"Mature black Muslim booty, thy name is Naima," Omar Sultan thought to himself as he watched Naima Ali step out of the apartment building overlooking South Keys Plaza in Ottawa, Ontario. Tall and very voluptuous, with curves that her traditional Islamic clothing couldn't hide, Naima was a fine specimen of African Muslim womanhood. Omar wanted some of that so desperately he could taste it...
"Quit daydreaming, Omar, Naima doesn't know that you exist," came a familiar feminine voice, and Omar looked up to see Aisha Jaber standing there, a mocking look on her pretty face. The young Yemeni tomboy stood there, clad in a black leather jacket over a black T-shirt, blue sweatpants and black Timberland boots. Her long dark hair was hidden by a dark gray Hijab. Omar grunted and shook his head, and Aisha laughed.
"A guy can dream, can't he?" Omar asked, and Aisha grinned, then playfully poked him in the ribs. The two best friends exchanged a dap while looking at the parking lot which sprawled two floors below. Omar and Aisha had known each other forever. They'd grown up in the same housing project. The tall, burly Somali brother with the perpetually dreamy expression and the slender, smart-mouthed Yemeni tomboy. Permanent fixtures around South Keys Plaza.
"Omar, I say this with love, but you got no idea how to handle a woman like that," Aisha chided him, and Omar nodded, his eyes fixated on the receding figure of Naima Ali, who stood in front of her Rav4. Aisha rolled her eyes, knowing that getting Omar to stop gawking at a big female booty was like trying to get a fish to come out of the water and start flying like a bird. Somali brothers love a big butt just like all African men, Aisha thought, and for the thousandth time she cursed her lousy luck.
"Don't hate, Aisha, I heard that Naima's divorce got finalized, after being married to an old Arab dude for so long, maybe my favorite Somali MILF wants some young chocolate," Omar said, and Aisha laughed, then winced as he looked at her, seemingly hurt. Aisha raised her hands in mock surrender, downplaying what she'd just done, and Omar pursed his lips and smiled. They were both twenty years old, and if people their age aren't allowed to be dreamers, then who is?
"Omar, quit daydreaming, besides, I'm going to Walmart, want to come with?" Aisha asked, and Omar nodded. The two of them rode the elevator down, and then crossed the parking lot, running toward the busy intersection separating their building from the South Keys Plaza, which included a ton of stores including Winner's, Walmart, a book store, and a Starbucks. They stood there, waiting for the light to change before attempting to cross.
"To hell with that," Omar said after a few minutes, and Aisha watched, amazed, as the tall, handsome and chubby Somali brother made a run for it, evading oncoming cars and safely making it to the other side. Crazy man, Aisha thought to herself, and moments later the light changed, allowing her to cross the street safely. Upon reaching the other side, Aisha clapped Omar's meaty shoulder, hard enough to make the big and tall young brother wince.
"Omar Sultan, are you frigging crazy? You could have been killed," Aisha shouted, getting all up in Omar's face, as they say. Omar looked at her and smirked, puzzled by her reaction. Aisha glared at him, looking very angry and concerned, and Omar wondered what was wrong with her. Must be one of those female problems, Omar thought, trying not to laugh, for he knew it wouldn't take much for Aisha to fly off the handle.
"Um, relax, Aisha, I'm cool," Omar said, and Aisha shook her head, groaning in frustration. At six-foot-three and three hundred pounds even, the dark-skinned Somali Canadian brother didn't fear much. So why did he feel annoyingly intimidated by the five-foot-seven, bronze-skinned, slender young Yemeni Canadian Muslim woman standing before him?
