Thabo Kawana Upstages His Boss while he Stews in Silence

Thabo Kawana Upstages His Boss on Diamond TV While Mweetwa Stews in Silence

By Amb. Anthony Mukwita

There are men who use microphones to inform, and others who use them like incendiary devices. Thabo Kawana belongs firmly in the second category.

He is not a minister. He is not a special adviser. He is not the official communications czar at State House.

Yet with a single live moment on Diamond TV, Kawana managed to eclipse them all, turning a routine broadcast into a political spectacle that left even the President looking like a call-in guest on his own administration’s show.

One can only imagine what Cornelius Mweetwa, the actual Minister of Information and Media, must have felt watching a subordinate command the national spotlight with a move he himself has never attempted. Power is rarely stolen; it is often surrendered in silence. On this occasion, silence belonged to the minister.

Then there is Clayson Hamasaka, the officially titled communications specialist at State House. He has never staged such theatrics, preferring the safety of prepared statements and institutional restraint. His approach is dignified, cautious, and mostly invisible.

Kawana is the opposite.

He thrives on familiarity, on collapsing the distance between office and audience. Calling the President live on air as if Hakainde Hichilema were a personal acquaintance from the neighbourhood rather than the Head of State was not accidental. It was deliberate, choreographed, and designed for maximum effect.

That is where the satire sharpens.

In that moment, the President of Zambia was reduced to a supporting prop in his own spokesperson’s performance. The show belonged to Kawana. The President merely appeared in it.

I say this advisedly, having served as a newspaper CEO and Editor-in-Chief. Political communication rarely happens by chance. This was a calculated act.

There are clear advantages. Kawana displays courage, visible loyalty, and a willingness to absorb public heat on behalf of his boss. In that sense, he resembles high-profile loyalists in other systems, figures who made themselves shields for power rather than its distant interpreters.

But loyalty, when over-performed, becomes dangerous.

Africa has seen this before. Under Robert Mugabe, spokesperson George Charamba often projected such dominance that the presidency itself appeared diminished, breeding resentment within Cabinet and confusion about where authority truly resided.

Outside the continent, Sean Spicer attempted similar theatrical defence for President Trump, only to become a caricature, weakening official messaging and eroding credibility.

Kawana risks walking the same path.

His boldness, left unchecked, could leave the impression that the President is sheltering behind his spokesperson rather than leading from the front. Familiarity may win applause in the studio, but it rarely reassures a restless electorate.

The timing makes the risk sharper. Farmers remain unpaid. Food and fuel prices are climbing into double-digit territory. Public frustration is visible, and the country is edging closer to the polls. A hot-mic moment may entertain, but it does not calm markets, pay growers, or steady household budgets.

There were other options.

After the BP oil spill in the United States, Barack Obama did not delegate empathy to a spokesperson. He addressed the nation directly, acknowledged pain, and asserted control. The message mattered because the messenger was unmistakable.

President Hichilema could have done the same, speaking directly to farmers, recognising their hardship, and outlining practical relief. Instead, the spotlight shifted to Kawana’s familiarity, overshadowing the substance of the moment.

I admire Kawana’s courage and understand his instinct to protect his principal. But satire demands the uncomfortable question: is this the right strategy now? Should he repeat it?

Perhaps not.

His loyalty is beyond doubt. His timing, however, is perilous. Even the most skilful archer must know when not to draw the bow.

And one cannot ignore the human theatre behind the scenes. What, one wonders, does brother Cornelius do next? The Minister of Information watching his junior command the stage while he remains a supporting actor is not merely awkward, it is politically corrosive.

In the end, studio applause is fleeting. Votes are not won under hot lights, but in fields, markets, and homes where frustration lives. Familiarity may charm an audience, but it can quietly cost an administration the very authority it seeks to defend.