice is strong and sexy, and carries over, vibrating around the room and penetrating you in ways you don't expect. Rama totally owned the stage, and got a standing ovation. A few minutes later, Rama came back to our table. You were amazing, I said, like the eager beaver I am. Rama smiled bashfully. Thank you brother, she said. I looked at her, amazed. I mean, I knew she was smart and sexy, but I didn't know she could sing like Beyonce! Alright, maybe not like Beyonce, but maybe like Celine Dion. Anyhow, I was sitting next to her, and she looked seriously hot in that ankle-length yet tight red dress, and her curves were showing, and her perfume smelled wonderful, and, um, yeah. And once again, I'm tongue-tied. Awesome performance, I said again, looking at Rama. Just in case she didn't hear me the first time, and also because I wasn't sure what to say. A bright idea crept into my skull, and I smiled wickedly. The one thing no Muslim can resist is talking about their great religion. I smiled and watched the performances with Rama, and dropped a few hints her way. I surreptitiously let her know that I wanted to know more about Islam, and the Moroccan people. The end result? A smiling Rama handed me two things, her digits and a copy of the Koran. I smiled graciously and accepted both. Whatever it takes to get at the lovely and delicious Rama Abdel-Masih, man. Seriously. And that's how it all began, ladies and gentlemen. I thought I was so clever, pretending to be interested in Rama's culture and religion just because I wanted a piece of her delicious Moroccan derriere. Little did I know that the lady had major plans for me. At first, she slowly drew me out. I began attending Koran discussion groups on campus, and I learned about the Prophet Mohammed, his life-changing encounter with the Archangel Gabriel, and the birth of Islam. The more interested I became in Islam, the closer Rama and I grew. We talked on the phone a lot, and hung out together on campus. We went to the movies together, and the Cineplex at Silver City in Ottawa's east end became our favorite spot. We were both new to Ottawa in a way and we delighted in exploring it together. We went to museums and restaurants, malls and theaters. One frosty night in December, I took her to the National Arts Center and we watched the annual Shen Yun Performing Arts show. I looked alright in a sharp black suit and Rama looked amazing in a long dark crimson evening gown, her curly black hair hidden by a dark head wrap, not the hijab, but another type I hadn't seen her wear before. Whatever, she looked lovely. You look divine, I told her, as we walked in, the only couple our age among the tons of well-dressed ladies and gentlemen from Ottawa's finest citizenry. You know how to make a lady blush, Rama whispered into my ear. I smiled at that. What can I say? I like Rama, I enjoy her company, and I can honestly say that my life hasn't been the same since she came into it. I still hang out with Timothy and Dalton. We're Los Tres Diablos. The Three Devils. We're boys until we die. Nothing can change that. I let them know that. Dude you're whipped, Timothy chided me one night, as we ate some Chinese food inside Saint Laurent Mall's food court. Rama owns your ass, Dalton chimed in. Haters, I laughed and brushed off their comments. Seriously, Timothy and Dalton could bug me all they want, I refused to let it get to me. Besides, Timothy is fawning over a blonde-haired white chick named Mildred, and they've been together for two months. Dalton and Miranda have recently moved in together. And these are the guys accusing my ass of being whipped. Ha! Rama showed me a different world. I thought all Muslims were ultra-conservative, uptight and boring. I thought of Muslim men as domineering brutes and viewed Muslim women as submissive and dull. That's the popular description of them, isn't it? Well, whoever says that Muslim women are submissive or weak hasn't met Rama Abdel-Masih of Sale, Morocco. The tall, curvy Moroccan sister is gorgeous, fun, smart, quirky and absolutely fearless. I introduced her to one of my favorite sports, Paintball, and she took to it like a cat takes to hunting mice. Typically, on Sunday afternoons, Timothy, Dalton and I play Paintball together. Well, that weekend I brought Rama with me. As we played together at a spot called Tag Zone in the east end, the mischievous witch shot me in the ass with a paintball gun. Left a red mark on my left butt cheek for three days. Watch your back, Rama teased, after shooting my posterior, as I lay there, moaning in pain. Timothy and Dalton stood there, laughing their sick heads off. In retaliation I shot Rama in the face but the blast bounced harmlessly off her visor. Close but no cigar, Rama teased, and blasted me twice more for good measure. I hate you, I managed to squeak out as Timothy gave me a hand up. Dude she got you good, Dalton teased, shaking his head. I glared at him, shaking my head. My ass still stung. Fuck you, I