'Summer in London is not too bad,' I said to my cousin, whom I met for the first time today as we walked down a high road on a hot day in Ealing. 'Feels like India.'
We were speaking in Somali so the joke was private. There were a lot of Indians around and it surprised me more than anything.
'This area has a lot of Indians. But it's just this area, not the whole city.'
'How come you live here then? Where is the Somali area?'
We were both wearing traditional Somali dresses, different shades of yellow, with a matching hijab. Amidst the colour of all the other people in this area we didn't even stand out. This blending into a scene made me feel more liberated and freer than I usually would be but we still spoke Somali just in case.
'There are a lot of Somali areas here, including in Ealing. But the Indian subcontinent dominates this part of London.'
'Adelaide has an almost non existent Somali community. A hundred at most, if I had to guess. And we all share one cafe,' I added laughingly.
This was evidently a market day, as there were an endless number of stalls in front of us selling all manner of things, but mainly clothing.
'I need to see that area where Somalis dominate. Is it as packed and colourful as this?'
'No, it's not. There might be some bland cafes or little stores but not a market like this. I'm not sure if we have the numbers for that. Not yet, God willing.'
I suddenly saw something that caught my eye. I could only see the back of him and fleeting glimpses of the side of his face, but by the shape of his head and the feminine hips I recognised a Somali male in front of me. He was walking with an overweight Indian woman, dressed in verdant and yellow like green tipped forsythias, the colours of spring and summer. She was pushing a buggy.
'Oh my God,' I exclaimed. 'I have never seen a Somali man with an Indian woman before. Or is she Pakistani?'
A sudden, raging feeling of injustice came over me, like I was robbed, like something indecent happened to me. Something had happened which never should have happened. I looked at my cousin and saw that she shared my sentiment.
'I don't know what is going on in this world. It would not even surprise me if that woman isn't even Muslim. Look how loose her hijab is.'
'Wow. And it can't be for looks either. Allah, look at this woman. They look young and I bet that's their first child. Look at what that child did to her.'
'There is so much mixing going here in London, cousin.'
The man's head suddenly turned around to look at us. Both of us shoot daggers at him. He laughed and faced forward, kissing the woman next to him, pulling her closer.
'Devil,' my cousin hissed.
I didn't know why this sight bothered me so much. What's this man have to do with me? Though he wasn't attractive, though I won't ever even share two words with him, I felt that he betrayed me like a lover. I wished murder on him, death and disability on his children, a life of pain for his wife.
They turned a corner and once again we had a clear path of market stalls and Asian people in front of us. I started noticing little cards on the ground with pictures of women and a website superimposed over their nipples. I squinted, and from this vantage point, made out the website and saved it to memory. Cards for prostitutes, traitor countrymen, the density of people, the only good thing about London so far is that they avoid you. Not a single person makes eye contact with you here and this eases my heart. In the three days that I have been here no stranger smiled or wanted to talk to me. That is the aspect of London that makes me comfortable which I could never get in Australia. There are too many friendly people over there for me to feel comfortable.
We arrived at her flat complex. This was a grey, dreary area, with a lot of concrete and metal; the only sign of life were a couple kids disobeying no ball games signs. The lift of this five story complex opened up to the outside world, instead of being inside of the building. A red lift with scratches of torn paint on its facade. Once we stepped out of the lift, on the fifth floor, I smelt the familiar scent of Somali food. When we entered the flat, I was already tasting it. This felt like home, though I had never met any of these people.
This was a common enough flat and we found waiting for us a horde of Somali relatives in the house, excited to meet me. One by one, people came up to me, holding my hand, kissing me. The men only came up to shake my hand. I have been through this before and do my social duties, receiving the welcome of the hosts, in good grace, though I'm cringing from the physical touch inside. The questions were numerous and one and the same. So are the answers. 'How are you? I am fine, thank you. And you?' And then I'm ushered into a small and cramped living space, find myself seated with a plate full of goodies, samosas and the like, told to relax, and contrive to eat the things up to the point of my fingers, since I hadn't washed them.
There were about six people here, of various ages, the eldest being around sixty, the youngest in her late teens. There were four women and two guys, both of them in their twenties. They were all of the same family, my mother's sister brood. Once the initial rush of meet and greet was completed, a relaxed ambiance hung around and I saw them less as strangers and more as relatives, particularly as they all looked like me. Curiously I was asked questions in English, which made me wonder until one of the boys said:
'That's the best accent I ever heard. You know I've never heard an Australian speak in person before?'
'Yours is better than mine, brother,' I replied dismissively. 'Australian accents sound goofy to me.'
'No,' everyone said in unison.
One asked how London was.
'I have to get used to public transport. There are so many people there in such a small place. I usually drive in Australia.'
