MR SURVIVOR: My beloved Concorde declared persona non grata at the Palace

Beetle

When I arrived, Concorde’s parking bay, the only empty space in the Palace, was fully occupied by chicken poo from Queen’s chicken coop.

Photo credit: Igah

After my Queen unceremoniously threw me out of our marital bliss to marital Siberia, her next target was my beloved Concorde, the age and terrain tested and proven Volkswagen Beetle.

She knows that to inflict maximum heartbreak, she has to touch my second love, the German machine. In Queen’s inverted sense of romance, Concorde has been violating her territorial boundaries as the rightful and only recipient of my undivided attention.

Queen’s hatred for Concorde is both historic and historical. She has always hilariously complained that I suffer a mental breakdown every time Concorde is suffering a mechanical breakdown but I show no feelings of sympathy and empathy when she is sick. Although I have accepted her complaints, because it is really hard to change her state of mind, I have never agreed with her.  

Queen’s hatred for Concorde last week went to new levels never seen before. Actually it was a desecration. It amounted to a provocation of suicidal proportions. I, however, do not require a professor of the psychology of women in general and Queen in particular to lecture to me on the reason for Concorde’s recent predicament.

Now, if your memory serves you right, you will remember that Queen was a chief campaigner of our former governor. You will also remember that she used to ride in the man’s black monster, a Toyota Land cruiser V8. And this was where the rains started beating Concorde and yours truly. When a woman rides in a V8, and when that woman is my Queen, I would be suffering from great expectations to expect her to respect my Beetle. But I digress.

So, last Saturday, as is my custom, and due to my busy schedule, I arrived at the Palace just a few minutes after midnight. As our people say, a man who is returning to his home is never late. What I saw made me suspect the alcohol content of the Happy Valley’s drinkables.

Concorde’s parking bay, the only empty space in the Palace, was fully occupied by chicken poo from Queen’s chicken coop. A very narrow foot path ran from the gate to the door of the house. The message was screamingly loud and clear – Concorde was persona non grata at the Palace. My immediate idea was to drive back to Happy Valley where Concorde and I are given unconditional acceptance but sanity prevails.

It was a miracle that I managed to get to the house after a precarious hop, skip and jump task made worse by the displaced centre of gravity as a result of Mrembo’s beverages. Being the survivor that I am, I finally abled myself to the bedroom where Queen pretended to be in a deep sleep. But it was obvious that she had been waiting for me because all doors had been left unlocked.

“Why have you destroyed my car’s parking space?” I asked her.

“What have you said again? A car! What car? I may not know a lot about cars but from the little that I know, that scrap metal does not come anywhere near a definition of a car!” Queen pontificated.

From the prompt reply, it was clear that Queen had rehearsed appropriately. She had already declared third world war in the Palace.

“Even a scrap metal deserves some respect. It costs more money than your chicken poo!” I declared.

“The fertilizer I am manufacturing there means more to this house financially than that scrap metal of yours!” Queen retorted.

“Please note that the scrap metal buys food, clothes and pays school fees. And by the way, my sons love the car. Don’t deny them the opportunity to enjoy their father’s wealth,” I said.

“What is your definition of wealth? I pity some people. Other men do more than buying food, buying mtumba clothes and paying fees to some backstreet schools but they do not embarrass their families with scrap metal. And they do not shout about it,” she said.

Obviously, you can see that I was beaten nine to zero in the shouting match. And when a man’s wife starts to openly compare him with other men, such a man needs to be very careful. You see, Queen was exposed to ruthless political goons during the campaign period and I cannot be sure what a disgruntled wife and such thugs can be up to.

And that is why my beloved Concorde has been sleeping outside the Palace as I fight for a more peaceful and lasting acceptance and residency at the Palace. I am the one who knows where the title deed of the plot is. Queen had better learn to live with Concorde and me.

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