The Happy Marriage

Habiba and her husband were an exemplary couple. Her friends envied her so much that one day they asked her to reveal the secret behind their perfect relationship. Habiba told them: “He loves me, that’s the secret, we’re in love, that’s all.” But her friends weren’t satisfied with her answer, they argued with their husbands all the time, were convinced they were cheating on them, gambling the family’s money away in casinos or wasting it on liquor in bars and on prostitutes. They would go back to Habiba and ask her to give them more details. So she would tell them: “If you want to keep your husband close, then don’t wait until he’s already run away, you must take care of him on your very first night. A man who has left the house is already lost to his wife. You must never let him go, so that he belongs to you and you alone even when he’s not in the house.”

Lamia, one of Habiba’s friends, suspected that she’d been consulting a sorcerer. “Not at all,” Habiba protested. “Sorcerers are charlatans. No, there’s no need to resort to such absurd and ridiculous tactics. My recipe is unbeatable. It’s been put to the test. My mother gave it to me. My father was the most loving and submissive husband ever. He loved my mother and always did what she said. I followed her advice to the letter. No scruples, no hesitation, it’s him or me, so it might as well be me, right, ladies? I’m rather proud of my achievement.

“I’m telling you, the first night is decisive. You mustn’t wait until the following day. As soon as he’d climbed inside the dekhchoucha, I saw that despite his enormous height and weight, he was just a little lamb deep down. I knew he would be mine. But he was the kind of man who was bound to resist. I stared him right in the eye and forced him to lower his gaze. The rest was a piece of cake. A man who lowers his gaze will be like putty in your hands. He’s yours, and he’ll stay that way forever. There’s no need for any potions, incense, or magic scrolls. It’s just a matter of willpower. This is what my mother taught me: you just need a little almond milk and a pinch of white powder …”

“What’s the recipe for this powder then?” Fatima exclaimed. “You must take pity on our unhappiness, you can’t be the only one to be able to leave this nightmare, while the rest of us are stuck here like wet rags waiting for our husbands to come home, hoping they don’t return stinking of booze after having emptied their wallets and scrotums.”