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Nothing quite like coming home to my lady at the end of a battle-weary day, folks. My name is Alan James Voltaire, A.J. to my friends, and I was born in the City of Cap-Haitien, Haiti, and raised in the City of Montreal, Quebec. My parents James and Marie Voltaire moved with my siblings and I to provincial Quebec in the tumultuous 1980s.
I came to the City of Ottawa, Ontario, at the age of twenty three, after graduating with a bachelor’s degree in business from the University of Montreal. Been struggling here ever since. Someone forgot to tell me that educated and ambitious Black men are not welcome in Ottawa, one of the most backwards places in the continent of North America.
Seriously, the local White guys are intimidated by any Black man who’s well-spoken and happens to be even slightly more educated than they are. As a six-foot-three, burly Black man, I get stared at a lot in this boring little town. My education also seems to set me apart. I spent two years earning my MBA at the Sprott School of Business at Carleton University, only to discover that I was overqualified for a lot of the jobs I was applying for. With student loans debt piling up, I took a job with RBC as an account manager. Had to pay the bills and keep a roof over my head, man.
Now, this isn’t what I spent six years in University for, that’s for damn sure. It only pays twenty one bucks per hour, but it sure as hell beats working a damn minimum-wage job, which is what a lot of highly educated minorities in the City of Ottawa are doing, since White folks won’t hire them in their chosen field of study. Sad but true reality for a lot of people of color in Ottawa, man.
Given the state of the Canadian economy, the highly competitive job market and the brazen racial discrimination I experienced as a Black male University graduate in Ottawa, I’m actually thankful to have a job that doesn’t require me to wear a uniform and/or a hairnet. I wear a suit and tie to work every damn day and conduct myself in a professional manner. It’s not easy, given the bigoted clients I sometimes have to deal with.
Banking is an increasingly female field and at the branch where I work, there are eight women and three men. Other than Nancy Chang, a short forty-something Asian woman and Ahmad, a middle-aged Arab dude, everyone else at the office is White. I am the only Black person working at the branch. Isn’t that awesome? You should see the way people look at me when they walk in and see me behind the desk.
I always greet them with a smile and look them in the eye, which intimidates the hell out of them. They know I mean business and stop their foolishness at once. Usually. Some of them I’ve had to politely but firmly put in their place. Luckily, the branch manager, a fifty-something twice-divorced White lady named Muriel Kensington, is sweet on me. The feeling is decidedly not mutual. I don’t sleep around at work. I politely turned down Muriel’s advances when she requested some hot chocolate from me at a company party.
Now, please don’t think of me as close-minded when it comes to racial relations. I see people as people, that’s it and that’s all. I’ve got nothing against halkalı escort interracial relationships but White women in the environs of Ottawa just don’t do it for me. Too flaky and two-faced for a real brother like myself. In Montreal, a town that’s been racially diverse for decades, people don’t bat an eyelash when they see a Black man with a White woman. I’ve dated French Canadian girls while in Montreal. I would never do that in Ottawa. It’s a very different world down here.
Still, with all the things I’ve had to endure as a brother working in corporate Canada, I felt lonelier than ever. I joined a local Haitian church, and thought I’d meet a lovely sister. The Black church is a mostly female institution nowadays, and if you’re going there for the ladies, you’re bound to meet quite a few of them. I met this fine-looking Haitian chick named Esther, a second-year medical student at the University of Ottawa.
This self-described “future doctor” is the niece of the church pastor, and carries herself like a queen. Queen Esther, that’s what people called her at the church. I was drawn to this tall, confident and curvaceous beauty from the get go. Someone forgot to inform me that church women are the most intolerant, judgemental creatures on the planet. I found Esther too close-minded for my liking. Our relationship did not last. Esther turned everyone in the church against me and I stopped going there. May the Lord forgive me, but them church women are too much for a brother.
I found myself quite lonely in Ottawa. The local White women are flaky and two-faced, quick to have fun with a brother but they never have your back when the shit hits the fan. The local Black women are too mean for my liking. I figured that I’d meet the right woman someday, and focused on my job. I got promoted to assistant branch manager at the RBC and this turned a lot of heads considering I’d only been working there for a little over a year.
A lot of people felt that the boss lady Muriel passed them over when she promoted me. The truth is that everyone else at the office has less education than me. They’ve all gone to Algonquin College or Everest College or Herzing College or La Cite Collegiale. Pathetic excuses for schools if you ask me. I attended world-class Universities and hold an Executive MBA.
No bones about it, folks. I know my own worth, thank you very much. I am DAMN qualified to run a bank! Nope, all of my competitors at the branch hated me because I was Black, male and overeducated. Well, let them be White, bitter and undereducated. The world is passing them by. It’s just the way of the Universe. Adapt and survive, or fall behind and perish.
People are always saying that Black men working in major companies only get hired because of affirmative action. The truth is that we are usually better educated and more qualified than the White applicants we’re competing with. We know that people don’t like us or want us around. Only through education and networking can we hope to rise up. White guys get corporate jobs not because of qualifications but because their dads play taksim escort golf with the company owner. Black men get corporate jobs because we’re educated, driven, ambitious and work harder than everyone else on the damn planet. That’s the awful truth, ladies and gentlemen.
I hadn’t planned for a career in banking but since I was doing so well at RBC, I thought about sticking around. At the same time I continued shopping my resume around, sending it to companies in Calgary, Montreal, Toronto and even New York City. I was doing well at work but I wasn’t kidding myself. As an educated Black man with a corporate job in Ottawa, I had a target on my back. Too many jealous, bitter and insecure White guys in the world of banking. I saved every penny after receiving a bump in salary from forty two thousand dollars a year to seventy five thousand a year. Never know when it might end, you know?
