One day, Dom tells me she’s being harassed on Facebook. At the time, it wasn’t an unbelievable claim; she is gorgeous, smart, and magnetic—the kind of woman who commands attention. Lucky me, I was the one courting her.
Being naturally protective, I wanted to know exactly what was happening. But the first red flag popped up almost immediately: I never actually saw a profile. Dom would smudge the details and ultimately assure me she could manage it.
Days later, the issue resurfaced. With a look of pure confusion, she told me the "stalker" had emailed *me*. I had no idea how he’d found my address—it wasn't public info—but I figured with enough digging, anyone could be found. I checked my inbox; nothing. A day later, she insisted he claimed to have sent it. I checked again, and there, buried in my junk folder, was a message from "Samir Waziri"—a Palestinian man recently relocated from London to the West Coast.
### The First Salvo
The email was a strange mix of formal courtesy and bold intrusion:
> *I apologize for the inconvenience of hearing from a stranger. I got your contact information in order to talk to you about the Queen Dominique, whom I do not formally know but am hoping very much to change that reality. I became aware of her via Facebook and frankly was inspired to know as much as I could about her.*
> *I don't need to tell you how beautiful she is or how sharp. I am very interested in offering Mahr for her and I am unclear as to the relationship you have with her. She is your friend? I saw the two of you in pictures together. I have asked Dominique what the nature of your relationship is and she does not say much. She is a fine and proper lady in the sight of Allah. I have lived in London for most of my adult life and I now reside in California. I do not know you, Brother, but I am inclined to ask: what is your relationship with her? You do not have to respond. This is a message of courtesies. I am committed. Inshallah, she will receive what I offer.*
>
I replied, naturally, marking my territory. He then pivoted, addressing Dom directly in a message she "showed" me:
> *Queen, please hear me: this man is interested only in keeping others away from you. He is a fool. These other sisters cannot hold a candle to you. Not as pretty, not as smart, not as talented. And there you are, queenly and composed. What lies does he tell you? The fact is, he is not going to marry you! I would marry you this moment. Please Habibti, let me know that something I have shared makes sense and I will be on a plane the next day, wallahi.*
>
### The Escalation
Then came the boast that he was coming to see her—a claim that seemed to manifest in reality:
> *I am enjoying Colorado very much and thought the Queen looked lovely today in her black turtleneck sweater and fitted jeans. As she continues receiving gifts from me, she will realize she does NOT receive that same affection from you. Are you certain you will not be her wali? It is a shame; you would have seen the bride on her special day. Let me ask you, do American men often leave their women alone so frequently? Particularly one as beautiful as the Queen.*
>
I was incensed. Dom "confirmed" the sighting, describing a stranger who had approached her to help with her car—a description that matched the "strange Arab dude" I had pictured. I told her to call the police. I didn't mention that I was also looking for him myself, ready to handle things physically.
**Red flag:** She refused to call the authorities, minimizing the danger she had just been "terrified" by.
### The Revelation
Despite the drama—or perhaps because of the urgency it created—we married on February 20, 2010. Samir was forgotten for a few months until another "stalking" incident occurred. The language was identical: "Queen," "Jewel," the same rhythmic syntax.
The light bulb finally flickered on. I realized Samir’s physical presence was never corroborated by anything but her own narration. I realized Dom *was* Samir.
I played it cool. During a conversation about fake profiles, I brought up the old messages. Dom, trying to stay ahead of the suspicion, suddenly pivoted and claimed my ex-wife, Asiyah, must have been the one playing Samir.
That was the nail in the coffin. In her haste to blame someone else, she forgot her own story: she had told me she *met* Samir in person by her car. If Asiyah was Samir, then the man in the parking lot never existed. Lying is a full-time job; eventually, you forget a shift.
### The Aftermath
When the truth finally came out after another incident, she broke down. She admitted she created Samir because she felt I wasn't serious about marriage. She was terrified of losing me to an ex or another woman, and she used "Samir" to provide the competition she thought I needed to see her value.
Most people would have walked away. But in a twisted, visceral way, I was flattered. I was so enamored by her that the idea of her doing something so elaborate, so "crazy," just to keep me... I internalized it. To her, I was worth the fiction. To me, she was worth the truth.
