Whatever I sought to have with her didn’t stand a chance in hell of existing. Yay for me. Okay, that’s it for Evelyn of Nigeria and Antonia of Guyana. I was dealing with them during the first semester, from September 2011 to December 2011. Now let’s hear it for Parvati Kumar and Janice Chang. I met a tall, lovely young Indian woman from the Punjab region of India whose family moved to Montreal, Quebec, a few years back. Parvati was all that and the proverbial bag of chips. I was feeling her, big-time, and she appeared to be feeling me. Given how badly my relations with Black women had gone lately, I felt that maybe I needed a breath of fresh air. I had always been a fan of Black Love and Black Unity, and it seemed that such a belief blinded me to the very real faults lying within many of today’s young Black women. Their arrogance, selfishness and meanness for example, I was unable to see that because I put them on a pedestal. Black women in Ottawa, Ontario, seemed to hate the Black. This is my job, not yours.”“I’m with you, Marshal Ben,” Dove replied with commitment in her voice, using the name that Cecily preferred to use when she addressed Ben. “Those men killed my man and his boy, and they intended to hand me over to their leader to be first raped, and then carted off to the south to be sold into some whorehouse. I intend to ride with you, and to get my revenge.”Ben thanked the woman for her volunteered support. Then he enquired just how far they were from the trading post. Dove took a second to think about it and then told Ben that they were very close. Then, almost as if someone wanted to confirm Dove’s statement, a gunshot rang out in the distance, bringing the trio about, alert and wondering what had just happened.“That had to have come from the trading post,” Dove declared nervously, her dark eyes wide with concern and staring off towards where the sound had come from. “Something bad must have just happened.”Ben nodded his head in silent agreement. Then.
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