The doorbell rang. It was 3am. Two men broke the silence wildly on the dark streets. One kept beating a drum, the other one blew a shepherd pipe. Everyone had to wake up. They had no other choice.
My mum answered the doorbell. It was her friend who was worried that we might have failed to wake up. She also asked her whether we had managed to prepare food. My mum was always fine when it came to food. That was her main worry after being alive; how couldn’t she be? I looked out the window as they talked in the doorway; it was dark.
My father did not move his little finger. He wouldn’t even if he was awake in his bed. That was how spoiled men were in our town. If they were not treated like a king, they had a right to become the ugliest beast and treat everyone like their subordinates apart from other men. Being a man was a power, being a woman was not only a weakness but something to be ashamed of in our little town that was run by imams. Hence marriage was the only way for women to get rid of that shame. Looking at my mother and her wasted life; it seemed to me that it was a bigger shame to be wife of a man. She was an unknown slave. She was unable to leave her husband; she knew what could happen to a woman if she was alone in this town.
My mum prepared the food and called her husband. He woke up without any sign of appreciation. We had to wait for him before beginning to eat. How could we begin without him, that was almost like a sin. And every sin was filled with fears just like my mum. Wasn’t that a sin? Wasn’t it a sin to fear a woman like her to her core?
Her husband whose sperm I had borrowed looked at her in a way to fear her more when he sat at on his cushion on the floor where my mum placed the foods on the plated in a circle shape. People believed that we had to eat our foods on the floor because that was how Mohammed dined. We still could not have our first bite because the man who I cannot even call father was supposed to do so first.
“Allah-u Akbar!” exclaimed the imam in the nearby mosque soon after we had had some food under the suffocating Godship of my mother’s husband.
“I told you to wake up earlier, you idiot woman! See there is no time to enjoy my tea now! Imam is chanting the azan already!” shouted he.
What was this hellish oppression for, I had to ask myself countless times.He pushed my mother to please himself and went to the bathroom. He washed himself in an Islamic way. Wasn’t her soul polluted in the same way? I asked myself as he came back and began reading Quran.
I looked out the window once again. The Moon was still there in the sky spending some time with the Sun. I watched them and made a plan…
Now, it is your turn.
Who is telling the story here?
What is really happening in the scene?
Where do you think the story takes place?
And most importantly what is the plan s(he) had in mind?
Happy writing all dear ones.
Have a wonderful week with countless blessings.