Dr Kapupushi

[This piece was first published on 17^th August 2000, just after President Chiluba had returned from Malawi with his new honorary doctorate]

Dr Kapupushi

Tuesday

Dear Diary, I’ve been left all by myself again. This morning I was having breakfast with my dear littul Fleddie when he suddenly said ‘Pack my bag for me, will you dear?’

Oooh, the way he orders me about, you’d think I’m a member of his Cabinet. Who does he think I am, to be ordered about like this? Peter Machungwa?

But of course I didn’t say any of that. ‘Off again, dear?’ I said. ‘Have a nice time. Where is it this time?’

‘Off to Malawi to see my friend Muluzi.’

Ooh, Dear Diary, how I hate that big greasy polygamist! I never know what he and Fleddie get up to. Shouldn’t be surprised if my naughty littul Fleddie came back with another wife!

Wednesday

Dear Diary, I found out from this morning’s Post why my Fleddie has gone to Malawi. He’s gone to get a doctorate. He’s all show, nowadays, my Fleddie. He goes to London for his suits, Paris for his shirts, and Rome for his high heel shoes. It’s not fair. He never lets me wear high heels. I wonder why?

And now he wants a doctorate! Fancy getting his suits from Saville Row and his gold watches from Geneva, and then having to go to Malawi for a doctorate! Malawi, of all places! Doctorates are supposed to come from Harvard or Oxford! People go to Malawi for peanuts! Maybe my poor littul Fleddie is not tall enough to go to Oxford.

Thursday

Oooh, I’m so annoyed! Opened my Post this morning, and found they’d published bits from my Diary. I should never have trusted that Spectator Kalaki, who was round here yesterday, drinking my tea and nibbling my ear. Naughty man! He must be the one who tore out a couple of pages from you, Dear Diary, while I was in the kitchen making the tea.

Let him claim the cledit, what do I care! Nobody will believe I wrote such things about my husband. And anyway, if my little Fleddie can be an Honolaly Doctor, then I can be an Honolaly Writer!

But, Dear Diary, I think I know why he wants this doctorate. It’s not just vanity. It’s another of his name changes. If he changes his name to Doctor, he’ll be able to go for a third term!

But I don’t mind. When I pull off his gown and cap, there inside I shall find my same darling littul Fleddie. I love him so!

Friday

My little Fleddie came back late last night from Blantyre, still wearing his black cap and purple gown. I had to laugh. As he climbed down from his big motor car, his big floppy cap fell down over his eyes, causing him to trip over the front step. He landed flat on my lovely Persian rug which I bought from Kamwala Trading.

‘Dr Fleddie, I presume,’ I laughed, as I tried to help him up. But he couldn’t see the funny side of it, and went to bed in a huff. And also in his gown.

Saturday

Dear Diary, I think this silly Doctor Business has gone to his head. He came to breakfast still dressed in his new cap and gown.

‘Good morning Darling Fleddie,’ I giggled.

‘Doctor Fleddie to you,’ he said sternly. ‘You forget I’ve been born again as a Doctor.’

‘That’s nice,’ I said. ‘What did you do, dear, to get this doctorate? You haven’t read anything for years. That Vicious Malambo pleaded with you to read his report on Good Governance, but you wouldn’t even open it. And that nice big book by Muna Ndulo on the Rule of Law, you just sit on it so you can reach the table.’

‘What do you know about it, you Grade Four drop-out!’ he shouted at me in a most undoctorly way. ‘I have received this degree on behalf of everybody in Zambia! Other people have been reading, even if I haven’t!’

‘Then maybe we have all become doctors!’ I laughed. ‘That would be much more democratic! We can have Michael Shouter as Doctor of Expulsions, Dawdle Lupunga as Doctor of Swindles, Clueless Cluo as Doctor of Disasters, Grunting Tembo as Doctor of Growl ...’

But he wasn’t amused. Instead of reading The Post,

he just sat there reading his new certificate, and stroking the lovely soft fur on his gown.

Sunday

Oh Dear Diary,

I do try to respect my dear little husband, but I can stop laughing at his honololy doctorate. This morning at breakfast my Doctor Fleddie fell into a tellible fit, after his big doctoral cap fell off his little head, right into his pollidge.

‘Its too big for you dear,’ I said. ‘Didn’t they have a smaller size? You’d better stay at home today, while I give it a wash. Without that cap, people will think you’re just plain Mister.’

‘What do you know about it?’ he shouted. ‘Clothes maketh the woman, but doctorates maketh the man! I am the Doctor of Democracy! Everybody knows that! I’m the one who doctored democracy in Zambia!’

‘I know you did dear. And everybody admires the way you doctored the Constitution, to stop that Old Munshumfwa, the Mad Malawian Doctor, from...’

‘What’s wrong with Kapupushi?’ interrupted Fleddie, as our cat walked in through the French window. ‘He seems to be limping.’

‘He’s Doctor Kapupushi now,’ I laughed. ‘While you were away I had him doctored.’