Given the nature of my job, and the hostile environment I worked in, I was one stressed brother. I didn’t think anyone could understand. And then along came Ayaan Wahid. The six-foot-tall, majestic and curvy young woman with the golden brown skin and hazel eyes walked into the RBC branch downtown and inquired about opening an account with us. Her lovely face was framed by a Hijab and her eyes sparkled. I was drawn to her. Now, it’s not the job of the branch vice president to deal with client accounts, but I took this one personally, and promptly whisked the lovely Miss Ayaan to my office.
What can I say? Even though I see lovely women all the time, Ayaan was in a class by herself. Born in the City of Nador, northeastern Morocco, to a Somali mother and a Moroccan father, Ayaan was new to the City of Ottawa. The lady was studying business management at Carleton University on an international scholarship. All this Ayaan smilingly told me as I set up an account for her. Once everything was done, I smiled at Ayaan and handed her my business card. Don’t hesitate to call, I told her. Smiling, Ayaan nodded, then got up, shook my hand and left.
Even though it might cost me my job, I went after Ayaan Wahid with a vengeance. The next time I ran into her was a week later, when I “accidentally” dropped by the international student office at her school, and asked her to grab coffee with me. Ayaan seemed surprised to see me on campus and I showed her my old student ID from my days at Sprott. I was a Carleton alumnus and proud of it. Ayaan grinned, and accepted my offer. We ended up grabbing a bite at Rooster’s Café, and I got to know her a bit better.
Ayaan Wahid is a beautiful woman, but this gal wasn’t just easy on the eyes. With her computer-like brain, and her fondness for the finer things in life, I sensed ambition, talent and intellect in her. That’s why I asked her out. Ayaan looked at me and playfully smacked my arm. What took you so long, big man? Ayaan said, and laughed heartily. I looked at Ayaan and smiled nervously. What a woman, I thought. I wanted Ayaan badly, even though something about her scared me a little bit.
That’s how it all began, ladies and gentlemen. The relationship that changed my life. Ayaan Wahid, şişli escort the gorgeous biracial woman for whom I would convert to Islam. We began hanging out, just friends at first, even though I clearly had designs on her. Our movie outings and restaurant dates turned into more, and one day, I sat Ayaan down and told her how I felt about her. Ayaan smiled at me as I confessed my growing feelings for her. I care for you too dumbass, Ayaan said, and then, amazingly, this exotic beauty threw her arms around me and kissed me.
From that moment on, I, Alan James Voltaire, was hooked on Ayaan Wahid, the gorgeous lady from Morocco. We became inseparable, and I swear, I spent more time on the Carleton campus, mainly in Ayaan’s dorm room, than I ever did back when I was a student. What can I say? I absolutely couldn’t get enough of this lovely lady.
The first time Ayaan and I made love, we were coming out of the Silver City movie theater in Gloucester, Ontario, and I honestly wasn’t expecting to do anything other than drive Ayaan home and then head back to my place, solo. Ayaan is a Muslim woman and they like to play it safe, usually. Let’s fuck, Ayaan whispered in my ear, and playfully smacked my ass. I stared at her, stunned.
Ayaan took me by the hand and led me to some nearby bushes behind the Blair Mall, and there, we did the do. My Hijab-wearing Moroccan lady hunkered down, unzipped my pants and started sucking my dick. I gasped as Ayaan took me into her mouth, and began sucking my dick with gusto. I felt weak in the knees as Ayaan stroked my balls and sucked my dick. When I finally came, Ayaan surprised me further by sucking every last drop of my cum.
Wow, I said, sighing happily. Ayaan grinned wickedly, and wiped her lovely mouth with the back of her hand. Fuck me, she whispered. Grinning, I hiked up her long skirt, knelt before her and began licking her pussy. Ayaan, my Hijab-wearing, modestly dressed Muslim girlfriend wasn’t wearing any panties. What a nice surprise! Soon I had Ayaan’s cunt wet, wild and ready to be fucked. What can I say? I love eating pussy and I’ve got mad skills in that area. I made Ayaan squeal in delight, and it was a wonder to behold.
After revving up my lady’s engine, Ayaan and I had some fun in the bushes. I bent her over, caressed her big brown ass and even kissed it before sliding my hard dick into her cunt from behind. Fuck me hard, Ayaan pleaded, and I was more than happy to oblige her. I gripped Ayaan’s hips tightly and thrust my dick into her pussy. Ayaan’s cunt felt warm and tight around my dick, and I honestly couldn’t get enough of it. About fifteen minutes later, I came, flooding Ayaan’s cunt with my seed. Her tightness proved to be too much for me.
Ayaan and I readjusted our clothes in the dark, laughing, and then we went back to the Silver City movie theater parking lot, where we rushed back to my car. I drove us back to my place, where Ayaan and I had ourselves a great night of nonstop fucking. After two hours of passion, Ayaan and I fell asleep, pleasurably exhausted.
When the right woman comes into a man’s life, he knows it. Ayaan Wahid, born of a Somali mother and an Arab father from Morocco, educated at Carleton University in Ottawa, Ontario, is definitely the right woman for me. She’s the one I brought to Montreal and introduced to my family. And one day, Ayaan Wahid will be the woman I marry. Insha’Allah, as they say in the Muslim world, a realm I am slowly but surely learning to embrace.
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