She had long been accustomed to it all her life—once she woke at dawn, she never went back to sleep. He had never allowed her to hire a maid, not even as a joke. So she trained herself to start the household chores and the children’s care immediately after the dawn prayer, since she had nowhere else to go.
Even now that her children were grown, it hadn’t changed. All six of them were boys, and they were used to helping her, but still her habit remained.
The youngest, about nine years old, could prepare his own school things with the help of his elder brothers. In no time, everyone had joined in tidying the house before 7:30, when their father would drive them to school.
The three who were in higher institutions each went their own way once they were ready.
Even last year, when he married another wife, she didn’t stop her routine. Since each wife had her own household and they didn’t always stay together, her habits remained the same, even when she wasn’t the one spending the night with him.
After bathing, she put on a long gown and sat on the three-seater, sipping her tea while fiddling with her phone radio. The youngest, with two of his brothers, sat at the dining table eating breakfast, all dressed in uniform.
He was the kind of man who knew his responsibilities well; even if he hadn’t spent the night with her, once morning came he would stop by to check on her and the children, make sure all was well, and collect the shopping list so he could give it to his boys at the market to bring back foodstuffs.
That morning too, he came straight from his new wife’s place, car keys in hand, and found them ready.
After exchanging greetings, the children all greeted him:
“Good morning, Baba.”
He responded warmly, though he was not a man fond of jokes and laughter. Immediately, they cleared their plates to the kitchen, picked up their bags, and went outside to wait in the car. They found their elder brother, Baba Karami, had already finished washing it.
As soon as they left, he turned his attention to his first wife. He stood while she sat calmly sipping her tea.
“Well, we’ll be going. Aliko will bring the food items. Is there anything else?” he asked, still standing.
She replied:
“Nothing. Go safely, may God grant you success.”
“Amin, ya Allah.”
He was about to leave, but paused.
She lifted her eyes from her phone, smiled at him, and said:
“Is it that you want me to pour you some tea, since you seem reluctant to go? Or shall I escort you to the market?”
He chuckled:
“After you’ve finished it all, now you’re offering me the last sip? Keep it.”
Then he asked with a sigh:
“Was it tuwo you cooked last night?”
With a surprised look, she said:
“Tuwo? No, not at all. It was pasta—Baba Karami cooked it, and we all ate.”
“You’ll never stop letting those boys cook and wash, will you? Well, may God ease things.”
She replied gently, as she always did whenever he complained:
“But, Yallabai, it’s God who gave them to me. One day, none of us will even be here, in shaa Allah.”
“So when will you cook tuwo?” he pressed.
She laughed softly:
“Well, you’re not around today. The children and I already planned beans and rice for tonight. But if it’s tuwo you want, when my turn comes in two days, in shaa Allah, I’ll cook it for you.”
He was about to leave again when she set down her cup, having drained the last of her tea.
“Actually, your younger wife isn’t feeling well. She can’t eat anything except tuwo. Couldn’t you cook her just a little to ease her since yesterday she hasn’t been able to eat?”
She answered:
“May Allah heal her. When my turn comes, if it’s destined, and I cook tuwo, she’ll eat.”
“But she’s sick, struggling with pregnancy. And you won’t cook tuwo for her?”
She smiled:
“She’s grown, hasn’t she? She married Baba. Tell me, when I was the one pregnant, who cooked tuwo for me? Was it me who got her pregnant? Or should I carry the baby myself so she can rest?”
By now, anger was rising in him. He hissed, turned to leave.
“You can even buy tuwo by the roadside—why not just get her some?”
“I did, yesterday. She ate and vomited, saying it had curry inside.”
She stood, saying calmly:
“May God ease it. Travel safely. I’ll go take a little rest.”
“So you won’t cook tuwo for her?” he asked.
She replied:
“Well, you haven’t answered my question. When I was pregnant, who cooked tuwo for me?”
He hissed loudly again and stormed out to drive the children to school.
She went into her room, lay down, and thought of her struggles during pregnancy.
