Mourning with Fire: Did Hichilema Deny Edgar Lungu a Chance to Live?

By Kapya Kaoma
The chilling revelation that former President Edgar Chagwa Lungu was repeatedly denied permission to travel abroad for urgent medical care—even when he offered to pay from his own pocket—is nothing short of morally outrageous. That he had to slip out of the country like a fugitive, stripped of the dignity befitting his former office, and that those who assisted him were swiftly fired, raises a sobering question, What kind of politics are we practicing? If a former Head of State could be treated this way, what hope remains for the rest of us?

That he was once blocked from boarding a plane for treatment isn’t just disturbing—it is damning. It suggests not neglect, but something far more sinister–creeping authoritarianism masquerading as democracy. Surely! What administration withholds healthcare as a tool of political punishment? What kind of “New Dawn” dims the light on a man’s final days for political rivalry?
We must resist the ritual silence that shrouds death in polite restraint. Another coffin has come before us, but the truth must not be buried with it. Former President Lungu’s death is not just a tragedy—it bears the markings of political indifference, if not deliberate cruelty.

President Hichilema’s curt statement—that he was “informed” of Lungu’s passing—felt cold, distant, and sterile. This was not the death of a stranger; this was a former president. The moment demanded compassion. What we received was detachment.

Where was the urgency? Where was the empathy? Where, indeed, was the leadership?
Has the thirst for power so intoxicated our national conscience that even common decency must now be rationed?

We must ask the questions that matter. What became of the Office of the Former President—an institution designed not merely as a courtesy, but as a safeguard of dignity, continuity, and national memory? In any functioning democracy, the office would ensure that a former Head of State receives the care he needs, no matter the political weather. In Zambia, it seems, institutional respect has been replaced with political vindictiveness—and now, we are counting the cost in lives, not just in headlines.

The government claimed there was no money to support President Lungu’s treatment. Yet there’s always money—plenty of it—for endless foreign trips, bloated entourages, and the maintenance of two presidential residences for Mr. Hichilema. That’s not just fiscal irresponsibility—it’s moral rot. Since when did saving a life become an optional expense?

I will not mourn Edgar Lungu with tears alone. I mourn him with righteous anger—anger at the erosion of ubuntu, our shared humanity. Anger at a system so broken that those who chose compassion were punished for it. Anger that a man who once held the highest office in the land had to beg for dignity in his final moments.

President Lungu’s death must be more than a headline. It must be a turning point. It must help us to collectively declare, Never again. Never again should a sitting president hold unchecked power over the welfare of those who came before him. These are not favors handed out in benevolence—they are constitutional rights, funded by the very people in whose name the state claims to govern.

Yes, calls for unity in mourning are appropriate. But they must not be used as a blanket to smother truth. President Hichilema still has a chance to lead with moral clarity—but leadership, ethical leadership, begins with accountability.

The Lungu family has lost a husband, a father, a man. Zambia has lost a former leader, beloved by the masses. The rivers of tears flowing through our markets, streets, compounds, churches, and campuses speak loudly to President Hichilema, “The man you sidelined, mocked, and vowed to grab by the neck with his mingalato—was cherished by millions.”

But this mourning is not just about Edgar Lungu. It is a national lament—a cry for ethical leadership that places humanity above vendetta, and compassion above politics.

I believe in forgiveness. And I pray the Lungu family will, in time, find the strength to forgive. But let us be clear: forgiveness is not silence. Forgiveness begins with truth. And truth requires that we name what went wrong.
We should always remember that human life is sacred. It is not a pawn to be traded in the chess game of political rivalry. It must never again be subordinated to power, pride, or presidential pettiness.

It is time to end the politics of vengeance. It is time to say, Enough!