'Oh you drive?' the youngest girl in the room asked excitedly. 'I'm taking lessons now. My brother is teaching me,' indicating a boy with a moustache and an afro.
'Interesting look,' I said to myself, and to him I said:
'Oh you're a driving instructor? That's unusual. I remember I took a taxi one time with a Somali driver,' I began and immediately recalled that this was not my life but from one of the stories, but continued anyway. 'Nice guy. Very proud.'
'Oh yeah there are a lot of Somali drivers here. I swear I read somewhere that driving was the number one profession of Somalis.'
'Besides cafes,' the cousin who chaperoned me said, laughing. 'Zahra said there is a Somali cafe in Australia - only one.'
'Not Australia, Adelaide.'
'Is that the only Somali business there?' another woman asked.
'That's the only one I know of. A nice little cafe. They have female only hours and that's when I usually go.'
'And what do you do?' the eldest woman asked, my mother's sister.
'I touch people for a living, auntie,' I responded, but immediately moaned in regret because giggles had broken out. That was how I usually described the job to myself, but I forgot that I was saying it to others.
'What I mean is,' I tried to salvage quickly, embarrassment surely expressing itself in some way by my body, ( does a black woman blush?) 'that I am a sonographer. I diagnose muscle injuries.'
'You're in the medical field?'
A hush of awe went across the room while I involuntarily experienced a surge of pride. My normal rejoinder of 'I'm trying to find a new job' was swept away by the admiration of others. Instead I said:
'It's alright. It pays the bills and allows overseas trips.'
I forgot how big of a deal being in the medical field, in any capacity, was to the Somali community. One of my Somali acquaintances who graduated from medical school loves the words 'resident physician', adding 'do you know what that means?' every time she says it to Somalis. It meant something to every Somali.
'I think the medical profession is the most becoming career for a woman,' the youngest girl said, sagaciously. 'Women are made to heal and care for others.'
'I swear most of the people in the medical field are men,' said the man who had said the earlier acquired wisdom. 'I swear I read that somewhere.'
'I said that it becomes women, not that they are the most numerous in the field. Men are the most numerous in a lot of fields. Most notably, gravedigging, where I believe they have an absolute majority. Most becoming for men since they like death and bringing it upon other people.'
'I don't believe it. You didn't read that anywhere, did you ? I don't believe anything that's not published.'
'Most Somali history is oral history. You don't believe your great grandfather's name is Ali even though it hasn't been published?'
'I think that's been published.'
'No it hasn't. Who has published our family tree?' the girl asked incredulously.
'If it hasn't, someone should. Who will believe it if it's not in black and white?'
The girl laughed.
'That's a very Caucasian, ahem, way of determining truth and fiction.'
Soon my plate had nothing but pieces of fried food in the shape of my fingertips and I said goodbye. The cousin who had chaperoned me, did so again, as well as the man who insisted on published records for believability. Before we stepped out, I checked my phone and saw that I had a message from my father.
'Congratulations, daughter. You are married now, to Abdullahi Sharmarke. Here is the link to his Facebook profile. He says he has already sent you a friend request. See you when you get back.'
A shiver ran through me and I couldn't breathe for a second. A married woman? I came back to my senses when asked if something had happened.
'Nothing,' I sighed and then added lifelessly, 'No woman is complete without marriage, a man, husband and child.'
'Right. Why do you say that?' my cousin asks as we step into the lift. My male cousin is taking the stairs as the lift is too small for three.
'Well, I got two out of three now.'
'How? You got married?' she said in shock, looking up and touching my elbow. 'I didn't know that. I thought you were a career woman?'
'I just got married, recently,' I said, numb, but already resigned.
'To who?'
'To,' I took my phone out to double check. 'Abdullahi Sharmarke. A cousin.'
'Oh him?' she said, still in shock, still with her finger on elbow as we walked out of the lift. 'I met him. A super nice guy. A gentleman. I never knew you guys had plans for marriage.'
'Yes, I believe I have met him too. I think,' I said musingly thinking back. 'But it's not published though, so I doubt it counts.'
'I agree with what you said, Zahra,' she said, hugging me now, her shock dissipated and genuine happiness showing on her face. 'No woman has true fulfillment without a family.'
Back at the hotel, I sat for a long time thinking of my changing landscape, which went from bays, gulfs, and oceans to concrete complexes, scratched metal and no ball games signs. The thought of this man, nice gentleman though he may be, touching me became a creeping itch deep beneath my skin that I couldn't scratch out, and I reached for the phone. At this point, I have to wash out the idea of someone touching me, with the observation of others touching each other, without involving me.
'So tenuous,' I said to myself, smiling weakly at the reasoning, 'but it sure does work. The human mind can make anything work,' I continue resolutely. 'Even the most ridiculous, twisted things.'
This time, I chose the male perspective, and read where I left off in 'Black Man In A Promiscuous World.'
