By Kapya Kaoma

They say power reveals a man—and death unmasks him. Right now, President Hakainde Hichilema’s fixation on Edgar Chagwa Lungu’s corpse is unmasking him as petty, desperate, and dangerously small for the office he holds.

Why, Mr. President, do you seem so frantic to lay claim to your late rival’s body? The more you wrangle over Lungu’s remains, the smaller you look in the eyes of a weary and disillusioned nation.

We are Africans, and our beliefs about death run deep. One cannot help but wonder: are you haunted by Lungu’s ghost? Do you seek “ukumulalika” by laying eyes on his cold body?

You ought to be above this. But where were you when your own Vice President warned the opposition in Parliament: “Do not let someone defeated in life be defeated in death”? Is this the wisdom guiding your administration on such a sacred matter?

Threats have failed. So did the Insults. Then you declared the mourning period closed—only to rush to a foreign court at the eleventh hour. What does that say about your judgment? You may hold power over the living, Mr. President, but not over the dead. Our families do. And it is too late now–pleading for the corpse will win you no political sympathy.

Your government’s reckless handling of Lungu’s death has been telling. You hurled insults without restraint, yet expect his grieving family to trust your demands? Why should they? Your long record of contempt for Lungu speaks louder than any last-minute appeals to “tradition” or “protocol.”

Every time you speak of Lungu’s remains, you shrink further in stature. Zambia is not Nigeria; Lungu is not Buhari. He died a diminished figure. To claim you now revere “our national tradition” in death while spurning it in life reeks of hypocrisy.

If you were serious about reconciliation, you would have boarded a plane to South Africa and faced the Lungu family directly. But perhaps you know, deep down, that this crisis is of your own making. This isn’t pride—it’s shame at work, Mr. President.

Enough. Stop weeping over Lungu’s body. Start leading the living. Zambians have moved on. So must you.

Politics aside, how can you negotiate with a grieving family while dragging them through the mud—nullifying Tasila Lungu’s parliamentary seat, prosecuting their allies, and fanning public anger? You can’t seek compromise while holding a hammer over their heads. Even in politics, there is a line where strategy ends and basic decency begins.

Yes, you crave victory. But at what cost? The more you claw at this fight, the more haunted and desperate you appear. You are not the last President to rule Zambia. If Zambians wish for Lungu’s body to return someday, they will do so under another President. This is not your fight to win.

Please let it go. History will never remember the man who won control of a corpse. It will remember the one who demeaned himself chasing it.

By Adrian Gunduzani, The Observer

A few days ago, a recording surfaced online, allegedly featuring the PF (acting, confirmed or disputed – whichever applies) President, Robert Chabinga. The leaked audio, which touches on sensitive matters related to the burial of former President Edgar Lungu, quickly sparked outrage, speculation, and partisan debate.

But instead of offering clarity, the leak has only deepened the fog. Mr. Chabinga has publicly dismissed the audio as fake, claiming it was generated using artificial intelligence. “The voice in the audio is not mine,” he stated, warning that producing such material is a criminal offence under Zambia’s Cyber Security and Cyber Crimes Act.

Public reaction has been swift and divided. Some claim the clip is genuine, citing tone and phrasing. Others echo Chabinga’s defence, pointing out how easy it is nowadays to replicate a voice using technology. Online debates have raged, and pages aligned with different factions have already drawn their own conclusions.

This moment brings us face to face with a growing digital dilemma: can we still trust what we hear? Artificial intelligence is no longer a concept for tech conferences in Silicon Valley – it is now a tool accessible to anyone with a smartphone and an internet connection. It can create photos that never existed, generate videos of people saying things they never said, and, as possibly in this case, produce audio recordings that imitate real Zambians.

In the middle of all this, many have whispering nifinshi twalachetekela. Things have gone too far. Trust is no longer a given. We are living in a time where hearing a voice does not mean you have heard the truth.

And this is precisely where I believe the Cyber Law enters the conversation. The Cyber Security and Cyber Crimes Act was not written to silence citizens – it was created to protect truth in a rapidly changing digital landscape. The law prohibits the creation and dissemination of false digital content, particularly when it is intended to deceive the public or defame individuals. Under provisions like Section 44, it becomes illegal to use AI or any digital tools to fabricate damaging material.