said, and shoved him away. Man, my ass hurts and I'm walking funny. I look like I just got butt-fucked in a Mexican jail. Dammit. Rama looked at me, and an odd look crept into her pretty face. Sorry I hurt you Al, she said, and smiled guiltily. Then she kissed me. Yup, clad in a T-shirt, sweatpants and a visor, my gorgeous, exotic, not-quite-girlfriend hugged me and kissed me on the lips. Feel better? Rama said, looking all concerned and shit while she patted my bum. I perked right up when she did that. Suddenly filled with inspiration, I pulled Rama into my arms and kissed her. I feel better already, I grinned, winking at her. Standing behind Rama, Dalton and Timothy gave me the thumbs-up sign. Yup, things are definitely looking up. Yeah, things were progressively between Rama and I. Happy to say that not only did I complete the sociology project but I got a ninety one out of a hundred on it. To celebrate, I took Rama to East Side Mario's restaurant in the east end. We ate some delicious lasagnas, sandwiches and washed them down with Pepsis. Couldn't have done it without you, I told Rama. Gently, I squeezed her hand. Thank you Al, she smiled. I looked at her, this lovely young Moroccan woman I met under such odd circumstances. And I thanked my lucky stars for her. Rama looked at me. Do you believe in fate? she asked me suddenly, a strange look in her lovely golden brown eyes. I smiled and nodded. Indeed I believed in fate, how else could you explain how two people as different as her and I, in a promising new relationship? Rama smiled at me, and told me that she always knew that she'd travel far from home and in her time of need the Creator would send an angel to save her. A beautiful belief, I said, not knowing what to say. Rama laughed. You're the angel sent to save me, she smiled, entwining her hand with mine. I looked at our entwined fingers, and smiled at her. Like a smooth operator, I took Rama's hand and brought it to my lips. I smiled at Rama, and noticed she didn't return my smile. I am serious, Rama said. I kept smiling, but honestly, I was beginning to get thoroughly creeped out. I mean, what was Rama getting at with all this angel talk? I think fate meant for us to be together, Rama said, suddenly she was much closer to me. In fact, our faces were soon inches apart. Go on, I said, hapless before the hypnotic pull of those eyes of hers. Rama kissed me full and deep. I want you to convert to Islam then we can be together, she whispered into my ear. I looked at her then, and although a part of me felt like protesting, I didn't say anything. My heart raced. I had agreed to learn about Islam and Moroccan culture just to get with Rama, but now, I was starting to fall for her. Also, I had learned a lot about the Muslims and most of them were decent people. I definitely respect their faith, and find much of it beautiful and intriguing. Still, was I ready for conversion? Rama looked at me with those angelic eyes of hers, and smiled. Then she kissed me. We left the restaurant together, and went back to my place. Once we got there, we didn't do a lot of talking, let tell you. Rama and I sat on my living room couch, gently kissing and fondling each other. Are you ready for me? I asked, my eyes locked with hers. Rama smiled faintly. I've wanted you for a long time Al, she confessed, blushing slightly. I looked at Rama, and my heart melted at the sight of her, my gorgeous Moroccan goddess, clad in a long-sleeved azure T-shirt, ankle-length blue skirt and sky-blue hijab, gazing longingly into my eyes. I decided to worship her like the goddess she is. Gently I kissed her, then asked her to disrobe. Hesitantly, Rama took off her T-shirt. I watched as she unclasped her bra, freeing her breasts. They were big and round, ripe-looking, just like I envisioned them. Gently I cupped them, and brought my lips to her areolas. That tickles, Rama laughed, as I began sucking on her tits. I licked a path from Rama's breasts to her round belly, which she seemed a bit self-conscious about. You're beautiful to me my sister, I said, and made my way to her pelvic area. Grinning Rama hiked up her skirt. I found myself staring at a chunky pussy practically puffing out of her lily-white panties. Slowly I pulled them off her, and stared at her hairy cunt. Go for it, Rama whispered, as if I needed any encouragement. I knelt before her and brought my face to Rama's pussy as she spread her big, sexy legs wide open. I inhaled the hot, womanly scent of Rama's cunt, then proceeded to lick her. For once I was thankful for the things my former classmate/fuck buddy Natasha Granger taught me a long time ago in Kingston. I knew how to sexually excite a female. Working two fingers into Rama's wet pussy, I teased her clit with my tongue, causing her to shudder and moan. The lady hadn't felt anything yet. You're in my spot, Rama moaned softly, as I continued working my magic on her. I delighted in tasting Rama's womanhood on my tongue, as I explored her most