She be a HouseWife/ Tongue-Biting Heroines

Typical how the scene unfolds. A pretty young girl, twenty three with a degree, top graduate from the University of Khartoum, far from a silly twit, soft-spoken, strong values, intelligent eyes, a future set with unbound choices. A tinkling laugh that came very often, very modest, done whatever could be done to please her parents.
Twenty three
Prime age
Whisperings began to infiltrate her parent’s heads; what a lovely daughter I have just the right…
He came with a smile, crisp buttoned down collared sky blue shirt, tucked in into his well ironed khakis, sophisticated, well earned living in the states; three bedroom, two bathroom humble abode with a pretty new 2005 Civic Honda. Confident in his stride, the way he ordered them a couple drinks, spoke of the possibilities, bright future, she silently blushing, staring down at her perspiring cup, drawing ringlets across the table, about to speak her heart when not even a chance was given to their blossoming attraction. On her hand now firmly bound his ring, no more dates at the parliament or golden gates. No more hushed conversations late at night, the flatterings complete, set the date, exit visas, her shaila almost set.
It was taken for granted she would say yes, but it puzzled her why this ache in her chest. She felt suffocated, unsure to scream or beat her head. Za*3areet tear through the rented hall, breathing in she forces the shy bride smile, kissing air so as not to mess up her two million dinar makeup, clutching to her two thousand dinar bouquet of roses, feeling the train of her four thousand dollar dress tugged into place. Holding onto his shoulder, faces blur before her as they dance to Celine’s ballad, looking into his eyes for a sense of encouragement she instead finds the beginning look of dull self-content at finally settling, quieting the nag: ‘find a suitable girl, settle down, give me those grand children’

Stepping into the house with your right foot entails luck. Looking around her new home she feels boxed but instead exclaims what a beautiful assortment of furniture that she had no part in choosing… infact his doting mother had the privilege of selecting. The days, months, years spread, and that humble abode of the three bedroom, two bathroom house has fallen to ‘the’ habit;
early morning she rises, sneaks in her fajr prayer, awakens her grumbling husband, readies his breakfast, checks that his shirt and pants are ironed, shoes shined, socks matching, briefcase latched, a quick absentminded pat to her back and away speeds his pretty new 2005 civic Honda. A cleaning with no nearing end, washing, cooking, assorting, shopping, daily snippets of gossip, some few moments to remember … Dinner set, in he comes, showers, eats, watches t.v. and might even remember to ask ‘how was your day’, and off to bed.
Each Day
Fall to the Grips of ‘the’ Habit
He promised her graduate school yet here she sits to watch her belly swell.
He promised her opportunities to work and accomplish, yet day and day out she gazes at the water running down her soap soaked hands, now roughened, wrinkled as she scrubs away at the pots and pans.
He promised her friendship, yet the amount of communication is dwindling, too busy or too lazy to make the effort to say anything.
Typical how the scene unfolds.
That tinkling laugh has all but disappeared, that spark in her eyes dimming and whats left behind that hesitant smile is the slow simmering of bitterness.
Typical how the scene unfolds.