At the edge of Nyambadwe Hill, beyond the high walls and low whispers, lies a once-temporary residence that has become the staging ground for Malawi’s most macabre political theatre.
Inside, former President Arthur Peter Mutharika lies frail and bedridden, convalescing from a recent medical trip to South Africa. Outside? Jubilant chants, party regalia, birthday cake. The Democratic Progressive Party (DPP) is campaigning. The candidate? Horizontal.
Welcome to Weekend at Page House: Nyambadwe Edition.
You see, Page House Mutharika’s actual retirement home is in the lakeside district of Mangochi. A picturesque retreat for a man who once ruled a nation. But the script has changed. Since doctors in South Africa advised the family to stay close to proper medical facilities, the former president has been holed up in Blantyre, a stone’s throw from top private hospitals. The irony? While the doctors prescribed proximity to oxygen, the party faithful are prescribing proximity to the podium.
And so the undertakers arrive.
Led by the tireless Francis Mphepo, these men are no longer political strategists. They are funeral directors of the absurd, preparing a visibly ailing candidate for one last resurrection tour. The body may be unwilling, but the banners are ready. The voice may be gone, but the slogans are louder than ever. This is no campaign, it’s a staged wake.
If it feels familiar, it should. In 1994, the Malawi Congress Party did the same with the late Dr Hastings Kamuzu Banda wheeling him out of a Garden City Clinic in South Africa, still healing from surgery, to face a democratic race he never ran. Not one campaign event. Not a single rally. But a few powerful hands couldn’t stomach the idea of someone they couldn’t control; like Gwanda Chakuamba taking the reins.
History, it seems, is not repeating. It’s plagiarizing.
The DPP, in a stunning act of strategic necromancy, is now dragging Peter Mutharika’s political body onto the campaign trail not because it wants to win, but because it fears letting go. The same old voices. The same tired tactics. The same coffin, just painted blue.
And here’s the thing: these undertakers don’t just want a candidate — they want a moment. They pray for a miracle pop-up. Think WWE’s Undertaker the crowd roaring as he suddenly sits upright in the ring, eyes rolled back, ready to deliver one last chokeslam of destiny. But alas, this isn’t WrestleMania. And much like a body that once relied on Viagra… this time, no matter how much they chant, he’s not getting up.
One wonders if Mphepo and his cohort realise they’ve become caricatures more mortician than manager, more priest than planner. They’ve gone from “Guardians of the Party” to “Guardians of the Crypt.”
And what’s the grand strategy? To keep the old man just alive enough to sign nomination papers? To pump him with enough cortisone to wave at a crowd before retreating to bed rest? Is this leadership or Lazarus cosplay?
Meanwhile, the party is hemorrhaging youth, vision, and credibility all in the name of keeping a legacy on life support. Those who dare suggest a new direction are met with suspicion. In the DPP, fresh ideas are considered rebellion, and common sense is treated as treason.
This isn’t loyalty. It’s parasitism dressed in polyester shirts.
So, the procession continues. Mangochi lies abandoned. Page House grows cobwebs. And in Blantyre, the undertakers of Nyambadwe keep embalming a legacy that would rather rest.
The truth is simple, if inconvenient: the professor deserves peace. The party deserves renewal. And the voters? They deserve the dignity of choosing between the living.
Until then, pass the cake. The wake is just beginning.
