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Black. Biracial. Mixed-race. At some point, I’ve used all of these terms to describe myself. Today I am only me. Wanda Beaumont. Friends call me W.B. for short. I was born in the City of Toronto, province of Ontario, to a Haitian mother and Irish-Canadian father. My biological father Sean O’Leary never married my mother, and in fact, he had to be forced by the Canadian court system to provide for me. He really didn’t want anything to do with my mother and I. A lot of White guys will fuck a Black woman if given the chance but they’re not looking for marriage, contrarily to what a lot of Black females tell themselves. My White father wasn’t anyone’s idea of a knight in shining armor. Far from it. In fact, he once told me I’m the result of a one-night-stand, and nothing more. Yeah, my biological father is a sure-fire contender for the Father of the Year award, isn’t he?
I wish I could say that my mother was much better but I’d be lying. I wasn’t raised by a Black superwoman, that’s for damn sure. My mother, Mina Beaumont, had some serious issues. As a plump, dark-skinned Haitian female immigrant living in Toronto, surrounded by Whiteness and opulence, she developed some serious self-hatred. My mother hates Black people, especially Black men, whom she consistently referred to thugs, hustlers and impregnators throughout her lifetime. The fact that she had me with a White man who didn’t love her and didn’t want anything to do with her or me doesn’t seem to register with her. Hailing from such a dysfunctional pair, it’s a miracle that I lived to a relatively normal adulthood.
Mom used to say that Black people were lazy and useless, yet she didn’t see any irony in her saying that given that almost every few months she went to the Social Services agency with a sob story. She would squeeze out them crocodile tears and get a welfare check. The rest of the time she worked as a hair stylist. I couldn’t understand why she couldn’t get a regular job. Seriously. A lot of people work the nine to five to take care of themselves and their families. Why couldn’t my mother do it? She had no criminal record and no physical disabilities. Sure, she stuttered a bit but so what? Toronto is a town full of immigrants and everyone down there talks funny! It took me a while to realize that my mother was lazy, just like she accused other folk of being.
I grew up to be a six-foot-one, slim and fit young woman with caramel skin, long curly Black hair and pale green eyes. Sometimes people ask me if I’m Hispanic and once upon a time I would have said Tekirdağ Escort yes because I felt ashamed of my Blackness. Not anymore. Today I am happy to say that I am proud of my African heritage. I consider myself a Black woman through and true. Never mind that my mother raised me to hate myself and other people of African descent. Never mind that in my mother’s twisted way of looking at things, White people were perfect and Black folk were less than nothing. I have learned to love myself. I owe it all to one amazing man I met in the most unlikely of places.
After high school, I enrolled at the University of Toronto, where I earned a bachelor’s degree in business administration. I wanted to become a high-powered businesswoman, work for a Fortune 500 Company. The summer after graduation I started volunteering for a humanitarian organization known as Salvation And Hope Ministries and went to Kenya to help some poor downtrodden Africans. My plane went down over the vast plains of Kenya and I was the only survivor. I was pulled from the wreckage by Kapalei, a young Maasai warrior and the son of Chief Lemashon, leader of the Lolkerra tribe of the Maasai people. It’s one of life’s supreme ironies. I came to Kenya with my White friends from Canada to help the poor African savages and they ended up rescuing me.
A tall, dark and handsome young Black man named Kapalei carried me out of the remnants of the plane and into the bush, where he brought me to the hut of Naramal, the medicine woman of the Lolkerra tribe. This wizened old Black woman did everything she could to save me, and though I sustained scars on my arms, legs, back and sides, I lived without any permanent injury. I must say that I knew next to nothing about the Maasai people who lived in the Kenyan wilderness. You see, the Salvation and Hope Ministries was building churches and hospitals throughout Kenya in an effort to boost the Christian community of that African nation since conflict with the Muslim population seemed imminent. I grew up a proud Catholic. Indeed, it’s my Christian faith that enabled me to get through the madness and prejudice that filled my life with my mother.
