Somalis of Ottawa: It's My Life

Alright, people. What's up? I got something to share with you. My name is Salim Mubarak and I'm a Black man of Somali descent living in the City of Ottawa, Ontario. I recently graduated from the Sprott School of Business at Carleton University with an MBA, and I presently work for the Canadian Imperial Bank of Commerce. Not bad for a twenty-eight-year-old immigrant, eh? Cool. I am happily married to a gorgeous woman named Jamila Ibrahim. My wife is originally from the City of Tetouan, Morocco. We have a lovely daughter together, little Aisha. Life couldn't be better.

When I'm out with my wife Jamila and our daughter Aisha, we attract a lot of looks from people. I'm six-foot-one, dark-skinned and curly haired. I'm used to people staring at me because of my skin tone and ethnic Somali features. We Somalis are a relatively new group in the Capital region of Canada. As far as immigrant groups go, we're among the most prolific. Meaning we tend to have real big families. While at Carleton University, I met my future wife Jamila Ibrahim. You should have seen her, man. Nearly six feet tall, curvy and sexy, with light bronze skin, curly black hair and light brown eyes.

My darling wife Jamila is mixed, born to a Moroccan father and Ethiopian mother. Her parents met while performing Hajj in the Holy City of Mecca, Saudi Arabia. I guess they really hit it off, eh? The first time I saw her, Jamila took my breath away. In the Arabic language, Jamila means beautiful, and my wife truly lives up to her iconic name. These days she's wrapping up her studies in psychology at Carleton University. We hired a full-time nanny to take care of Aisha since Jamila and I are busy with school and work. I do alright as an account manager but I want to eventually become a branch manager with CIBC.

There aren't a lot of educated black male professionals in positions of power in Ottawa, that's why people gawk when they walk into the CIBC downtown and see a well-dressed black man like myself working there and I endeavor to change that. I want to be a good example for the black community, especially my fellow Somalis. Quite a burden for a young brother fresh out of school, eh? I push myself at work, and I am wholly dedicated to creating a good life for my family. Unfortunately, it leaves me quite frustrated when it comes to my personal life. My wife Jamila and I stopped having sex. There's really no other way to frigging say it.

I've tried to rekindle the romance with Jamila by spending more time at home, and I also offered to take her dancing, or on a romantic trip to Montreal or Niagara Falls. Sadly, Jamila showed zero interest in anything I had to offer. At night, whenever I try to kiss her or hold her, Jamila says she doesn't feel well. I guess she doesn't want me anymore. I asked her if there's something I'm doing wrong, or perhaps something I'm supposed to do that I'm unaware of but Jamila simply won't tell me. What's a brother supposed to do?

I'm paying the rent at our twelve-hundred-dollar-a-month townhouse in the Westboro neighborhood of Ottawa. I'm also investing four hundred a month in a college fund for Aisha, even though she's only three. I'm helping Jamila with her school fees ever since the Ontario government determined that our household makes too much for her to qualify for OSAP. I'm trying my best here. Why can't my wife cut me some slack? I sometimes feel like I'm going to explode, man. At work I've got my treacherous co-workers to deal with ( white Canadians are intimidated by educated and ambitious black males and love to see us fall ) and the bigoted clients I often have to deal with.

When I go home, my wife Jamila ignores me and I think it's started to rub off on Aisha because she ignores me too. I sometimes feel cursed, man. Every day I put on a suit and a tie, and I take the bus on my way to work. I force myself to smile at people I see on the bus and at work because, well, they tend to stare at me and by smiling I seem to reassure them. Canadians simply aren't used to black men, and that's the awful truth. It's going to take a long time for Canada, especially the Ottawa area, to get used to people of color. I honestly don't think I'll see that in my lifetime. I'm black and male in Canada, ladies and gentlemen. It's my life.

One day, I didn't head straight home after work. Instead, I went to this cyber café on Rideau Street and chilled, playing on the computer and relaxing. I had no desire to head home, where my wife and daughter would ignore me. I don't drink. I don't have anger issues. I'm loyal. I'm decent. I'm supportive. I make time for my wife and daughter. And I'm financially responsible. Why do I feel like a stranger in my own home? No man should ever feel that way. It's just not right.

