At thirteen big belly man came from London with my uncle’s blessing I was to be this third wife. I said no because I rather die. And mind you this was words from a girl who had died time after time. *robbery of the flesh did not mean I was expired meat. To be tossed at stray dogs. I took the knife so did my sister. She fought for me and chased him away.
At fifteen long-legged Ali, the cab driver from Oslo sneaky snake walks slowly, didn’t know he laid his eyes on me while I did wudu, thick legs she has he said, she will be my second wife he said. His mother who is a relative of mine I am told blessed his wish. She came to me right after maghrib, hand in hand with his first wife to explain why I was suited to be her son’s second wife. Baffled I looked at the mother of his children, young and beautiful, his first wife sat there with her head down biting her lip avoiding my stare. No no no I rather die I said y’all should be ashamed of yourselves I yelled. And I ain’t expired tomatoes you try to get rid off before the market closes.
At twenty-one, young and in love, Nuur was a slick one. Perhaps it’s the hustler life he had lived, across the continent…
he told me he was someone’s man right before he came to ask for my hand. And broken-hearted girl still knew that “sharing is caring” didn’t include sharing a heart occupied beforehand. Sorry, I can’t share nor will I destroy a house to build a home. I said and took back my heart.
Let me jump over chapters of my story and sum it up to say; at thirty-one, a divorced mother of two, with autoimmune illnesses and chorionic pain. Don’t make a fool out of yourself. ~, I’m not your desperate dame in distress. Imaanso hedhe.