Chapter 2: Code of the Queen Mamas

She has entered the chat barefoot, bearing pomegranates, and absolutely done with explaining herself.

To the casual observer, the kitchen looked like a mess: flour on the counter, a pot boiling over, something humming softly from a Bluetooth speaker half-covered in a dish towel. But really, it was a sanctum. A temple of turmeric and truth. A space where nourishment meant more than meals, it meant finger-licking, glass-balancing, lid-juggling, and slip-sliding over spills and greasy spots. It meant reclaiming the kitchen, eating oats for supper or nibbling on Wagyu ribeye midweek, just because.

And Thursday nights? Non-negotiable.

The rules are clear: There will be women. Lots of women.

And there will be noise. There might be barefoot dancing, full-throated laughter, naughty confessions over chickpea salad, and someone in tears — from joy or heartache. So if you're scared of feelings and fierce, lively encounters, poke your head in, wave politely, and make a graceful exit.

Do not disturb the chaos of this sacred sistahood.

This is not a polite, curated kind of space. It’s the messy kind. The kind where you can be undone, unclothed, sans makeup, wild-haired ...and still, unequivocally fabulous. The kind where your friends know where the mugs are, and no one flinches when someone brings their troubles in a Tupperware and sets it next to the tabbouleh.

This isn’t just a dinner.
It’s a boundary. A spell. A system reset.

A place where we moan over unfortunate encounters, giggle over someone’s latest hottie, pass tissues when her heart is in tatters, and cuss at the man who caused it. It’s an IRL continuation of the WhatsApp group chat where POAs are hatched, plotted, and executed, and promises are made and kept.

And no, we’re not asking for permission anymore.

Love is being totally reworked and re-enacted:

Love does not equal availability.
Connection requires solitude first.
Real partnership (romantic or otherwise) understands the holy necessity of catching up to mischief with your girls.

Because this isn’t just a social evening. It’s a weekly exorcism of other people’s expectations. A ritual of release. A place to take off the “nice,” the “neat,” the “nurturing,” and just… be.

Sometimes a man will hover, hopeful, feeling out the vibes. He’ll be gently reminded: This is not about him. Not his space. “Thanks for the savoury platters and the cake…”
The wise ones know this is a win for him.

Because she will come back fed, uplifted, radiant and blooming from the inside out, wrapped in the soft bosoms of her girls.

As women, we don’t need fixing.
What we need is each other... the best nurturers in the world.

She says, “Yass, Queen,” even when your tiara is askew and your mascara is running.
She cheers, “Go, girl!” even when you’re last over the finish line.
And she’ll always be there with cake and tissues when the world’s been especially cruel.

So, the potlucks become tradition.
The playlist evolves.
Someone always brings dessert.
And someone always stays too late, grateful not to be alone in their unraveling.

This isn’t resistance in the classic sense.
It isn’t loud or instagrammable or a TikTok worthy video.

But it is insistent.
A quiet, consistent defiance of the narrative that says a woman should be everything to everyone, but never too much for herself.

Their feet are bare, treading cold tiles, gripping flute glasses, slapping each other in giddy joy and she is celebrated not for her domesticity, but for her wholeness. Because healing often begins in the softest whisper from your friends:

“We’re here.”

And if love...real love ever asks what you need most, the answer might just be:

A little room.
A little mess.
A night with my people.
And no interruptions.