While at the cyber café, I ran into an old friend from my days at Carleton University. A short, pretty gal with blonde hair, blue eyes and alabaster skin. Amy Beauchamp, the only French Canadian person I know who would pick Carleton University over established French institutions like the University of Ottawa and La Cite Collegiale. Hello Sal, Amy said, and I smiled at her. Amy looked lovely in a white blouse, black silk pants and high heels. Her CRA id still hung around her neck in a lanyard. What's up Miss C? I said, grinning.

I hadn't seen Amy since we graduated from the MBA program at Carleton in 2012. Let's grab a drink and catch up, she said. I smiled and walked with Amy to the Honest Lawyer, a place that used to be one of our favorite bars during our university days. I hadn't been there in ages. Good Muslims don't drink, and neither do happily married men. Well, I'm neither a good Muslim nor happily married, so that afternoon, I drank some beer and told Amy about my marriage's deplorable state.

I am so sorry to hear that, Amy said, and I smiled sadly. Thank you, I replied, and noticed that her hand was on my thigh as her blue eyes bore into mine. Let's go to my place, Amy said, and I readily agreed. As it turns out, Amy lived in a nice two-bedroom apartment in the By Ward Market area. As soon as we got there, we started making out. I've wanted you since Carleton, Amy confessed as she kissed me. I kissed her back with a passion that surprised me. Next thing I know, we were on her living room carpet, humping like there was no tomorrow.

Throwing caution to the wind, Amy and I got naked, and I began licking her pussy right then and there as she spread her shapely white legs invitingly. Amy moaned as I licked her cunt with gusto. I hadn't had sex in over three months. You cannot believe how much I missed the smell and taste of a woman's body. Lick me good, Amy cooed as I fingered her cunt while licking her. Soon I had the gorgeous white chick moaning and squealing in delight. Nobody eats pussy like a horny Somali dude. If licking pussy were an Olympic sport, Somali brothers like myself could give the lesbians a run for their money. Trust me on that one. Ask a Somali woman sometimes.

Your turn, Amy said, after I'd gotten her off twice with my expert tongue and finger action. I lay back and relaxed as Amy sucked my dick, and as the gorgeous blonde chick sucked me off, I finally let go. I'd been tense for ages and finally I was able to relax. When I finally came, Amy drank every last drop of my cum. Oh shit, I cried out as Amy licked my super sensitive dick after I came. Grinning, Amy climbed on top of me. Fuck me sweetie, she said, and I smiled. Moments later I was hard again and slid my dick into her cunt.

My first time working my black dick into a white woman's pussy, for real. I wrapped my arms around Amy and began pumping my dick into her. Gimme that Somali dick, Amy howled as I rammed my cock in her cunt. I gently bit the tender flesh of her neck while fucking her. This drove her absolutely nuts, and I swear this chick went buck-wild. I gave her all that I had, and about forty five minutes later, I came for the second time. That was absolutely awesome, Amy said, lying next to me and rubbing my now soft cock. Yeah, I said feebly, before closing my eyes.

When morning came, Amy and I ate breakfast, then I showered. It was already seven o'clock at all CIBC employees are required to be at the branch forty five minutes before opening time. I went to work with the same shirt I wore the day before. Have a good day at work babe, Amy said, as we took the number 14 bus from her place to downtown. We kissed before I got off, attracting lots of stares from a lot of the folks on the bus, whether black, white, brown or yellow. And I didn't care.

Now, I haven't completely taken leave from my senses. I know that when I go home to Jamila and Aisha tonight, there's going to be hell to pay but I don't care. I honestly don't think my presence at home was missed. To my wife, I'm not a human being, or even someone to be loved. I'm just a wallet on two legs. To my daughter, I'm a stranger. In western society, after decades of struggle, black men have finally become equals with men of other races. How so? As men, none of us matter. This society is all about women. I consider myself smart and yet, I just figured that out. Don't believe me, guys? Take another look around. You're welcome.