forbidden, intimate regions with my mouth and fingers. I buried my face between Rama's thighs, munching on her pussy hungrily, like a damn pig at the trough, for lack of a better term. I hadn't gotten this close to a woman in over a year, and I definitely wanted to make up for lost time. I licked, probed, sucked and fingered Rama's cunt until I had her crying out my name in every language she knew, including Arabic, French and profane. When all was said and done, Rama lay on the couch, disheveled, her curvaceous, lovely body covered with sweat, a stunned look in her golden brown eyes. I got it like that mamas, I said with admirable false modesty. Rama looked at me and licked her lips. You're something else, she laughed. I took her hands, kissed them and then placed them on my erect manhood. Rama looked at her hands, then at me. I smiled at her and nodded gently. You know what to do, I whispered into her ear. Rejoining her on the couch, I leaned back and pulled off my pants, followed by my black and white Carleton Throwback T-shirt. Rama laughed and slapped my thighs for not wearing underwear. I shrugged. I only wear underwear when I'm going to the pool or on super-frosty days. Otherwise what's the point? I like to let it all hang out. From Morocco With Love Rama grasped my dick in her hand and licked the head, then looked at me. Do you like that? she asked. I smiled and nodded. Seriously, what else was I going to say? When a woman literally has you by the balls the last thing you want to do is piss her off. Rama gently sucked my dick, and fondled my balls. In no time my Moroccan goddess had me hard as a piston. Now, there was a scary moment when she kind of, um, grazed the underside of my shaft with her teeth while sucking my dick with gusto. I yelped, and she stopped immediately. I'm sorry, Rama said, concern in her big brown eyes. It's okay, I said, and promptly put a stop to the oral sex portion of our little encounter. I looked at my dick, and noted with relief that it was uninjured. I'll do better next time, Rama promised. Shaking my head, I smiled at her, this tall, big and beautiful young woman whose unique combination of wickedness and innocence takes my breath away. I kissed her passionately and then proceeded to take her, right then and there. Come and get it I'm ready for you, Rama teased, yanking off her skirt and tossing it aside before spreading her big sexy legs invitingly. I felt myself harden at the sight of Rama like this, so...horny. Just as I approached her, ready to take her, Rama held her hand up. Wait, Rama said, and her hands went to her head and she began removing her hijab. I put a stop to that toot sweet. You can keep it on if you want to, I told her with a straight face. If Rama picked up on any ulterior motives on my part she didn't let on. We embraced, and began making love. I looked Rama in the eye and asked her if she was ready for me. Do it, Rama grinned, licking her lips. I put on a condom, pressed my hard dick against Rama's pussy, and gently pushed it inside her. At last we were one. Make love to me, Rama whispered. I did as the lady demanded, and then some. When morning came, it found Rama and I lying on the living room floor. Lots of new couples find the 'morning after' an awkward time, especially after they've hooked up/fucked/made love for the first time. It wasn't so for Rama and I. I put my T-shirt and pants back on and watched Rama Abdel-Masih, my beloved, as she put herself back together. First she put on her panties, then her bra, followed by her T-shirt and long skirt. The hijab was the only thing she didn't take off. Don't ask me why but making love to her while it's still on her head turned me on. I can't explain it. Last night was wonderful, I told her. Rama looked at me, a serious look on her pretty face. Gone was the wanton woman from the night before. In front of me stood the very image of Islamic feminine modesty. We shouldn't have done that, Rama said, a pained look on her face. I gasped in shock. What the hell? Why was she saying such nonsense? I took Rama's face in my hands and told her that last night was one of the best nights of my life. I care for you a lot and don't want you thinking less of me, Rama said, her full lip quivering. I stroked her chin. Never, I said, then I kissed her. Rama showered while I cooked breakfast, then she left hastily. I've got class in forty five minutes, Rama said, kissing on the lips before rushing out the door. I watched from my living room window as she crossed the street and headed for the bus stop. The number nine bus runs through my neighborhood, Vanier, and it connects with Hurdman Station. From there, it's easy to get to Carleton University. The number four bus would get her there in ten minutes. I sat in my kitchen, sipping my coffee while eating my omelette. This could have gone better, I said to myself. I didn't see much of Rama that week, though we talked and texted. It's almost exam time so that didn't surprise me too