Zambia’s upcoming elections feel less like a contest of ideas and more like a continuation of a decades-old soap opera. At the center of it all is a ghost—Edgar Lungu, the former president whose death in 2025 hasn’t managed to put his feud with current leader Hakainde Hichilema to rest. This isn’t just politics; it’s a haunting. Hichilema, now seeking re-election, is locked in a battle not only with his opponent Brian Mundubile but with the legacy of a man who died under suspicious circumstances, with his family still fighting to bury him on their terms. What makes this particularly fascinating is how personal vendettas can morph into national narratives. In Zambia, where the rituals around death are deeply symbolic, the refusal to let Lungu’s body be buried in a state funeral has become a proxy war between two political dynasties. It’s not just about respect for the dead—it’s about power, pride, and the refusal to concede. I find it telling that even Hichilema’s supporters are caught in this web, forced to choose between loyalty to their leader and the cultural imperative to honor the deceased. It’s a tightrope walk, and the line between dignity and disrespect is razor-thin.
The irony here is that Hichilema, who once faced brutal repression under Lungu’s regime, now finds himself accused of authoritarianism by the very opposition that once benefited from his struggles. Mundubile’s Tonse Alliance claims Hichilema has cracked down on dissent, citing raids on offices and detentions. But Hichilema’s team counters with a historical argument: ‘We know what repression looks like.’ This back-and-forth feels like a political version of the ‘you first’ game. What’s striking is how both sides weaponize the past to justify their present actions. It’s not just about governance—it’s about narrative control. I wonder if Zambians are tired of this cycle, or if they see it as a necessary part of the political theater. After all, when your leaders are more focused on burying rivals than building a future, the real work gets neglected.
Then there’s the economy. Hichilema’s government has stabilized inflation from a disastrous 24.6% in 2021 to a more manageable 6.5%, and they’ve made education free. But the average Zambian is still grappling with a cost-of-living crisis that feels like a cruel joke. Inflation may be down, but prices have nearly doubled, while incomes have only increased by about 15%. The disconnect between official metrics and lived reality is glaring. When a president promises to raise university accommodation allowances by 50%, it’s a feel-good gesture, but it doesn’t address the deeper issues of food insecurity and job scarcity. What this really suggests is that economic recovery is a fragile illusion—one that can shatter if people don’t see tangible improvements in their daily lives. The question isn’t just about who wins the election, but whether either side has the vision to fix the systemic problems that keep Zambia stuck in a loop of political infighting and economic stagnation.
The role of the media and police in this drama is equally revealing. Transparency International Zambia reports that opposition rallies are being disrupted more frequently, often under vague pretexts of ‘safety.’ Meanwhile, Hichilema’s government points to the free flow of media and open airwaves as proof of democratic progress. But when peaceful protests are shut down and activists are detained for speaking out, the illusion of openness starts to crack. This isn’t just about electioneering—it’s about who controls the narrative. If the ruling party can silence dissent without facing consequences, it sends a message that power isn’t just about winning votes, but about erasing opposition altogether. The psychological toll on citizens must be immense, creating a climate of fear that stifles genuine political discourse.
Ultimately, Zambia’s elections are a microcosm of a larger African dilemma: how to balance personal legacies with national progress. Hichilema’s insecurity about his own vulnerabilities, shaped by his history of being targeted by Lungu, might be his greatest weakness. His team’s insistence that he’s the only leader who can handle Zambia’s complexities is both a compliment and a warning. It’s a reminder that even the most charismatic leaders are human—and humans are prone to insecurity. As Zambians vote, they’re not just choosing a president; they’re deciding whether to continue living in the shadow of a ghost or to forge a new path forward. The challenge isn’t just in electing someone new, but in breaking the cycle of vendettas that have turned politics into a never-ending tragedy.
