Some time in the 1970s in a prison cell on Robben Island, a man named Nelson Mandela suddenly became a ninja. This game is not about him though.
In fact, it turns out that most people can become ninja. All it takes is a special kind of introspection over a significant length of time and you suddenly develop ninja powers. And it just so happens that housewives are just the kind of people who do this kind of introspection.
Yeah, really. Incredible speed and agility. An instinct for stealth and violence. Super acute perceptions and ultra fast reactions. Making a lethal weapon out of anything. A penchant for striking dramatic poses. And so on. Most people find too much black distasteful though, so that is optional.
Unfortunately, becoming a ninja automatically and mystically puts you on the ninja registry, and participation in the ninja underworld is fairly compulsory. Your employers take a dislike to wild cards, so prepare to be hunted if you disobey.
Soon, you will be receiving contracts to kill people for significant sums of money. To do this you will need concealable weapons. Since a ninja can kill with pretty much anything, the time honored method of modifying gardening implements and kitchen utensils is often employed. Many an unfortunate soul has fallen to a carving knife, whisk/blender combo or portable vacuum cleaner.
But of course, a lot of the money you earn goes right back to your employers via licensing fees, etc and to supporting your family. Such is the rat race for black rats.
And then suddenly you do not have time for a husband anymore. Who would stay with a woman who does not need to sleep, and instead jumps from rooftop to rooftop in the middle of the night committing cold-blooded-but-dramatic murder? It was not as if you needed him anyway.
And thus a Ninja Mom is born. The eternal dichotomy between super skills and style and the frantic struggle to make ends meet in a tough neighborhood.