much. When we did talk, though, our conversations were brief, only lasting about ten minutes instead of our regular hour-long chats. See you soon Insha'Allah, Rama would say, at the end of our chats, and hang up. The following Friday, I showed up at the Masjid. Just a regular brother coming for prayer. I ran into Warsama, this Somali dude I knew from school. He wished me a warm welcome to the Masjid, and we sat together as the Imam, an older Arab guy in priestly robes, preached. In a mosque, men pray up front and women pray in the back. That's how it's been done since the days of the Prophet Mohammed, the Founder of Islam. No shoes and no chairs allowed on the premises, especially the prayer hall. The Imam's office, and the meeting hall downstairs are a different matter, though. Men and women enter the mosque at different entrances. After prayer, I talked with Warsama and the brothers for a bit, then exited the premises. I live within a fifteen-minute walk from the mosque, and didn't feel like going home yet. I called Timothy and Dalton, but they were with their girlfriends. I didn't feel like intruding, so I wisely stayed home. I went to bed that night feeling frustrated. I called Rama, and got no answer. As I lay on my bed, I thought about recent events. Things aren't going well between Rama and I, and the fact that she seems to be avoiding me doesn't bode well. Around seven o'clock the next morning, I called Timothy to ask him for advice, but a sleepy female voice answered, telling me to get lost. Ah, the wonderful bond between male friends, eh? Bros before hoes and all that! Pussy's a trump card, and everyone knows it. I went to school, and decided to focus on my classwork, the real reason anyone goes to university, instead of getting sidetracked. I figured one thing about women a long time ago, when you chase them they run, and when you run, they chase you. I'll ignore Rama for a few days, and I'm sure she'll turn up eventually. I hung out with Timothy and Dalton, sans women, and we were Los Tres Diablos once again. We studied together, and afterwards, we smoked fatties and washed them down with Heineken. A manly good time, to be sure. My little ploy worked like a charm. Two days later, guess who I found waiting for me at my apartment? A lovely Moroccan gal who answers to the moniker Rama Abdel-Masih...minus her clothes. Welcome home Big Al, Rama purred, lying luxuriously on my bed, naked as the day she was born. I smiled at her and nodded. It is good to see you mamas, I said smugly, as I joined Rama on the bed. Ladies and gentlemen, Rama took care of me better than I ever expected. Let's just say she left me pleasurably sore and thoroughly exhausted in the most wonderful way. This was our second time around the bend, and I wasn't into the love-me-tender crap. Especially after Rama pissed me off by ignoring me for days. I took her on all fours, spanking her thick Moroccan ass and pulling her lustrous, curly black hair as I slammed my dick into her cunt. Rama just went with it, clearly loving this more aggressive, utterly dominant side of me. I fucked her roughly, taking pleasure in totally owning that big butt of hers. I came twice that day, and made Rama polish my dick with her tongue afterwards. This time, she did a good job. So much that I got hard again and fucked her some more. Marvelous, Rama said, resting her head against my chest after a two-hour fuck session. I smiled and nodded, silently concurring with her appraisal. We were back in action, in more ways than one. Rama Abdel-Masih nd I went for a walk from my neighborhood on Presland Street to New Edinburgh. Hand in hand we walked through Vanier, even passing by the very mosque I'd been visiting for the past few months. My favorite Masjid, I said, looking at the square, nondescript building located on a street full of religious institutions, including no less than four churches. Rama smiled and nodded as I smiled while looking at the mosque. Islam is the way and once you're ready to embrace it your life will be better, Rama said knowingly. I kissed her, and nodded. A month later, I took my Shahada at the mosque in front of many witnesses. I embraced Islam, and took the name Ali Al Din. I chose to name myself partially after the Muslim historical figure I've always admired is Sal Al Din, legendary opponent of the European forces during the last truly great Crusade. And since my first name is Alessandro or Al, the Arabic name Ali is right up my alley. After the ceremony, Rama Abdel-Masih and I went to grab dinner with Warsama and some of our friends to celebrate. And just like that, I've got myself a new family. I am no longer alone. With my gorgeous lady love by my side, I felt confident, strong, and ready for anything. A week later, Rama dropped not one but two bombs on me. Let me explain. I'm sure I'm not the first man to realize that women have a talent for complicating things. I've been estranged from my parents ever since I told them that I was interested