Earlier this year I struck a deal with my goddaughter, Thungo, and her mother, Tima. In return for my having so far fulfilled my duties as a godparent, they would turn my wardrobe into a vote winner.
Normally I’m a corporate lawyer but on Thursday Zambia goes to the polls to elect a president, parliament and local government, and I’m one of six candidates contesting the Kafue constituency, an area of about 15,000 sq km to the south of Lusaka. To get elected I thought I needed to look the part.
Generally when it comes to clothes I opt for dark and formal. Dress in Lusaka’s professional community is sober. Before the election campaign began in July a suit or jacked and trousers from Ralph Lauren, Boss or YSL was a daily reality for me.
In politics, however, you need to stand out so I have been campaigning in shirts made by Thungo and Tima, who run a small tailoring business. In Zambian elections, women often wear a sarong – we call it a chitenge – that shows their political allegiance. Thungo and Tima took the blue fabric that indicates support for the Movement for Multi-Party Democracy (MMD), which I represent, and made me eight shirts all featuring a picture of Levy Mwanawasa, Zambia’s president, and the MMD leader.
The shirts are unique; no one else has anything like them. What’s more, on television in casual, loose fitting cotton I

don’t sweat up like Richard Nixon or the only one of my rivals who favours a suit.
The election has been my first experience of bespoke. I’ve never considered handmade clothes as the local dry-cleaning, though much better now, could take a toll. I usually buy off the peg when visiting my company’s sister law firm in London, thus avoiding inadvertently buying a fake or a copy from China, examples of which have flooded our boutiques and markets.
As well as the suits, I’ve lost the tie. On overseas trips this is pretty much a mandatory accessory, even though for meetings in London and further afield I am sometimes the only person wearing one. Africans visiting Europe or America have to look like we mean business – the smartest guy in the room, if you like.
I try to impress on the campaign trail too. But in politics the challenge is more about achieving the broadest possible appeal. That said (and however important the youth vote), I did, aged 41, draw the line at actually wearing a chitenge à la David Beckham. For all the popularity of football here, Zambia is a pretty conservative place.
I’ve also largely declined to wear my other campaign gear; printed T-shirt with my own photograph on the chest. They
Make me look like a two-headed monster. T-shirts with someone else’s picture – ie the president’s – I do wear, reasoning that

there’s no harm in a public display of loyalty; and it is the cold season here so an extra layer under my shirt has been no bad thing when we have an early start.
The strange thing is that if I make it to parliament I’ll probably be back in a suit. The dress code is pretty limiting and, unlike some West African countries, Zambian men don’t have national dress. The only alternative to a suit would be the Kaunda. This is a safari-style cut, names after Zambia’s founding president, Kenneth, who was in power from 1964 to 1991.
But he eventually left politics under a cloud. A degree of separation might be better. If elected, at some stage I’ll need to be re-elected.
For a few more days at least, there is no point in pondering the choice. I’ll be campaigning in rural areas in the lead-up to the vote and there the chitenge fabric is more valued. My bespoke shirts should pay dividends. Anything more formal would be like arriving in a jacket and tie for a drink, say, a north Wales pub or a bar in Brooklyn.
I won’t be especially groomed either. In the Kafue constituency’s most remote areas the water supply is not the best. Scrub up too well and you only emphasise the difference in living standards between rural and urban areas. In politics, it is possible to be too squeaky clean.