In the Silence of a President: The Pain We Refuse to See
By Mambo Tembo
In moments of national grief, we often seek voices strong, comforting, or even apologetic. But when those voices go silent, we are quick to fill the void with anger, suspicion, or judgment. Yet silence is not always indifference. Sometimes, silence is the heaviest burden a man can carry and perhaps today, that burden rests squarely on the shoulders of President Hakainde Hichilema.
Zambia is mourning not only the death of its Sixth Republican President, Edgar Chagwa Lungu, but also the symbolic death of a reconciliation that never came to pass. The President’s silence in this moment is not a declaration of coldness or hatred. It is, perhaps, a reflection of the complexity of emotions political, personal, and deeply human.
We must remember, President Hichilema did not just lose a political rival. He lost a man with whom history entwined his own. Their story full of rivalry, tension, and political stratagem was, at its core, a tale of two leaders bound by destiny and divided by ideology. And now, one is gone, and the other remains haunted not just by what was done, but by what was never said.
Can you imagine the ache of that silence? The weight of unsaid words, unextended hands, unhealed wounds? We often forget that presidents are also people, and people feel. Behind closed doors, in the quiet corners of the State House, there may be tears that will never reach the public eye. There may be private prayers for a man whose public relationship was fraught, but whose departure has left a profound emptiness.
Many Zambians, understandably, are pained by what they see as delayed compassion. But have we considered that the President’s silence may be his deepest expression of sorrow? That perhaps he is mourning in the way men sometimes do quietly, painfully, and privately? Politics demanded they never show weakness. Now, death demands they show humanity.
It is easy to forget that beyond his role as Head of State, HH is a man, flawed, emotional, perhaps even regretful. It’s possible that deep inside, he carries the weight of missed chances: a handshake never offered, an apology never made, a final moment of mutual respect denied by the unrelenting grip of political gamesmanship. Perhaps the thought that he might have reconciled with ECL not for cameras or campaigns, but for peace of heart, now stings more than any criticism ever could.
There are nights, perhaps, when he sits in the dark with the flicker of memory hearing old speeches, remembering fierce debates, or recalling the way the crowd would roar at ECL’s mention. What a paradox it must be: to have politically battled a man with all the might of the State, only to now quietly wish for one more moment to say something… anything… human.
This is not a call to excuse the past. There are valid grievances about how Edgar Lungu was treated. But it is a plea to recognize the human tragedy that overshadows the political one. HH is not gloating. He is grieving. And grief, unlike policy, cannot be timed or scripted.
Tyler Perry’s Straw reminds us how people can find themselves trapped in consequences they never intended. Perhaps HH now stands at that very crossroad , where politics ends and conscience begins. A man reflecting not on power, but on humanity. And perhaps, when time softens the sting, he will speak, maybe even apologise not as a President, but as a person.
Until then, Zambia must rise above its divisions. To mourn Edgar Lungu is to honour not just his legacy but the dignity of reconciliation we failed to achieve. And to understand HH’s silence is to acknowledge that sometimes, the deepest pain is the one that cannot be spoken.
So let us hold back from weaponising our sorrow. Let us not use death to score points in the game of survival. Let us reach for our shared Zambian soul one built on ubuntu, one drenched in compassion, one that knows the meaning of crying together even when we disagree. One Embodied in ONE ZAMBIA, ONE NATION.
Let us grieve as one nation. Let us forgive. And let us hope that from this sorrow, a more compassionate Zambia will rise , one where silence is not feared, but understood.
