From Lebanon With Love In NYC

After twenty years in exile, I returned to my native Nigeria, with my son Omar James and his mother, Afaf. In the old days, just like today, conflict between Christian and Muslim were at the forefront of national politics. It needn't be this way. I was born into a Christian family, and I firmly believed in the Lord Jesus Christ and the Gospel. While living in New York City, I attended NYU, where I met a gentleman named Bilal Winston, from the Nation of Islam. Bilal became my friend, and introduced me to the ways of Islam.

Bilal and I had many talks about the role of the black man in contemporary western society, and I found myself agreeing with him on many levels. Thanks to his teachings, I became a proud member of N.O.I. and firmly embraced my newfound identity as an African-American Muslim man. Thanks to them, I found a clarity of purpose that was previously lacking in my life. I also found peace and, quite unexpectedly, love. My name is Aziz Kendrick Abachu, and this is my story.

I was born on January 31, 1978. The son of Phillip Abachu and his darling wife Michelle O'Connor-Abachu. I first saw the light of day in the City of Makurdi, in the Benue State of Nigeria. I come from a fairly interesting background, I'd like to think. My father moved to the City of London, England, to study at Oxford University. He returned to Nigeria with his white British wife, Michelle O'Connor, whom he met at school, and got himself a high-paying job with the Nigerian government. Unfortunately, due to political instability, my parents were forced to leave Nigeria six years after I was born.

Since my father didn't have British citizenship, my parents ended up moving to the United States. A Nigerian man and his white British wife settling in Brooklyn as an immigrant couple with their son in tow, yes, you read that right. I became a naturalized citizen of the U.S. and embraced American life with everything it had to offer. My family did alright for itself, I guess. My dad worked for the IRS and my mom worked for a powerful NYC think tank.

For intellectuals like them, a change of scenery wasn't much of a challenge. British university degrees are valid in the United States of America, thank God. Yeah, we were doing alright for ourselves. We moved out of Brooklyn and into a four-bedroom townhouse in Manhattan. I was enrolled at Dalton, an elite NYC prep school. When I started high school, my little brother Mathew was born. Unlike me, he would never know the struggles our family faced in our early years in America. Nor did he have any memories of Nigeria. I've always envied and begrudged him for that, strange as it may seem.

By all regards I was as American as any young black or biracial man you might encounter on the streets of New York. I grew an Afro, worshipped the New York Giants, and loved hanging out in Harlem. Being one of a few minority students at Dalton, I felt the need to be surrounded by people who looked like me. It's only much later that I began asking questions about my heritage. For I was half black and half white, the son of three worlds. Nigerian and British blood flowed through my veins, but my passport had American written all over it.

At the age of eighteen, I enrolled at NYU, to study Criminal Justice. From 1994 to 1998, I studied but I also traveled a great deal. After graduating from NYU with a bachelor's degree in Criminal Justice in 1998, I moved to the City of Toronto, Ontario, where I enrolled at the University of Toronto. I earned a Law degree from U of T in 2002, then practiced Canadian law for a while. I worked for the law firm of Williamson, Fiske and Thorne, one of the top criminal defense firms in all of Ontario.

Practicing Canadian law was cool, but I soon learned that for a black male professional, even in the most racially diverse town in all of Canada, the glass ceiling hung low. Even though, with my legal acumen, I outshone most of the other rookie lawyers at the firm, I knew that I'd never make partner. In Canada, white guys are terrified of an educated, ambitious black man. In the US, they don't exactly love us but if we can make money for them, then they let us stick around. In Canada, they'd rather lose with a white guy than win with a black man. In 2008, while America and the world were engrossed in Obama fever, I returned to New York City.

My parents were happy to see me returned to them. My little brother Matthew followed into my footsteps at Dalton, though in later years he would pick Harvard University over good old NYU. I guess that's where we differed, my brother and I. After so many years at a mostly white prep school, where I was often the only face with Melanin in the room, I wanted to be among my own people. That's why I gravitated toward schools like NYU and the University of Toronto. They're among the most racially diverse universities in the continent of North America.

My return to America was not without its bumps. I studied for the bar exam and while I passed the New York State Bar the first time around, seventy percent of the others who took it failed. Me? I almost had a heart attack waiting for the results. Want to know the funny part? The Ontario Bar Exam was ten times tougher than the one I took in New York. Nevertheless, I was now licenced to practice law both in Canada and America, a distinction few of the tens of thousands of lawyers in New York City had. My folks tried to get me to go to church once I came back to the States, thinking that my interest in Islam was just a phase.

Understand that I have much love and respect for Christians and Jews. After all, the prophet Mohammed told us Muslims to respect Christians and Jews as people of the book. We're all sons and daughters of Abraham, the first man God revealed His rules and commands to. I have nothing against churches, I simply refused to bow down before the image of the blond-haired, blue-eyed white guy on the cross. For the sake of argument, let's say that even if what the Christians believe was accurate, Jesus Christ didn't look like Marvel Comics superhero Thor's twin brother.