in Islam. My father and mother are both Catholic, and while they can't stand each other, they're united in their dislike of Islam. I introduced Rama to my aunt Jacqueline and my cousins on a trip to Montreal, and they absolutely adored her. I had to let my family know that she's the woman I want to be with. Rama and I shared everything, or so I thought. It turns out my lady love hadn't been completely honest with me. My lovely other half, Rama Abdel-Masih, born and raised in Sale, Morocco, came to Ottawa, Ontario, as an international student after getting accepted at Carleton University. All those things are true, Rama did come to Canada on a student visa. What she kept from me is the fact that her parents, Imran and Latifa Abdel-Masih got killed during the Moroccan protests, which rocked her country between February 2011 and the spring of 2012. Apparently they supported the wrong political party and paid dearly for it. Rama's aunt Amira Fakri, who worked for the Moroccan government at the time, helped her get a visa and got her out of the country. Rama couldn't return to Morocco under penalty of death. All this Rama told to the Canadian government when she filed for refugee status. The people who killed her parents were still back there, and they wanted her bloodline extinguished. Forever. From what I know of Arab/Muslim countries, they don't play when it comes to politics or religion, and since they mix the two, heads tend to roll when political unrest occurs. Why didn't you tell me? I said to Rama Abdel-Masih, as we sat in my living room. Rama shook her head, a sad look upon her face. I didn't want you to think less of me, she confessed. I stood there, grunting in frustration. We need to be able to trust each other, I told Rama, taking her hand in mine and looking her in the eyes. Rama smiled faintly. From now on I'll tell you everything, she said, and hugged me fiercely. Good, I mumbled, hugging her back. A few days later, Rama and I met with her lawyer, immigration attorney Rose McCray, a short little white woman in her fifties with an office in Orleans, Ontario. McCray told Rama and I that the government had just refused her appeal. Apparently, Rama had already gone before an immigration judge in a closed-door hearing in downtown Ottawa and gotten refused. They're going to send me back to Morocco, Rama wept. The sight of her weeping broke my heart. We got to fight this, I told McCray. The little lawyer lady shook her head. I am so sorry, she said softly. I asked her if there was anything I could do, as a Canadian citizen, to help Rama. Five seconds later, I wished I'd kept my mouth shut. When the Canadian government refuses a refugee's claim, it's only a matter of time before they're removed from the country. They can get a 'stay of execution' while the government does an assessment as to whether or not they'll be in real danger when they're sent back where they came from. The Harper government isn't fond of refugees, especially those from Third World countries. Suddenly I remembered stories my mom once shared with me about her plight as a Haitian woman seeking asylum in Canada after fleeing the Duvalier government in the 1980s. Damn, I'm caught between a rock and a hard place. I care for Rama, but sometimes I have doubts about her. This oh so wonderful lady I care so much about is so damn secretive. I hate to sound cynical but if she's playing me I could end up looking like a fool. I shared my doubts with Dalton and Timothy. Don't do it my dude, Dalton said, and Timothy echoed his sentiments. I called my Mom and sought her advice. Mom told me to drop Rama and Islam, and go back to church. My dad told me I was an idiot for saddling myself with Rama in the first place. My aunt Jacqueline told me she liked Rama, and that I should follow my heart. As usual, I decided to take my aunt advice. Thus, I asked Rama Abdel-Masih to move in with me. We went to City Hall and got her a work permit, and a social insurance card. You're going to need a job, I told her. I've noticed that a lot of immigrant women from Arab countries aren't fond of hard work. My buddy Warsama is engaged to a Yemeni chick and he told me she's like a princess, expecting him to work while she shops. Damn. Lucky for me, Rama wasn't like that. You should have seen the look on her face when the local Shoppers Drugmart manager hired her. My first job, Rama said, tears of happiness flooding her face. I smiled at her and hugged her tightly. You can do it, I whispered into her ear. Rama began working part-time while continuing to attend her courses at Carleton University. Living with a woman, even one I'm crazy about, well, that took some adjustments. It's not easy when your lady love moves in with you and you learn that she does disgusting things like not replacing the toilet paper roll when it's empty, and that she smokes cigarettes ( I only smoke weed, and only on weekends, cigarettes disgust me ) and also fills your washroom cabinet with tampons. I was not