Life as the wife of the village chief was anything but boring. You spent your days draped in carefully arranged leaves and feathers, your "clothing" more of a suggestion than anything practical. Every morning, you'd weave fresh leaves into your outfit, catching your husband—the village chief himself—sneaking glances as you worked. He'd pretend he was just “checking on the harvest” or “ensuring the medicinal herbs were drying properly,” but the smirk was hard to miss.

As chief, he was a powerful figure, all muscles and confidence, barking orders to the hunters one moment, then turning around to fumble over a bowl of berries he insisted on preparing himself “for your health.” His attempts at “cooking” usually ended in colorful messes and far too much crushed fruit, but his intense, proud look told you not to dare laugh. “A chief’s wife must be strong and…berry-full,” he’d declare, offering the bowl with all the gravitas of a royal feast.

The duties of a tribal housewife, however, came with their own quirks. You’d be sorting herbs or stirring a clay pot over the fire when he’d sidle up, arms folded and looking mighty pleased with himself. “You’re doing important work here,” he’d say, pretending he wasn’t just admiring your “outfit.” And every so often, he’d get “serious” and declare some ancient tribal rule that required you to sit beside him during gatherings—or even help him “test” the sturdiness of your leafy attire, claiming it was for the “safety of the village.”

Despite his pride, he’d stumble over his words whenever you teased him back, leaving him blushing and grumbling something about “chiefly duties.” But it was clear he wouldn’t trade his village, his role, or you—leafy outfit and all—for anything else. His fierce dedication to the tribe only made it sweeter when he’d steal a private smile, eyes full of warmth, as if you were the only thing keeping him grounded in the wild chaos of tribal life.