Seriously, people. You can't live in the Middle East for thousands of years without acquiring a permanent tan, like all the Desert people. Jesus Christ was a Jew from the old days, and just like many of today's Israelis, Jesus Christ probably had black hair, dark eyes and bronze skin. Israeli Jews are often almost indistinguishable from the Arabs among whom they live. So Jesus Christ looked like an Arab. If he came back today, instead of welcoming him as the Messiah, racist white guys at the airport would strip-search Jesus Christ, the Messenger of God, because they believe all Arab-looking people are evil, and Jesus looks like an Arab.

That's my main disagreement with Christians, when I think about it. Still, I refuse to judge them like some Muslims do. I've noticed a lot of Muslims behaving in an arrogant and prideful manner when dealing with other religions. They believe themselves superior. Last time I checked, God doesn't much care for those filled with arrogance and pride. And men should not judge other men. Only God can judge. I will not lift a finger to condemn any man, whatever his race, religion or origin. The God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob can see into the hearts of all men, and He will be vindicated come the Day of Judgement. All these things I learned from the venerable sheikhs from the Nation of Islam.

After passing the New York bar exam, I began working for the law offices of Raymond Pierre & Associates. Raymond Pierre is a tall, dark-skinned, middle-aged black man who emigrated to the U.S. from the island of Haiti in the early 1980s. He studied law at NYU, and he's one of the best people I know. He is the senior partner and founder of the firm that bears his name. There are seventeen other attorneys working there. He and I, along with his tall, statuesque daughter Yvette are the only black folks at the firm. All the other employers are either white, Hispanic or Asian. Imagine that!

Raymond is truly a sharp legal mind, and the guy has a finesse I find truly admirable. He's on a first name basis with a lot of cops, politicians and movers and shakers in NYC. On his office wall I saw pictures of him with New York legends such as former Mayor Rudy Giuliani, ex-US Secretary of State Hillary Clinton, along with assorted members of the New York Giants and the Knicks. Raymond is a devout Catholic, but he never tried to force his beliefs upon me. I accompanied him at church a couple of times, out of respect. Once for the funeral of his uncle Bob, and once for his daughter Yvette's wedding. She married a white guy named Christopher Watson, a lawyer from a rival firm, if you can believe that. Good for her.

Now, at this point, you might start to wonder where I'm going with all this. I've told you about my faith, my family, my socio-political views, and my travels. This is where the personal stuff comes in. I've always been painfully shy when it comes to women. Indeed, I had sex for the first time at the age of twenty one. I was at a party in Manhattan, and met this tall, curvy and big-bottomed, fine-looking Lebanese chick named Afaf Beyhum. We were talking, drinking and smoking, and there was a nice vibe between us. I learned that Afaf was a newcomer to New York and moved there from the City of Zahle, Lebanon, to study at John Jay College. Afaf wants to be a cop someday. Good for her. We need more minority police officers in NYC. Might stop some of the racial profiling. Of course, I wasn't thinking any of that when Afaf and I danced to Bob Marley music at that house party. I was mesmerized by her big butt in them tight jeans she had on, and I wanted her quite badly.

Like I said, I'm usually shy when it comes to women, partly because I'm a glorified nerd, but I was really feeling Afaf and most importantly, she was feeling me. We ended up sharing her bed that night. I still remember it like it was yesterday. Afaf pulling down my pants and grabbing my dick in her hand. My shudders and moans as she sucked my caramel-colored dick like her life depended on it. Me lying on top of her, her legs wrapped around me as I thrust my dick into her wet, hot pussy. Afaf's screams of passion mingling with my own as we fucked like there was no tomorrow. Hot damn.

I never saw Afaf after that night. Nope, I wouldn't run into her until the early 2010s, when I saw her in a supermarket, with a awkwardly tall, light-skinned brat with an Afro who was the spitting image of me. Omar James Beyhum. The result of that one night of passion between Afaf and me at a random party in Manhattan. I was stunned to see the two of them. Afaf didn't recognize me, so I approached them. It's not every day a man finds out he's a father, that's for damn sure. Afaf told me that she got pregnant that night and looked for me, but I'd already moved to Toronto. She contacted my parents, but they pushed her away, warning her to stay away from me.

When Afaf revealed this to me, I got angry. Not at her but at my parents. How could they do this to me? Had I known I had a son, I would have left Toronto and come back to New York to take care of him...and his mother. I offered her my business card absentmindedly. I couldn't get over the resemblance between Omar James Beyhum and myself. Later on, Afaf told me that she didn't need anything from me. And she really didn't. I hired a detective to find out everything he could about her, and my son. Afaf Beyhum graduated with honors from John Jay College, went to study law at Fordham University and then joined the NYPD. These days, she's a sergeant, if you can believe that.

I was mightily impressed. I returned to Manhattan, and convened a family meeting. Even my globe-trotting Ivy League-educated brother Matthew showed up for this one. I showed them pictures of Afaf Beyhum and my son, Omar James, and blamed them for everything. How could they do this to me? My mother looked me in the eye and told me that she was protecting me. My father backed me up, saying that at the time they met Afaf, she came off as loud and angry, and they didn't want her to interfere with my brilliant future. I got mad when I heard these words from my parents. How dare they? It should have been my decision. I looked at them, shook my head, then stormed out of their high-rise apartment. All of a sudden, I couldn't bear to be near them.