ready for this, but I had to grin and bear it. I care for Rama, and she needs me. It's the "man" thing to do, right? It wasn't all bad, though. Sharing a bed with Rama is definitely a fun experience. The lady is passionate, but she also has some bad habits. Her farts are outrageous, man. I think she could kill a T-Rex if she blasted him! Oh, and she took all my porn magazines and put them in a box. You got me now, Rama said, tossing me the box. Then she kissed me. Man, a guy's porn is sacred. Females need to stop tripping over that stuff. Oh, well. At least Rama wasn't asking me to throw it away. I tried to flip the script on Rama when I quizzed her about her extensive sex toy collection. It's not the same thing, Rama said with a shrug, and closed the subject. Rama and I live together now. This means that while Timothy and Dalton visit us, they don't stay overnight anymore. Oh, and the cigarette-addicted 'lady of the house' frowns on weed-smoking. Yeah, women don't share when they enter a man's real estate. They like to dominate. Timothy and Dalton teased me about being whipped and I had no rebuttal. They were absolutely right. I thought things were bad, and then she dropped bomb number two on me. Rama Abdel-Masih was pregnant. Yup, my Moroccan goddess had a bun in the oven. All of a sudden, my two-bedroom apartment was too small. When Rama dropped the news on me, I experienced sheer joy and great panic. What in hell am I going to do? Rama Abdel-Masih was expecting a son or daughter of mine. I was twenty years old, having wrapped up my first year at Carleton University, and I was about to become a dad. Wow. I called my friends and family to share the news, and their reaction was less than thrilling. Step up and be a man, my aunt Jacqueline told me, and I hesitantly concurred. My dear old Dad told me to run like hell, and my Mom said "I told you so". Timothy and Dalton told me they had my back. This really meant a lot to me. We were still Los Tres Diablos. My buddies had my back. Life is grand, isn't it? Rama Abdel-Masih and I got marriage in a wonderful little ceremony at our favorite mosque three months later. We only invited a handful of people, among them my friends Timothy and Dalton, my aunt Jacqueline and my cousins Mira and Nadine, along with my uncle George. Rama looked absolutely stunning in a lovely starch-white Moroccan wedding dress. Instead of her traditional hijab my bride-to-be wore a gold-plated diadem. Indeed, Rama looked like a queen. We were lawfully wedded before the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob. He who is called Yahweh by the Jew, God the Father by the Christian and Allah the Beneficent by the Muslim. Amen. For our honeymoon, Rama and I went to the City of Montreal, Quebec. We stayed at a resort for a week, then returned to the City of Ottawa. The honeymoon was wonderful, pregnancy sex rocks. Rama is horny all the time, and even kinkier than before. She lets me put it in every hole now. Yes, including that one. I love it! I have some wonderful news to share. Right after Rama and I returned to Ottawa, we were approached by a man named Jean-Claude Rameau, a Quebec-based representative from the Banque Populaire Du Maroc, the national bank of Morocco. The esteemed Mr. Rameau informed Rama Abdel-Masih and I that she had just inherited a fortune from her dead parents, Imran and Latifa Abdel-Masih. How much, you may ask? Two million four hundred and seventy four thousand Dirhams, or the equivalent of four hundred thousand Canadian dollars. I think I almost had a heart attack when I heard that. I had to catch Rama before she fainted on the spot. Cradling Rama in my arms, I gently held her tight. I looked at my wife and the future mother of any son or daughter I may have. We're going to be just fine, I thought. A few months later, Rama Abdel-Masih and I became the proud parents of Omar Carvalho, our bundle of joy. I wept when he was born, our little son. I don't care if a grown man isn't supposed to cry, I was moved to tears when I held my son in my arms for the first time. He's perfect. Our son. A unique blend of ethnicities, that's for sure. He's got Haitian, Moroccan and Portuguese in his bloodline. And since his mother recently became a permanent resident of Canada, Omar is going to have both of his parents around as he grows up in our fair capital. The Canadian government decided to show leniency rather than break up a lovely, happy family like ours. Rama and I have our own house now, a lovely four-bedroom townhouse in Barrhaven. We bought it for two hundred grand. Omar and his future siblings will have a big yard to play in as they grow up. With the money we have, Rama and I hired a full-time nanny, and we continue to study at Carleton University. Money or not, we're very much interested in getting our university degrees. What kind of example would we set for Omar if we didn't? All is well that ends well, ladies and gentlemen. Always thank the Creator for His blessings. Peace.