By Kola Boof
From Diary of a Lost Girl: The Autobiography of Kola Boof, published last February by Door of Kush Books. Boof has written for the NBC daytime drama Days of Our Lives. In 2003, when she was interviewed on Fox News by Rita Cosby, the network reported that Boof had lived for several months in 1996 on an estate in Morocco with Osama bin Laden.
People are animals. They fuck, pray, and make bombs. The Dinka women of Sudan say the devil is the most beautiful man you will ever lay your eyes on. I never took these words seriously until I encountered my now infamous ex-lover, Osama bin Laden.
Soon after installing me in his estate in Marrakesh, Osama started to abuse me. His hand would be resting on my hair, his eyes glued to the pages of his Muhammad Qutub books while I read Galway Kinnell. We would be lying there in bed and he’d say, “African women are only good for a man’s lower pleasures. What need do you have for a womb?” I would feel insulted—not just to the heart, but to the soul. Then I’d go back to Galway Kinnell’s bone-white stanzas—only I wouldn’t be able to make out the words for the tears in my eyes.
He would humiliate me by making me dance naked. It was such a strange thing, because for the most part he believed music was evil. If a guest at the estate played music, he would cover his ears until the “poison” was silenced. But other times he would become this devout party boy who wanted to hear Van Halen or some B-52’s. To this day I hear the song “Rock Lobster” in my sleep. I would be jerking around like a white girl—“Dance like a Caucasoid girl!” he would say—and his eyes would track me from one side of the terrace to the other. “Your ass is too big, show me the front,” he said. Osama, you understand, did not know the difference between being vicious and being tender.
The first night I met him, at a restaurant, I ran out the door, gripped by terror, and drove home. Relieved that his henchmen hadn’t followed me, I ran a bath, lounged in the cold bathwater, then changed into a flowing silk robe. There was a bang on the door, and I could hear shouting: “Hey, black girl!” When I opened the door, there was Osama bin Laden and his seven-man posse. A cold bolt of lightning went through me.
But Osama was trying to be charming, despite the fear in my eyes. “Why did you run? I just think you’re lovely and I find you intriguing. I wanted to be your friend.” I can’t deny what a good-looking man he was—over six feet with a zesty salmon-orange complexion and very sexy Negro-like facial features, forged by generations of desert sun. I remember thinking he had the most beautiful lips and being overwhelmed by the largeness of his hand when he took mine (to kiss it). Osama’s men laughed, and Osama’s eyes kept falling on my cleavage. I knew no matter how many Barbara Stanwyck movies I had devoured as a teen, I was powerless, and men can be merciless when women have no power.
“From now on you may see no man but me,” he said. I wanted to throw up.
read the full article: Harper’s Magazine
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