'There was a pet shop not too far from where I lived. Everything about it was abhorrent to me. From its trade in live beings, to the joy people show when they finally make possessions of them. More than once the hairs on my body had risen when I passed by the shop and hear the cries of the animals and smell the odour of their defiled bodies and I think that I feel the same revulsion as the good people who saw a slave auction in Ancient Rome or New Orleans. But I found myself in this pet shop one day browsing, feigning interest in ownership, to share my love of course, my abundant, overflowing love, but my main object of interest was standing behind the counter. I watched discreetly as the male customer and his child and their dog surrounded the counter. The man was holding a puppy, evidently this was what he came to get. The blonde woman who worked there was signing some paperwork and when she was done, the man asked her if she wanted to see a trick.
'Go on boy, you want to show her your trick?' he asked his son of no more than three years old. The boy answered yes joyfully.
'And what about you, boy, you want to show her your trick?' The dog, a black Labrador, barked loudly.
The man patted the dog while his young son lowered his head. I, from a distance, next to several screaming birds, and the shopkeeper, up close, wondered what would happen. The dog opened his mouth slowly, with saliva dripping from his canines, and approached the boy's head. The boy was half the dog's size.
'Watch this,' the man said.
There was real excitement and pride in his face.
The shopkeeper gasped, and I stopped breathing, while the dog wrapped his teeth around the boy's head. Just as he touched the boy's nose, avoiding the boy's eyes, he withdrew his teeth, and slapped the floor with a big splash of saliva.
'Show her your nose, son. Show her your nose.'
The boy lifted his head, pushed his wet hair back with his hand, and proudly showed her his nose. There was a small imprint of one of the dog's teeth.
'If I hadn't loved him, he would have ripped his head off. But I know how to love a dog,' he said imperiously. 'A man like me will leave no animal with a will of its own after I have loved them.'
He thanked the lady after she muttered a word of praise for the little trick and watched them go with a new animal to love.
'You get some crazy people in here,' I said approaching her once the door had shut. 'I wonder how he loves his child if that's how loves his dog.'
She let out a noise of disgust.
'The type of people that come here are revolting. That kid will die of rabies doing these tricks.'
I smiled with my lips and sensed that she wanted to go on a rant, so said nothing.
'Disgusting vile people. I wish I could refuse to sell animals to them. One time there was this guy who wanted a bird. He looked at each one and rattled each cage with a pen as he passed. He stopped at one and put his finger in after he had rattled and frightened the bird. The bird he tried to stroke with his finger struck out at him and cut his finger open. I wish it had taken his whole finger off but he only had a little cut, pecked by the bird's beak. He walked out angry, shouting about a lawsuit with a dripping finger.'
She visibly shivered and I admired her full Portuguese white face and her delicately curved lips, and her bloodlust.
'I love your passion. What if that boy with his trick catches rabies and before the symptoms he kisses his father goodnight, spreading the virus to him. Both of them could die from the love his father has for his possession.'
'I hope they do.'
'Marry me.'
She laughed and took a closer look at me.
'What is it you came looking for? Did you want to buy an animal?'
Having heard her rant I felt that it was safe to share the truth with her and felt that this truth might work in my favour. What luck! I had even been prepared to buy a fish but that might not even be necessary.
'I could never take ownership of another living creature. For me to get a bird, I would have to leave him in a cage or set him free. What joy can a bird get out of a life immured in a cage barely bigger than itself? And if I set him free that means a lonesome, early death. The same goes for a fish. If I get a cat or dog I'll have to love them as that man called it. I bet he cut off his nuts, calls it love and thinks it loves him too. And all this because I'm bored or lonely?'
I saw that she had been hooked by what I said and her open mouth made me believe that she was receptive.
'Did you know that when a dog submits to a human it is not because of love but because it recognises the human is more powerful than him?'
'No I didn't know that,' I said, showing great interest in what she was saying. Interest is the key to opening any woman' heart.
'The dog obeys out of fear and self preservation more than anything.'
'If that's what you believe then why are you working here?'
She shook her beautiful strawberry blonde head as if she couldn't believe her previous ignorance.
'I didn't know all this before. Today is my last day here.'
The intense smell of animal bodies was having a strange effect on me, never having been in such a place before. We both were staring at each other when I realised the effect is like an aphrodisiac. Having laid my morals out in front of her, and her having laid out hers over this one subject, somehow makes it seem that our whole, entire worldviews are alike, bringing us closer together than a hundred dates of small talk.
'If this is your last day, we have to say goodbye to this store and its animals with real love and not that abhorrence this place is used to. It's only right.'
I walked around the counter while never taking my eyes off her and embraced her and kissed her pink lips. She shared my idea, my kiss, like she shared my morals.
