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Hulhan'gu: Black magic mango woman - training for the bigtime
by Dhon Keyothi
Maldives Culture 2003


Women find powerful men attractive, so it's not surprising I'm getting a lot of offers lately. But there are dangers associated with unlicensed dalliance on the island of Blood, and after ringing my lawyer and discussing article 34 clause (f) of the Constitution and the legal ramifications of immoral behaviour, I realise, like all prospective presidential candidates, that matrimony has definite attractions. After all, how can any great man cope with his official duties if there is no wife to tell him what to do?

Luckily, there is a friend of mine who notices that female heads are turning Keyothi's way, and he offers his help. We discuss how I need someone who can share mutual goals (we might even kick a few together), but I also want someone who I can help with her own goals which hopefully include marrying me!

Anyway, before I know it, I am introduced to a woman who is desperate for marriage. I take her to a very private place and try to speak to her about the intricate demands of the Kitchen Cabinet, but soon it's obvious she is more interested in my wealth. We are sharing goals already, but it isn't quite what I had in mind and I say goodnight.

Returning home alone became a crowded experience because my three hardfaced supporters appeared again.
'Come with us, Keyothi,' they said.
'Time for a party strategy meeting?' I asked.
'Yeah, something like that,' they laughed.

I was pleased to see them in such good spirits. I thought I knew all the good private places in the island of Blood, but these guys have a great setup - their very own Fort!   Big high walls, armed guards, iron gates... it makes me feel really safe.
'Ok if I bring my friends here some time?'
'No problem, Keyothi, they are all welcome. Give us their names and we'll send our jeep.'

We sat around a table; comrades united in the heroic quest for my election. Their plan was brilliant in its simplicity. It would guarantee my popularity.
'We want you to stop acting politically, otherwise you'll be in big trouble,' they said.
'Yes, of course, you're right. I must try my best. How can I ever thank you?'
They were stunned. It was an emotional moment for all of us.

dhon keyothi mango

Two days later, my friend brings another woman to my house. Since we are surrounded by potential witnesses, I make sure the lights are turned on, even though it's daytime.
'Here is something for you.' She hands me a medium-sized mango. Without thinking, I tell her I really don't like the look of it.
'No! you must eat it,' she insists.

The crowds are building up outside, and I know my hard-headed advisors at the Fort want me to keep a low profile. It is time for her to go, and I put the mango in the fridge. There is strange smell and later that night I start to have the strongest headache in my life. At first, I go for a walk and cruise around the city enjoying the traffic jams. Around midnight, my back starts to ache, and I come home but can't sleep and lay rolling from side to side, hunching up, bending my knees close to my head and slowly stretching each leg to the floor. That doesn't work, so I take a few medications and the pain continues for three agonising days, until I remove the mango from the fridge. Somehow I still don't feel like eating it, and it stays on the table. That day I am able to sleep properly once again.

On the fifth day at midnight, I decide to visit a man who knows some natural medicine and magic. After a wash, I phone him and although he is meant to know a lot about the future, he asks me why I am ringing so late. I tell him something strange is happening and I need to see him.

Instinct keeps telling me I should dump the mango in the ocean and let the King of the Sea deal with it. So while travelling on the ferry to the fanditha man's island, I drop the fruit over the side.

A few minutes later, in a coffee shop, he asks me if I have washed my hands. I say no, and he insists that I wash immediately.
'Just one little mango, Keyothi,' the fanditha man says ominously. 'Why? Because you won't share it; it will be for you alone. The smell was probably the liquid poured over the mango for making sihuru black magic. There may even have been some shredded human bone in it.'

As the old man continues to talk and speculate, my headache goes completely. He says that if I had eaten that mango I would have gone mad, perhaps because the guy who made it may have missed out a word or misspelled it, and friendly romantic magic, intended to attract me to the woman, had turned into an evil sihuru.
'Customers should be careful they get the right fanditha,' he says. 'People think they are paying for a wedding, and they end up with a funeral.'

All those tortured wasted days! These black magic mango women are a challenge worthy of any hero! Then my friend tells me there may be another explanation; that the magician who made the mango could have been working for my destruction, and the woman might not have even known.

No doubt about it, the rites of matrimony are a perfect introduction to presidential campaigning.

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