Zambia’s upcoming election isn’t just another political contest—it’s a ghost story. Not the spooky kind you’d find in a haunted house, but the kind where the past clings to the present like a second skin. The specter of Edgar Lungu, the former president who died in 2025, looms so heavily over this race that even his burial has become a battlefield. I find it fascinating how death, which is supposed to bring closure, has instead deepened the rift between Zambia’s current leader, Hakainde Hichilema, and the family of his late rival. It’s not just about politics anymore; it’s about legacy, dignity, and who gets to write the final chapter of a feud that’s defined an entire nation’s trajectory.
Let’s unpack this. Hichilema, who won a landslide in 2021, is now facing opposition led by Brian Mundubile, a former ally of Lungu. But Mundubile’s campaign isn’t just about policy—it’s about symbolism. His running mate, Makebi Zulu, was the Lungu family’s spokesperson during the burial dispute, and their promise to repatriate Lungu’s body feels less like a political move and more like a ritual. In Zambia, where ancestral respect is woven into cultural fabric, this isn’t just a symbolic gesture. It’s a statement: We will not let your legacy be buried with you. And that’s a powerful message in a country where politics often feels like a family feud.
What makes this particularly fascinating is how the dispute over Lungu’s funeral has spilled into the election itself. The government tried to block the family from holding a private burial, arguing it would undermine national unity. But South Africa’s court sided with the family, a decision that’s now being weaponized by the opposition. Hichilema’s team, meanwhile, is doubling down on their narrative that they’re the true champions of democracy—pointing to Lungu’s alleged repression during the 2021 election. Yet here’s the irony: the very tactics they’re accusing their opponents of using were once their own. It’s a reminder that in politics, the line between hero and villain is often drawn in the sand, and the tide can shift with the wind.
And then there’s the question of authoritarianism. Hichilema’s critics claim he’s cracking down on dissent, citing police disruptions of opposition rallies and the detention of activists. But his supporters argue that these are just the normal bumps in the road of democracy. I’ve seen this pattern before—leaders who once fought for freedom often become the very thing they claimed to oppose. What’s striking here is how Hichilema’s own history with Lungu’s regime seems to haunt him. He knows what it’s like to be arrested, to have media outlets shut down, and to have the internet blacked out. Yet now, he’s accused of doing the same. It raises a deeper question: Can someone who has lived through repression ever truly escape its shadow? Or does the trauma of that experience warp their understanding of power and control?
Economically, Zambia is on slightly steadier ground. Inflation has dropped from 24.6% to 6.5%, and free education was introduced in 2022. Copper, the country’s golden goose, has attracted foreign investors eyeing green tech. But the numbers don’t tell the whole story. The average income rose from $1,127 to $1,318, but prices almost doubled. That’s a cruel math problem for voters: If we’re earning more, why does everything feel more expensive? I’ve spoken to Zambians who say they can’t afford three meals a day despite these gains. It’s a reminder that economic progress isn’t the same as economic justice. And in an election, that’s a potent message.
Hichilema’s recent pledge to boost student accommodation allowances by 50% is a smart move to appeal to young voters. But it also feels like a desperate attempt to distract from the reality that many Zambians are still struggling. The cost of living isn’t just a statistic—it’s a daily battle. When you’re choosing between food and electricity, or between paying rent and buying medicine, the promises of a leader feel hollow. I wonder if Hichilema realizes that his economic policies, while improving on paper, aren’t translating into tangible relief for the people who need it most.
What this all suggests is that Zambia’s election is less about policy and more about identity. It’s about who gets to define the nation’s soul. Hichilema’s challenge isn’t just to win—he has to convince Zambians that he’s not the same man who once fought against Lungu’s regime. He has to prove that he’s evolved, that he’s not just another politician clinging to power. But in a country where the past is never truly buried, that’s a tall order. And if he fails, the ghost of Edgar Lungu might not be the only one haunting Zambia’s future.
