**This article is in multiple parts — it is to be continued.**
Wallah bros — we all know one.
They are everywhere. From our mosques, to our university classes — and even in our social circles. They are the type of man that should be forced into isolation until they know better. The type that judge a hijabi for a wisp of hair showing, and meanwhile are taking home a different Becky every other night. “Wallah, she wants me, bro.”
Chill fam, no one wants you.
And really, they aren’t anything new. They’ve always been there. If anything, women are just more independent now and capable of calling them out.
Even better, social media and the age of the screen shot. I cannot begin to tell you how many times I’ve had to screen grab a convo with a Wallah Bro in order to get my friends to validate that homeboy was acting out of line.
And let me tell you, if it wasn’t for the ability to screen grab convos, I wouldn’t believe half the stories I’ve heard. Here is one that still renders me speechless, two years after the fact.
His name was Ahmed. Okay — no it wasn’t, but we’re going to call him Ahmed. Because he is a dangerous psychopath, as you will soon see.
He was the horror story that all your girls warn you to STAY THE EFF AWAY FROM. Slick hair, smooth talking, over 6’ft…you know the type. Oh, and he has a sob story…because boys like him are the eternal victim.
Like all bad things, I met him when I was — maybe — not my best self. Twenty one had been a hard year, and I was not in the headspace to make a good decision.
Cue biggest Wallah Bro of the decade. Slid into my DM asking if I was interested in working on a project with him. He was a radio host and wanted to start a podcast. To this day, I will not understand why I didn’t delete the message without responding, like I usually do with random guys.
Maybe it was because we had so many mutual friends, or because he looked like a harmless geeky tech student. Who actually knows.
A week later, we were Skyping. Two weeks later SERIOUS WORDS WERE USED, FAM. Like, he said he loved me — and I’m like, “You don’t know love until you’ve seen me PMS. Then decide if you love me.”
I will never forget this one: “Darling, I can’t wait until we are married and I can wake you up for fajr.” I burst out laughing instantly because that was such a cliché, Tumblr thing, this man was grown at 28, and I can wake myself up for fajr.
“No normal guy behaves like this, Eman,” my wise, best-guy-friend AJ said. He was scrolling through my conversations with Ahmed and came across a text where Ahmed said he loved me.
Was it weird that a man I’d never met before and only knew through mutual friends was telling me he loved me? I mean, he seemed like he checked out. I did a few background checks and people seemed to think he was great. He had a degree that my parents approved up, had enough melanin in his skin to pass as light skin, had a LinkedIn profile with a legit headshot — where was the flaw? Hint, it was everywhere.
A few days later, he asked if I wanted to get married. KEEP IN MIND, I thought I was dealing with a guy whose deen was on point. Marriage talk seemed normal, right? I mean, my best friend is happily married to the love of her life…and they talked marriage on their first date. And they’ve been together for five years. Maybe this was it for me.
I told him to come meet my parents in December. It was August and he and I were going to meet in October. Our phone calls became every day. But something about it just seemed off to me.
I would be super happy and think he was amazing, and then he would say something that was a kick in the ribs. In hindsight, this was signs from the Creator for me to “run Forrest, run.”
I didn’t. A few weeks after he talked, I was traveling for work when he called me. “I told my mom about you,” he said. And I’ll be honest, I melted. I’m not that girl you keep secret. “And? What did she say?” I asked, eager for the response.
“I asked her how she would feel if I married a Black girl,” he said. I stopped in the middle of Pearson Airport. I’m sorry, what did this clown say?
“She yelled at me and told me not to ask something so stupid,” he said. He was laughing. To him, it was a joke — and he knew that didn’t matter to his mom, he said. But in my mind, I’m thinking, “is this clown serious?”
My skin is my pride and joy. It’s glowing. I basically think my skin is the muse for Anastasia’s Glow Kit, and this dusty-ass-melanin-deprived-punk tried to negotiate it like it was a bad thing.
I let it go. What I should have done was let him go, and prayed rakatain for the early warning signs. I didn’t listen. And so began six months of having my soul sucked out by the Head Wallah Bro.
Eman, why didn’t you listen? Because God wanted you to realize that any man who says he loves you in two weeks is emotionally unstable, that’s why. Lessons, I tell ya.
See, the trick with these people is that in the same day, they can both treat you like the best and worst thing that’s ever happened. And every time you try to pull away, there is a big sweeping declaration of affection. Of love. Of how special you are. And underneath all this baddiness, I’m still low-key an emotional sap. Oh,you need me in your life? Okay I’ll stay and love your broken self forever.
But you should never stay. YOU RUN, MAMA. You run at the first sign of craziness. I stayed until the 500th. The one that was over the type and signified how dangerous this person really was/is. And I joke, because humor makes it better, but really this person should be arrested.
He told me that something about his best friend — who was also Muslim — which makes this more insane. And to this day, I don’t know why it took me so long to report it to the police. It scares me that it did, because in a sick way, it’s like he groomed me to normalize his behavior.
You run at the first sign of craziness. I stayed until the 500th. The one that was over the type and signified how dangerous this person really was/is. And I joke, because humor makes it better, but really this person should be arrested.
Are you still with me? It’s coming.
One day, he told me that his best friend, some Lebanese dude whom I will refer to as Robby, records the women he’s having sex with and uploads it on to drop box to share with friends.
I’m sorry, what? And he’s still your best friend? And you’re sharing this information? Now, I’m a smart girl. I’m outspoken, I’m not intimidated and I do what I believe is right always. Except for this time. Something about this person had made me feel powerless, and like I was crazy. But see, the benefits of screenshots is that they confirm what you don’t want to believe.
That’s the thing with men like Ahmed. They groom you until you’re powerless, and then they show you this ugly. But nah papi, hoyo didn’t raise no punk.
I can have a bad day, I can have a bad week or a bad year, but you best believe that when I come to my senses, you better be ready to account for your sins.
When I realized that this man, the one who always called me darling and talked about a wedding in Morocco the first two weeks I knew him, was actually deranged, I cut all contact with him.
And then I reported it to the police. With the screenshots (to be shown next week), with his place of work, the Facebook message, and his friend’s address.