“Why are you so nice to her?” a friend asked. “She’s treating you like shit. I know she’s your landlady and lives on the top floor of your apartment and all, but come on, you’re not her slave!”

I kept quiet. Yes, I’ve been doing stuff for Rosmah, the fat, grumpy old lady whom I called my landlady. I cleaned her house, carried up her groceries, washed her car, trimmed her bushes (in her outdoor garden, mind you!) and even cooked for her sometimes. I started doing all that after her husband ran away with a younger woman recently. But Rosmah was not a kind person, not now nor when her husband was still around. Her voice was like a needle piercing my eardrums. Her slit eyes reminded me of a female version of Muammar Gaddafi. She never said thank you. She uses her irritating voice to command more chores out of me. Other tenants shun away, minding their own business, at least until the end of each month. But I obliged, like an evil spell has been casted upon me, shackling my free will.

“So, what do you have to say for yourself? Aren’t you gonna stand up for yourself?” the friend skeptically questioning me. He grew frustrated with the recent lack of time spent on our bromance liveliness.

“The younger woman that Rosmah’s husband ran away with, well, I introduced her to him!”

I wonder if evil Rosmah had already knew.

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