Easy Come, Easy Go

Neither baggy jeans nor limp-walking suit Ahmed. Unlike the majority of 20 somethings in New York City, Ahmed carries a poise that doesn't include spewing curse words at women. He's the minority.

Standing at 6 feet and 3 inches talls, Ahmed sticks his chin in and tucks his hands - away from his face - deep in his front pockets. I admired him from afar. With sharp cheek bones and a mystique ambiance, Ahmed resembled a hungry village man - tall in statute; slim in the waist. He also looked like an African model bearing the deepest shade of chocolate.

Ahmed because he didn't seek attention. Just like me - had somewhat of a quiet confidence.

Murmuring thoughts aloud was the closest I came to expressing my feelings. At a school tasting event in 2011, Ahmed waited online for a plate of food - in the same crouch-like position - he appeared to be at first sight.





"Where are you from?" I said.

"Guinea," he replied.

My memory blurs. I didn't know what happened next.

In the African-American community, guys and girls often feel a connection. (The connection is assumed and more felt in a room of white folks, respectively.) I wasn't sure why I liked Ahmed. I don't know if it was because he was African or because the fact that I was too. Somehow I felt that it would boost my profile. I always wanted to fall in love with an African boy. He was perfect.

One afternoon a (former) mutual friend sent me a text message.

It read, "I have class with your boo."

I dismissed the news. It didn't apply to me, I thought.

Long before that I told Ahmed's friend, Sole, that I liked his shy friend.

"Why don't you talk to him," Sole probed. "He wouldn't be interested," I said.

That summer, Sole gave my message to Ahmed. Neither did I know nor care at that point. My chances of scoring a date was zero in a million.

For the first of two semesters I hadn't noticed Ahmed. These absent sightings didn't make the heart grow founder. Our inability to converse fizzled the burn that I yearned for. Work consumed my time. And Ahmed was no longer at my peripheral.

He deserved a goddess-like woman with curves, hips and a bust that would shake him out of oblivion. He needed love. Unlike the majority of 20 somethings in New York City, he hadn't hollered or spewed curse words at women. He was raised by one.

After hints from two mutual acquaintance (closer to his end) Ahmed approached me. Just around the time for holidays. The temperature began dropping below average.

Laying in bed, I was sifting through Facebook messages.

"Hey," appeared a pop-up message on the lower left corner.

I replied.

Soon, Ahmed and I walked the Brooklyn Bridge and back. He opened up. He surprised me.

Ahmed doesn't like the perspiration that sticks to his skin at parties.
Ahmed immigrated to the states in 2004.
Ahmed can survive off rice.
Ahmed is Muslim.
Ahmed smokes.
Ahmed.
Ah.

The roof of his top row of teeth sticks out. His teeth haven't been wired shut for the past 8 years like mine. He says 'whatever' when trying to make a point. Picking up Ahmed's mannerisms was the highlight of my week.

Soon, Ahmed and I were walking side-by-side in Chelsea. A week after New Years. The temperature dropped below 20.

At an Urban Outfitters outlet, I learned of his O B S E S S I O N with crew sweaters.

This 22-year-old who had worked two jobs to sustain a lifestyle that consumed budd and school payments was fixated on a black crew-neck sweater. In the center was a printed image of spades - like the card game.


"I like clothes, but I don't know how to dress," he said while carrying the sweater over to his chest while looking at his reflection in the store's mirror.


Finally, I thought. Someone who can admit that.

He bought me dinner. And hugged me goodbye. It was a small gesture, but something that I'd hold onto for the rest of the winter.  Like each winter, memories are made. Hearts are broken. Confusion seeps in.

The night that I drunkenly raced down Fifth Ave for a McChicken sandwich at the priciest chain in midtown; the night my first love fingered me near a block of snow downtown; the night that I ended up in Coney Island  after a night of being ignored by an ex-investigative reporter who wouldn't let me hold the sticks or barely acknowledged my presence.

Winter 2013.

Platonic understanding and sexual frustrations. At the center of my interactions with Ahmed.

Where did we stand?

It still fathoms me.

He seemed to be attracted to me enough to pay for dinner, but friendly to fail any attempts at kissing or holding hands. I was disappointed.

Well, I should say frustrated. Why couldn't Ahmed act like 20 somethings his age? I wanted to kiss him. Hold his hand. And tell him that I thought he was the most beautiful person ever. His smile, his A C C E N T, his gentleness, his openness, his height, his composure, his pacing, his misguided style, his glance.

Ahmed showed no signs of confusion. If he wanted to hang out, he persisted. Eventually, I would succumb to it. Spending ample time with Ahmed gratified me - to the highest level. It made me feel good. To the core.

When were you going to say something? That you didn't want to hang anymore.

I miss you, Ahmed.

Goodbye.