I stepped outside, into the rainy New York night, and hailed a cab to the Bronx, where Afaf and Omar lived. I stood outside their building for a long moment before buzzing them. I heard Afaf's voice over the intercom, and begged her to let me in. After about five minutes, she relented. I rode the elevator and went upstairs. Afaf and Omar lived at apartment 517. I knocked on the door, and this time, Omar came. Hello, he said flatly, glaring at me. I smiled at him, told him he looked good and asked him if I could come in. Omar let him in, said Afaf, standing right behind him. I entered, took off my wet coat, and then joined them for coffee.

I shall never forget that night. Sitting across the table from my son and his mother, I basically poured my heart out to them. I apologized a thousand times for not being there, and told them about the confrontation I'd just had with my parents. Good, Afaf said, grinning wolfishly. Omar looked at me, and asked me if I had any family pictures. I took out my iPhone, and showed him pictures of my parents, my brother Matthew and myself. We're all on Facebook, I said. Omar looked at them for a long moment, then asked me if he could meet them. I looked at him, then at Afaf. Afaf nodded, and told me she had no objections, provided they behaved themselves. I smiled and promised her that my folks would behave. For if they didn't respect my son and his mother, they would lose me as their heir.

Omar excused himself from the table to go on his pc, where he undoubtedly looked up my family on Facebook. This left Afaf and I alone at the table. I sat there, looking at my son's mother, a woman I hadn't seen in many years. She was still beautiful, the black-haired, bronze-skinned and green-eyed Lebanese immigrant woman who took my breath away at that house party, so long ago. I smiled at her, and asked her how she'd been. Afaf smiled faintly, and gave me the rundown on the past few years.

After her parents, Farshad and Fatima Beyhum found out she was pregnant, and by a black guy no less, they basically threatened to kill her. For this reason, Afaf decided to never set foot in the Republic of Lebanon again. The Arabs are crazy, man. They'll kill their daughter for the sake of family honor in the face of a scandal. Fortunately, after the birth of Omar, Afaf qualified for U.S. citizenship, and got to stay here and build a life for herself and her son. A far off look crept into her beautiful visage as she told me about those early years where she struggled as a single mother and a rookie cop in NYC. Gently I touched her hand, and once again apologized for not being there.

Afaf looked at my hand on hers, and for a moment I thought I'd offended her or gone too far but she didn't pull away. Be there for us and don't fuck up, she said flatly, a challenge in her eyes. I nodded, and gave her my word. Afaf smiled, and so did I. Omar suddenly came back into the room, and stared at me. Tell me about Nigeria, my son said, an excited look in his eyes. I looked at Afaf, smiled and nodded. Then I began regaling my son and his mother with half-remembered tales of a faraway land in West Africa which I left decades ago, when I was real young. They hung onto my every word. Looking at the two of them, I felt something I'd never felt before. This felt...right. Scary, but right. I didn't know it at the time, but this was a bold, exciting new beginning. A new chapter for all of us.

It's been four years since my son Omar James and his mother Afaf came into my life. They met my parents, and my younger brother Matthew. My parents did a serious about face, from reluctantly meeting Omar and Afaf to fully embracing their new role as grandparents. Omar welcomed them with open arms, with the love and innocence only one so young can possess. He melted their hearts, and mine too. Afaf and I are seeing each other. At first she was reluctant, for we have a complicated history, to say the least. Yet slowly but surely, my persistence paid off. On the fourth anniversary of our run-in in the supermarket, I proposed to her and Omar as the three of us dined inside a nice Italian restaurant on the upper east side.

Afaf looked at me with eyes brimming with tears, then looked at Omar. My heart thundered in my chest as I awaited her response. I'm happy to say that it's a resounding yes, folks. For my son's sweet sixteen, I decided to take him and his mother Afaf on a trip to Benue, Nigeria, where I was born. Visiting my ancestral homeland with my son and his mother was like a dream come true for me. What man wouldn't feel immense pride in such a moment? I fell in love with Nigeria all over again.

It's truly a shame that Christians and Muslims continue fighting each other over there. What Boko Haram is doing goes against everything true Islam stands for. Perhaps if Nigerian Muslims got a taste of the Nation of Islam, they'd learn to respect their African-descended sisters and brothers regardless of faith. The Nation of Islam taught me to respect myself as a black man, and to love my African people, regardless of faith or origin. Nigerian Muslims could learn a thing or two from the Honorable Minister Farrakhan and his people, instead of emulating the worst habits of the Arabs. Anyhow, I digress. My family and I had a fun and safe time in Nigeria, then we returned to New York City. Afaf and I plan on getting married this summer. We want to have a June Wedding, and my brother Matthew will be my best man. Isn't that cool? By the Grace of Allah, everything turned out alright. Peace be upon you.