The Maasai people didn’t adhere to mainstream religions like Judaism, Christianity and Islam. They had their own ancient faith, and they were polytheists. Kapalei, the tall and handsome brother who saved my life became my guide among the tribe. He introduced me to his mother Simaloi, a tall, curvy Black woman in her early forties. He looked so much like her. I nodded respectfully and offered Tekirdağ Escort Bayan her my hand to shake when we met. The older woman smiled, batted my hand away and gave me a hug. I forgot to mention that the Maasai people are really friendly and open. And they’re quite religious. Their head deity is Olapa, the Goddess of the Moon and she is married to Ngai, a powerful spirit. Olapa and Ngai are the progenitors of a race of immortal entities known as the Enkai, the guardian spirits. Like the Angels of Judaism and Christianity, the Enkai are spiritual protectors for the Maasai people.
The Maasai people enthralled me with their loveliness, and their purity of spirit. In the village, men and women walked around, smiling at each other fondly. Couples walked hand in hand. They were friendly, generous and open. Not at all what I’d first thought when I met them. Even though I am half Black and half White, I wasn’t immune to the prejudices that White society and White culture disseminates about Black people. The Lolkerra tribe of the Maasai were peaceful nomads who watched their herds of cattle like hawks. They fought fiercely against lions and leopards as well as rival tribes to protect their land and their cattle. The Maasai people’s bond with their bulls and cows was amazing. They guarded them with their lives and had such affection for these animals.
Kalapei was particularly fond of a calf named Nataana, a White and brown little cow that followed him around the way a dog would. I must say that the more time I spent with the Maasai, the more I became fascinated by them. This tribe was one of the most isolated ones. Like many Westerners, I’d seen documentaries about Maasai tribesmen on Discovery Channel and one thing I remember about them is the practice of female circumcision. What the Discovery Channel reporters left out is that not all Maasai tribes have this practice. When I learned enough of their language to ask Kalapei’s mother Simaloi about it, she assured me that they didn’t practice such a thing. For females, they had a rite of passage called the Test of the Spears. For among the tribe, both men and women were trained in combat. The feminist in me was immensely pleased.
By my own estimation, I had spent about eight months with the tribe and I honestly couldn’t get enough. I wore the traditional dress of the Massai women, and even got the famous earlobe-stretching earrings. One night, as I helped the women cook, Simaloi approached me and we had a woman to woman chat. She told me that her son Kapalei was Escort Tekirdağ fond of me, and wanted to know whether I had a husband or not. I happily waved all ten fingers in front of Simaloi and told her that nope, nobody had put a ring on it yet. Simaloi smiled, and assured me that would change soon. The next day, I was approached by Kapalei, and the smiling young man offered me a bouquet of flowers. I smiled and took them, then hand in hand we walked into the bush. He confessed to me that he’d been fascinated by me ever since we met, and his heart thundered in his chest every time I came near him. I smiled and told him I felt the same way. Then I kissed him. We were married in a big ceremony attended by the entire tribe three weeks later.
On our wedding night, I wore a shiny White robe, and Kapalei wore a magnificent lion’s pet costume. We retired to our house, and lay on a straw mat. For hours on end, we made hot, passionate love. My gorgeous African husband was gentle with me, kissing me deeply and taking great care of me. He licked my breasts, caressed my face, kissed my butt, sucked my toes, licked my pussy, fingered my butt hole and licked my earlobes. Not necessarily in that order, of course. When he inserted his long and thick ebony cock into my pussy, I wrapped my arms around him and urged him to fuck me. Kapalei thrust into me, and I cried out in pleasure as his big bushman’s cock filled my tight cunt.
Kapalei made love to me like I’d never been made love to before. This six-foot-four, midnight-skinned brother was a lion in my bed! He was forceful and gentle at the same time, if such a thing makes any sense to you. We kissed passionately as he thrust his cock deep into me. We rolled around on the straw bed, and I got on top of him. He fondled my tits and I arched my back as he thrust into me, stabbing my pussy with his hard dick. I grabbed his hands and put them on my hips, then locked eyes with him, urging him to give me his all. The sexy bushman didn’t need to be told twice. He slammed his cock into me like there was no tomorrow. We continued with our fun well into the wee hours of the morning.
When morning came, it found Kapalei and me, husband and wife, entwined in love. My sexy husband smiled at me and told me that he wanted to build me a house much bigger than the one in which we just slept. I smiled and told him that among my people, husband and wife build everything together. One body, one soul, that’s what we become in marriage according to the Christian tradition. Kapalei smiled at me and told me he liked my Christian traditions very much. Grinning, I kissed him and pulled him closer. We’re still on our honeymoon and it’s my duty as a new bride to hump my husband till he can’t remember his name. It’s a time-honored Haitian tradition, holler!
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