The woman was a vision of beauty. A porcelain white sculpture that was as soft as a woman can be. Even through the jeans she's wearing I felt that she has the softest bubble I ever caressed. We kissed for a long time and I felt that her kisses make her out to be a giving lover. The type of lover that won't move even if it hurts, who will put my pleasure before hers. I unbuttoned her jeans, the scent of animals deep in my sinuses, and I had to blink to get myself together. Once I opened my eyes she had her top off, her pink nipples like first light after creation. I then noticed her Venus belt and then looked at my own Adonis belt and then back at her Venus belt, her FUPA, spilling out.
'Sorry,' she said, colouring up.
'For what?' I asked wonderingly, and tasted one of her nipples, and felt her warm arm on my shoulders, brushing, then set against my face in gratitude. Once again I'm reminded of how wonderful the white woman's body is - when it's done right.
I came back up, taking her nipple with me between my lips and then let go, watching her titty bounce back down, noticed her pants were down, and begged her to turn around. My fly was unzipped. For a second I marvelled at her talent. Leaning forwards on top of some empty cages, I admired a beautiful, smooth and soft ass but I didn't want to squeeze hard, rather glide over it making sure every part of my hand feels the softness of her ass; relaxing my hands so that the muscles don't block the full experience of her ass fat.
I put my dick in between her ass cheeks, moist with ass sweat, and smothered my cock. The mass of her ass was just the right level of firmness and looseness, making it pliable, and I grabbed them by the sides and played around like this when I saw her face cheeks colour with a pink sexual flush. My dick got even harder. Then without warning I split her pussy lips. I had my eyes on her flush seeing it deepen while my dick got just the right resistance from her wet pussy walls.
Soon I got into a rhythm and heard her cries overpower the birds and her pussy scent dominate all other smells in the room. I changed my position slightly to make the ass clap sharper. The dogs started to bark fiercer, banging against the bars of their cages. I felt her pussy opening up more, my dick desperate for the space to close again. Thank God! This meant I can fuck longer but the view of her jiggling bouncing ass made my dick tighten dangerously; so did the red marks my hands have left on her white lower back. She's sensitive. I stopped and pulled out slowly to see my dick glisten. A distinctive bird cry resounded like it was upset it couldn't hear the wet ass clap anymore.
'What bird cried out?' I asked, as I put it back in, and watched her mouth open wider.
'A cockatiel,' she answered in a voice that told me that she was holding her breath. The little breath that she exhaled while answering ended in a moan.
'This is not enough,' I told myself.
Her pussy grip closed up trying to keep my dick inside, with her warm pussy juice clingy, viscous and nearly victorious. But if I stayed all the way in I would bust my nut, so I pulled most of it out, fighting against her calling pussy, fighting against my betrayed shaft as it was forced in the air to cool down.
'What dog is barking so loudly?'
She stared at my hard, long cock, reached out and pushed it back towards her rose pink pussy.
'A German shepherd.'
'Is that right?' I responded, displeased.
Still not right.
I switched it up, played around shallow, just putting my tip in. This was my thickest part and I know it's working, the mushroom head caressing the lower part of her pussy. Her mouth opened in that particular way when you know she's feeling it, and her eyes lowered to press the point.
'What types of fish do you sell here?'
'I don't know,' she said in a low, sharp hiss, pushing her ass back towards me.
'Perfect,' I said to myself, smirking, rejoicing. 'Damn right you don't know ! Because I'm making you forget!'
I brought her body closer to me, stood her upright, and made her gasp by putting it back all the way in, feeling the delicious resistance of warm wet flesh again. I wanted to feel the whole of her ass pressed against me as much as possible and grab her relenting tities in my hand. I saw her standing on her toes, making her ass arch higher to increase the depth of penetration and because she wanted to feel my balls when I stroked. This thought drove me to the edge of painful hardness. She reached her arm overhead, grabbing my head as we fuck deep and close. Amidst the cries of all the animals in this shop, I only heard the light claps of her ass and my balls, felt her soft titties jiggling in my hands and wondered if the dogs can smell this pussy like I could...'
A notification came up on my screen, a Facebook message. I clicked it and saw my new husband. It started off with the customary Muslim greeting and ended with 'excited to see you.' I looked at his pictures and saw that he wasn't bad looking, relatively young, in his thirties. He definitely is not going to eat pussy, I said to myself. But is that what I want? My pussy lips opened as I thought back to the story where the man's beard brushed the woman's pussy. I sure do! What is sex between Somalis like I ask myself again and why is he excited? Why am I scared of men in general, not just Somali men? These stories make sex so simple and pleasurable, but is that what real life sex is like? There are images forming in my head now, of violence, humiliation. I want to write it down. There are other types of sex, beyond these ones. I opened up a blank sheet document on my phone and tried expressing it. But it's going to be naive, I can tell.
