UPND Cadres’ Silence on Buses Speaks Louder Than Slogans Mr. President

By Kapya Kaoma

I have said it before and I’ll say it again—if President Hakainde Hichilema stepped out of his bubble and took public transportation, he would see that his self-praise insults his own intelligence. Sitting among the ordinary Zambians he governs—not behind tinted windows or cushioned by paid cadres, but face to face with those who endure daily struggles—would silence him instantly.

Has he done it? Not likely. Perhaps he sent his team to gauge public sentiment on buses, and what they discovered unsettled him. You could see it in his expression as he addressed the nation: the weary face of a leader confronted by the gulf between his rhetoric and the lived reality of the people. His plea to his cadres—“mulelanda, mulevoka. Bambi tamulelanda. Mu bus umuntu alelanda ati UPND tapali efyo bachiita ba UPND. Mwaikalafye tondolo ndwii, mu bus. Muleasuka abantu ngabalanda.”—was less a rallying cry than an admission of failure. He seemed to beg his followers to speak for him while the public declares plainly, “UPND tapali ifyo icitile.” And who could argue?

That moment revealed something deeper– the chorus of blind praise is thinning, and the silence of ordinary citizens has become a verdict. His gestures betrayed what his words could not—he knows legitimacy built on slogans is crumbling. No amount of self-congratulation can hide the perception that he is out of touch. Many believe he has failed—and they are no longer afraid to say so.

When I heard that speech, I laughed—not out of cruelty, but disbelief. After five years of unfulfilled promises, how could Hichilema still seem surprised by public disillusionment? I love Zambia. I want to see our national football team reclaim its glory at the Africa Cup of Nations and one day play at the World Cup. But under Avram Grant, hope without delivery eventually collapses. Even the most loyal fans grow impatient. Once defended fiercely, Grant was eventually dismissed for failing to deliver results. Who could defend him?

That is precisely where HH now stands. What will his supporters celebrate? Fuel shortages and unstable high fuel prices? Load shedding? The skyrocketing price of mealie meal? Corruption? Unpaid farmers? Police brutality? Cadres harassing citizens? Human-rights abuses? There is nothing left to applaud. Zambians do not live in Community House—they live in communities, struggling to stretch a Kwacha that shrinks week by week. They remember what life was like five years ago.

For Hichilema to expect that people enduring hunger and hardship will defend him out of loyalty is naïve. Yes, a few may still wear his T-shirts, not out of conviction, but to earn a few Kwacha. Some did so under Kaunda, Banda, and Lungu. Others remain silent, embarrassed that the man they once hailed as a reformer now resembles the very politicians he vowed to replace.

But silence is not consent. Political legitimacy depends not only on consent but on trust—the tacit agreement that promises will translate into justice and dignity. When that trust is broken, silence becomes protest—a quiet force waiting for its moment.

I believe the quiet voices on the buses today will roar at the ballot box in August 2026. They may call themselves UPND now, but when that day comes, they will vote for change.

President Hichilema, Zambians are not fools. The time has come for you to fall silent—not in surrender, but in reflection. Listen—truly listen—to the people you once claimed to represent. You may yet discover that silence often speaks louder than slogans. Zambians regret believing your promises; the tragedy is that you do not regret lying to them.