Mr Survivor: How my Queen became a doctor of goats

Mr Survivor: How my Queen became a doctor of goats

"When did you become a doctor of goats, my dear?” I asked Queen later that evening.

Photo credit: Jeff Angote | Nation Media Group

My Queen is a professional jack of all trades but a master of none. Luckily for her, as I have told you in earlier messages, fate is on her side. Any social, political, religious and cultural activity in Happy Valley earns her an additional feather to her cap. That means a different title to her litany of labels.

In this connection, when the learned lords of the Supreme Court killed the reggae, which Queen had vehemently opposed to the point of fasting over it, she immediately christened herself a prophet, a prophet of hope. That is, however, a juicy story for another day. What I intend to tell you is how Queen became a ‘doctor’ of goats.

If you have been with me, you certainly remember how Queen converted my, nay, our Palace into a demonstration farm for farmers of dairy goats without consulting me. The Governor inaugurated the project for the women of Happy Valley countryside. In his controverted and deranged wisdom, he did not bother to ask for the man of the house, as if being a governor gives him the power and authority over other men’s hard-earned houses, homes, and families. Anyway, during that occasion, the Governor named Queen Farmer number one, alias Mkulima.

Like I have told you in the past, the only trait I share with Queen, and most likely the only reason we are still married despite all facts, reasons and indications, real and imagined, showing that we are incompatible, is financial nosiness. Like me, Queen does not see a chance that she does not jump headfast into for a financial killing. That is how Queen, armed with the title Mkulima, opened a subsidiary of her Slopes Supermarket and called it Slopes Agro vet.

As you may be guessing by now, I was not consulted. I only realised that what had been my parking bay for my beloved Volkswagen Beetle since being displaced by the goat pen was now the front shade of Slopes Agro vet. As you can see, if the continued interference with the security of my Concorde is anything to go by, I am slowly but surely being sent out of the Palace to the neighbour on each passing day, but once again I digress.

Fashion and shopping

Now, Sunday is both the fashion and shopping day for the woman of Happy Valley countryside. With Queen being the only dispensing veterinary for goat medicines, the family outing was called off. If your memory serves you right, you will remember that after the disrespect subjected to both my beloved Beetle and me, I had said that I was planning to hit back by withdrawing the privileges of the Sunday afternoon family expedition. I was still thinking about how best to go about it without risking banishment to marital Siberia when God heard my prayers. I am hoping the ritual will die a natural death like the BBI.

The right side of history

To ensure that I am on the right side of history with Queen Kamala and that she does not in any way suspect that I was celebrating the death of the family ritual, I pretended to be very disappointed with the postponement of the family outing.

I was celebrating the end of what had become my money crushing mill in my heart of hearts. With a lot of free time in my hands, I decided to give the Beetle some massage to give her a fresh breath of life.

All of a sudden, customers made a beeline to Slopes Agro Vet.

Daktari,mbuzi wangu hatoi maziwa,” said a customer. Queen responded by asking for the goat’s symptoms than prescribed and sold the necessary medicine. “Daktari, mbuzi wangu anakataza mtoto wake kunyonya,” said another farmer. The same ritual of symptoms gathering, prescription and selling took place, which continued for the entire afternoon.

“When did you become a doctor of goats, my dear?” I asked Queen later that evening. In her signature one-liner, the reply came fast and final, “The county government-sponsored me for a two-day seminar on the treatment of goats.” For my sanity, I did not ask her where and when the seminar took place.

And that is how my Queen acquired a new name, doctor of goats, which she has used to attain promotion to higher financial and status glory. With the two new additional titles, she is now chair lady (chama), super secretary (church), C.E.O. (Slopes Supermarket), mother of twins, Kamala, Queen (of the Palace), political prophet, Mkulima and doctor of goats. That is my Queen for you, and I still find the grace to walk with my shoulders high and pledge my loyalty to her as her one and only (assumed) husband and king to the Queen.