If Mr. Chabinga’s claim is true, the law offers a legal path to investigate the source and punish those responsible. Zambia is not the first country to face this challenge. Across the world, courts and legislatures are racing to catch up with technology that is evolving faster than most laws. What’s different now is that Zambia has already taken the first step: it has a law in place.

But laws, however well-written, are only as effective as the society enforcing them. Citizens, the media, and political leaders must now commit to verifying information before amplifying it. The digital space is full of noise, and without filters grounded in ethics and facts, we risk losing our ability to tell fact from fiction.

At the heart of this issue is not just technology – it is trust. When fake audios trend faster than verified news, and when political discourse is shaped more by suspicion than substance, the public suffers. Zambia’s democracy deserves better. Truth should not be optional. Verification should not be rare.

Whether this particular audio turns out to be real or artificially generated, it has done one thing effectively: it has reminded us that in the age of AI, even a voice cannot be trusted blindly. It has forced us to reckon with a new kind of warfare – not of bullets and batons, but of bytes and beliefs.

Zambia must rise to this challenge. That means using the Cyber Law not to silence, but to shield. It means educating the public, training investigators, and empowering the justice system with digital forensics. Most of all, it means slowing down before we forward, retweet, or rage.

We are living in a time when “he said, she said” is no longer enough. Now, we must also ask, “Did he really say it – or did AI say it for him?”

The future of truth depends on how we answer that question.

Bill 7 Deferred: A Chance to Close Legal Loopholes on Presidential Residence and Asset Disclosure

By Venus N Msyani

The deferral of Constitutional Amendment Bill 7 has ignited fierce public debate in Zambia. While some interpret it as a death knell for the proposal, others view it as a calculated pause meant to ease concerns over a rushed process. President Hakainde Hichilema defended the move, stating, “The deferral was necessary to allow more time for stakeholder engagement and to gather more content from various parties.”

His justification aligns with the latter view, repositioning the delay as a strategic opening rather than a legislative failure. The pause offers an essential opportunity to confront long-standing legal ambiguities surrounding presidential residence and asset disclosure.

At present, Zambian law does not require the sitting president to reside at State House. President Hichilema currently resides in his private home in New Kasama, Lusaka, a property presumably enhanced at public expense to meet executive standards. Such arrangements risk establishing a problematic precedent, one where future leaders expect taxpayer-funded upgrades to personal residences without constitutional mandate.

In the absence of legal constraints, this practice could quickly morph into a recurring entitlement: “President Hichilema didn’t relocate to State House, neither will I.”

Equally troubling is the issue of asset declaration. The law does not compel elected officials to publicly disclose their assets, weakening the nation’s anti-corruption infrastructure. Future leaders may exploit this gap, citing past behavior to sidestep transparency: “He didn’t declare his assets, I won’t either.”

What appears at first glance to be rhetorical evasion in fact signals a broader institutional failure, where informal precedent begins to eclipse codified governance. Addressing this now is not simply advisable; it’s imperative.

Hichilema’s own words, “Leadership means you must think of the person who is coming after you,” must be weighed against the choices that may now shape future presidencies. If left unchecked, these precedents risk distorting expectations of executive responsibility. The possibility of future leaders commuting daily from locales as distant as Kabwe or beyond, by helicopter no less, underscores the fiscal burden such informality could impose on the state. Our economy is too small for that.

Corruption continues to drain Zambia’s resources, even amidst formal reform efforts. Experts and civil society leaders have long called for mandatory annual asset and liability disclosures. Yet legal inertia allows technical avoidance to persist, dulling the edge of anti-corruption initiatives.

The moment demands legal clarity. Through constitutional reform, Zambia can enshrine requirements for public asset declarations, designate an official presidential residence, and eliminate policy blind spots that erode institutional trust. These reforms are not a critique of one administration; they are a defense of national integrity. Transparent governance lays the groundwork for development; accountability ensures its permanence.

The Constitution should reflect a commitment to clarity, equity, and fiscal restraint. This is not reactionary policymaking. It is responsible stewardship. Zambia’s future deserves laws that empower its citizens, not shield its leaders. And its public record should inspire tomorrow’s generation, not leave them to question yesterday’s silence.

Future Zambian Presidents may not relocate to State House. They may not annually declare assets either. Bill 7 Deferred: A chance to close these legal loopholes.