He never cooked for her, nor bought her food. And if she dared ask the neighbors, he would scold her. So she had resigned herself to eating only bread. Pregnancy had been so hard on her; all she craved was tuwo. Yet she couldn’t cook it herself, and he never bought it for her, always dismissing her cravings as mere stubbornness. So she suffered hunger and hardship in silence, sneaking food from neighbors only when he was away.
Lying down, she muttered aloud:
“They said if a co-wife came, I’d rest. She would share the work and even cook tuwo in the mornings. May God keep you all well, but it seems only your own voices are heard.”
Sleep soon overtook her.
Later that night, when he returned after Isha prayer, he found her on the phone at the dining table. She quickly ended the call and greeted him:
“Welcome home.”
“Isn’t there any cold drink?” he asked.
“There’s zobo,” she replied, immediately fetching him a chilled glass.
He sat and began drinking.
“Have you checked on your younger co-wife since I left?” he asked.
“Oh, her? Honestly, since you left I haven’t even stepped into the courtyard.”
“So, Rabi, you won’t help me care for this girl? Have you forgotten there’s another human being in this house?”
She was taken aback.
“But wasn’t it clear from the beginning that I wouldn’t be the one caring for her? Have you ever heard of a woman taking a co-wife? God knows why He didn’t give us that ability, so He didn’t command us to. I didn’t marry her, you did. Why should I be burdened? Didn’t you say when you married her that I would finally get some rest? Then let me rest. Please, let’s drop this talk. You yourself said when you brought her that we were equals. So why should I take care of her? She’s not my daughter, not my servant. Please, let’s leave it; everyone should mind their own.”
Before he could answer, she stood and said:
“Goodnight.”
Then she went to her room and shut the door.
He was left in shock—or was it anger?
Twenty-four years with her, and she had never refused him before. But today she had.
Truly, jealousy is a woman’s bread.
Now what was he to do with his new wife? He hated hiring maids, and despite all her pleading, he had never let the first wife have one, even when she was pregnant and burdened with housework. Back then, he thought she only wanted luxury.
But was this pregnancy more difficult, or had the women simply changed?
Now, they expected him to cook tuwo? Never. He swore no woman could make him cook for her.
Description
She had long been accustomed to it all her life—once she woke at dawn, she never went back to sleep. He had never allowed her to hire a maid, not even as a joke. So she trained herself to start the household chores and the children’s care immediately after the dawn prayer, since she had nowhere else to go.
Even now that her children were grown, it hadn’t changed. All six of them were boys, and they were used to helping her, but still her habit remained.
The youngest, about nine years old, could prepare his own school things with the help of his elder brothers. In no time, everyone had joined in tidying the house before 7:30, when their father would drive them to school.
The three who were in higher institutions each went their own way once they were ready.
Even last year, when he married another wife, she didn’t stop her routine. Since each wife had her own household and they didn’t always stay together, her habits remained the same, even when she wasn’t the one spending the night with him.
After bathing, she put on a long gown and sat on the three-seater, sipping her tea while fiddling with her phone radio. The youngest, with two of his brothers, sat at the dining table eating breakfast, all dressed in uniform.
He was the kind of man who knew his responsibilities well; even if he hadn’t spent the night with her, once morning came he would stop by to check on her and the children, make sure all was well, and collect the shopping list so he could give it to his boys at the market to bring back foodstuffs.
That morning too, he came straight from his new wife’s place, car keys in hand, and found them ready.
After exchanging greetings, the children all greeted him:
“Good morning, Baba.”
He responded warmly, though he was not a man fond of jokes and laughter. Immediately, they cleared their plates to the kitchen, picked up their bags, and went outside to wait in the car. They found their elder brother, Baba Karami, had already finished washing it.
As soon as they left, he turned his attention to his first wife. He stood while she sat calmly sipping her tea.
“Well, we’ll be going. Aliko will bring the food items. Is there anything else?” he asked, still standing.
She replied:
“Nothing. Go safely, may God grant you success.”
“Amin, ya Allah.”
He was about to leave, but paused.
She lifted her eyes from her phone, smiled at him, and said:
“Is it that you want me to pour you some tea, since you seem reluctant to go? Or shall I escort you to the market?”
