On the verge, I thought, as one of them took on a real or imagined foe, losing all shame and broadcasting the tiff all over the neighborhood.
It had woken me up from my siesta. I looked down from the balcony wondering what it was all about but there was neither foe nor war freak in sight although I could swear she could be no more than two feet away from where I was. She remained hidden somewhere, clutching her cell phone, spewing out obscenities.
How long will I put up with these mad women, I wondered as I walked back to my couch. I recalled yet another fireball who kept me awake until midnight a few months ago – yes, the moon was waxing then – repeatedly asking her husband: “What are you trying to hide from me?”
But this recent madness was not sparked by jealousy. She was feuding with someone, a girl most probably, calling her names and resenting the suggestion of “blocking”. “Why should I do that? You do it!”
When I went back to the balcony, it was her father-in-law I saw in front of their house, doing his routine, seemingly oblivious to what had transpired.
Indeed, why should we not allow women to have a nervous breakdown once in a while? Let them release a mouthful which is likely meant for someone else. Let them kick the stray cats who do them no harm, run them over with their bike or poison them if they so wish.
In the privacy of their homes, they cater to their men who have let them down countless times. These women, so crass and annoying, have the grace to suffer their in-laws, put on a jolly face, and temper their self-destructive ways with Facebook nonsense.