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Jimmy's new Grandmother.

I was walking to the bus station after a two-day visit in the Selim household, and my bus was late. I sat there, waiting for the bus while periodically checking up on my iPhone. While I was checking my updates on Facebook, something caught my eye. A tall, broad-shouldered and dark-skinned, sexy brother clad in a black leather jacket, bright red silk shirt, blue jeans and boots. He noticed me noticing him, and smiled. He walked over to me, and in accented Somali, he asked me if I had seen the bus go by. I coyly told him that I missed the last one. He looked at the seat next to mine and asked me whether he could sit down. I nodded, and he plopped down next to me. I asked him where he was from, and he told me that he grew up in the City of Minneapolis, Minnesota, but his parents came from Somaliland. And that's how I met Omar Laban, the Somali-American stud from Minnesota. We exchanged numbers, added each other on Facebook, and started a friendship filled with sexual tension.

At the time we met, Omar Laban had been in Canada a year and a half. His parents, Ahmed and Aisha Laban, moved to the State of Minnesota from their native Somaliland in the 1980s, and he was born in the City of Minneapolis in 1988. Like a lot of Somali guys, Omar led a less than productive life while in America. He flunked out of Walden University in his hometown of Minneapolis, got involved in all kinds of shady shit, and ultimately, his fed-up parents sent him to stay with his uncle Abdul and his aunt Fatima in the City of Calgary, in provincial Alberta. Kind of like in that old sitcom Fresh Prince Of Bel Air, only with Somalis instead of African-American urbanites. Omar seemed genuinely determined to turn his life around, unlike a lot of brothers I knew around metropolitan Calgary. I decided to take a chance on him, and I'm glad I did.

Omar and I started hanging out, first as friends, and then before you know it, we were a couple. Somalis pair up very quickly, it's part of our culture. I was born in Somaliland, and grew up in the Confederation of Canada. I still remember life back home, and sometimes I miss it. When I tell this to Somalis born and raised in Canada or America, they ask me what kind of weed I've been smoking, because I'd have to be on something to miss Somalia. You know what they say, there's no place like home, no matter who you are or where you're from. How could I miss my home any less than you would miss yours? Seriously, some questions, people should be ashamed of themselves to ask them.

Even though we were both Somali, Omar and I came from different worlds. The guy barely spoke the Somali language, and after growing up in the U.S. he was way too Americanized for my liking. His knowledge of Somali culture was virtually nonexistent, and he didn't seem to mind that one bit. Also, he did a lot of things that most Somalis would consider to be haram. He owned a dog, a mutt he called Spike, and he also smoked weed. Omar had an impressive porno collection boasting of a hundred or more DVDs, most of them black or interracial erotic movies. All this he told me early on in our relationship, just so I wouldn't be shocked. Well, after living in Canada for most of my life, I had seen so many things which I considered to be more than a bit shocking. My parents and I lived in a house across the street from a lesbian couple, a Jamaican butch lady named Beatrice Thorns and her short, blonde-haired and very feminine lover Allison Mendoza, a former supermodel, if you can believe that.

Canada has legalized gay marriage and abortion nationwide, and there's not much you can do about the law of the land regardless of your religion or lifestyle.

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