Tujilijili

Tujilijili

Saturday

Oh Dear Diary, that woman was here again for supper, and he only had eyes for her. They were chatting and laughing, and I was sitting there like a little mouse that had wandered in from the farm. And I’m supposed to be his First Lady.

I’m so worried for my poor husband, he’s falling into her clutches. My mother always warned me against going with such an old man, but I always replied ‘At least he’ll be too old to go chasing after other women’. How wrong I was! He’s quite besotted with her. He can’t take his eyes off her, especially her huge Pamela Andersons. She makes me feel so small.

Dear Diary, you should have seen the two of them when he kissed her goodbye at the door. His hands were everywhere! It reminded me of the good old days when he used to pick me up from my Grade Seven class in his old Toyota Collolla.

Sunday

Dear Diary, When I came down to breakfast she was already there, laughing and talking and tickling his huge belly. And you know, Dear Diary, it’s not only her huge Pamela Andersons that fascinate him. It’s also her radar.

She’s got radar eyes! He told me so himself after he made her Minister for Airports and Other Ancient Monuments, and ordered her to buy the 50 billion radar equipment which Harry had sourced from a small shop in Hong Kong. But she said ‘No, you don’t need that. You see, I’ve got penetrating radar eyes, I can even spot enemy aircraft before they come over the horizon. Not only that, I can spot a bargain even before you’ve been offered ten percent. I can spot a defector before he suspects his own loyalty. I can foresee an election strategy before anybody else had foreseen an election!’

And that, Dear Diary, is why he needs her. Because my poor dear husband has no vision at all. Not only no vision, but he can’t see a thing. He says people will think he’s old if he wears spectacles. But her, she has radar vision. She can see what’s coming and can even plan ahead. My poor dear old lovely husband, so long as his belly is full of beer, and his hands are full of her Pamela Andersons, he’s quite happy.

But I worry tellibly.

Monday

Dear Diary, today I caught her at it. I was in the kitchen, but I saw her reflection in the drawing room mirror. Taking a little sachet out of her bra, and neatly emptying it down her throat. All in a flash! So that’s why she’s called Dora Tujilijili!

And my poor dear husband, all the time fondling her Pamela Andersons, hasn’t realized she’s got a Tujilijili implant. How she has cheated him, just as he is cheating on me! No wonder she sways on her feet! I thought it was because of her high heels, and being unbalanced by her huge Pamela Andersons. But it’s the Tujilijili!

Tuesday

Dear Diary, my poor dear husband is being terribly misled by this awful woman. They came back late last night from Mikomfwa, with Tujilijili saying that they had addressed a rally of twenty thousand. But I saw the picture in The Post this morning and there were only twenty-four people, and they were all holding up a large cardboard pabwato. Perhaps Tujilijili’s radar vision had focused on Cycle Mata’s rally in Chimwemwe!

Wednesday

Oh Dear Diary, I feel so embarrassed, people are beginning to laugh at my dear old husband. Tonight on TV News he was seen opening a new hospital at Chainama. But the new hospital was just painted on a billboard. My husband cut a lovely blue ribbon and then walked in through a door cut into the billboard. On the grass on the other side of the billboard he talked with some of the patients he found lying on hospital beds. In the background was the UTH bus that had just brought them there.

When asked if this was a real hospital, Tujilijili lost her temper and shouted at everybody, saying that any voter who dared to laugh would never get any more development! Then she swayed dangerously and fell flat on her face.

Friday

Oh Dear Diary, What a catastrophe! Yesterday was Election Day and everybody went to vote. Except for my poor dear old husband, who couldn’t find his voters card. And this morning, when the crowd broke through the front gate carrying a huge pabwato, my husband wanted to go and greet them, thinking they had come to congratulate him on his great victory.

Instead I pulled him upstairs and onto the roof, where the helicopter was waiting. As we rose up into the air, we could hear the angry crowd below us shouting ‘Corruption! We want our money back! Prosecute him!’

‘You know,’ said my husband, ‘Tujilijili’s radar vision was right! She always foresaw that I would rise above all my troubles! What a marvellous woman! I owe everything to her!’

So saying, my poor old dear husband leant back in his comfortable chair and fell asleep, despite the deafening noise of the helicopter rotor blades singing Tujilijili-Tujilijili-Tujilijili!

We should never have left the farm.