He chuckled:
“After you’ve finished it all, now you’re offering me the last sip? Keep it.”
Then he asked with a sigh:
“Was it tuwo you cooked last night?”
With a surprised look, she said:
“Tuwo? No, not at all. It was pasta—Baba Karami cooked it, and we all ate.”
“You’ll never stop letting those boys cook and wash, will you? Well, may God ease things.”
She replied gently, as she always did whenever he complained:
“But, Yallabai, it’s God who gave them to me. One day, none of us will even be here, in shaa Allah.”
“So when will you cook tuwo?” he pressed.
She laughed softly:
“Well, you’re not around today. The children and I already planned beans and rice for tonight. But if it’s tuwo you want, when my turn comes in two days, in shaa Allah, I’ll cook it for you.”
He was about to leave again when she set down her cup, having drained the last of her tea.
“Actually, your younger wife isn’t feeling well. She can’t eat anything except tuwo. Couldn’t you cook her just a little to ease her since yesterday she hasn’t been able to eat?”
She answered:
“May Allah heal her. When my turn comes, if it’s destined, and I cook tuwo, she’ll eat.”
“But she’s sick, struggling with pregnancy. And you won’t cook tuwo for her?”
She smiled:
“She’s grown, hasn’t she? She married Baba. Tell me, when I was the one pregnant, who cooked tuwo for me? Was it me who got her pregnant? Or should I carry the baby myself so she can rest?”
By now, anger was rising in him. He hissed, turned to leave.
“You can even buy tuwo by the roadside—why not just get her some?”
“I did, yesterday. She ate and vomited, saying it had curry inside.”
She stood, saying calmly:
“May God ease it. Travel safely. I’ll go take a little rest.”
“So you won’t cook tuwo for her?” he asked.
She replied:
“Well, you haven’t answered my question. When I was pregnant, who cooked tuwo for me?”
He hissed loudly again and stormed out to drive the children to school.
She went into her room, lay down, and thought of her struggles during pregnancy.
He never cooked for her, nor bought her food. And if she dared ask the neighbors, he would scold her. So she had resigned herself to eating only bread. Pregnancy had been so hard on her; all she craved was tuwo. Yet she couldn’t cook it herself, and he never bought it for her, always dismissing her cravings as mere stubbornness. So she suffered hunger and hardship in silence, sneaking food from neighbors only when he was away.
Lying down, she muttered aloud:
“They said if a co-wife came, I’d rest. She would share the work and even cook tuwo in the mornings. May God keep you all well, but it seems only your own voices are heard.”
Sleep soon overtook her.
Later that night, when he returned after Isha prayer, he found her on the phone at the dining table. She quickly ended the call and greeted him:
“Welcome home.”
“Isn’t there any cold drink?” he asked.
“There’s zobo,” she replied, immediately fetching him a chilled glass.
He sat and began drinking.
“Have you checked on your younger co-wife since I left?” he asked.
“Oh, her? Honestly, since you left I haven’t even stepped into the courtyard.”
“So, Rabi, you won’t help me care for this girl? Have you forgotten there’s another human being in this house?”
She was taken aback.
“But wasn’t it clear from the beginning that I wouldn’t be the one caring for her? Have you ever heard of a woman taking a co-wife? God knows why He didn’t give us that ability, so He didn’t command us to. I didn’t marry her, you did. Why should I be burdened? Didn’t you say when you married her that I would finally get some rest? Then let me rest. Please, let’s drop this talk. You yourself said when you brought her that we were equals. So why should I take care of her? She’s not my daughter, not my servant. Please, let’s leave it; everyone should mind their own.”
Before he could answer, she stood and said:
“Goodnight.”
Then she went to her room and shut the door.
He was left in shock—or was it anger?
Twenty-four years with her, and she had never refused him before. But today she had.
Truly, jealousy is a woman’s bread.
Now what was he to do with his new wife? He hated hiring maids, and despite all her pleading, he had never let the first wife have one, even when she was pregnant and burdened with housework. Back then, he thought she only wanted luxury.
But was this pregnancy more difficult, or had the women simply changed?
Now, they expected him to cook tuwo? Never. He swore no woman could make him cook for her.