Zambia’s Heartbreak: A Nation Waits, a Leader Stays Silent, Absent Father.

Zambia stands in quiet anguish, a nation caught between grief and disbelief. The body of Edith Zewelani Nawakwi, the country’s first female Finance Minister and one of its most formidable political voices, has yet to return home. As citizens prepare to bid farewell to this trailblazing leader, President Hakainde Hichilema continues his campaign trail without interruption, without a single public expression of sorrow, without even declaring a day of national mourning. This deafening silence has left many Zambians heartbroken, their pain compounded by what they see as a profound lack of respect for a woman who helped shape the nation’s history.

Opposition leader Kasonde Mwenda has become the voice of this national sorrow, speaking words that resonate far beyond political divisions. His tone carries the weight of personal hurt and collective disappointment. “This is painful,” he says, the strain evident in his voice. “Zambia is mourning. But the Head of State is laughing. He is holding rallies, shaking hands, dancing while the country prepares to receive the remains of a woman who helped him rise.” The emotional charge in his words reflects what many Zambians feel but haven’t been able to articulate.

Mwenda’s message cuts deeper because it speaks to personal bonds as much as political ones. “She was your sister,” he says directly to the absent President. “She’s not buried yet. The nation is grieving. Where is your heart?” He reminds the country of Nawakwi’s immense contributions – her service as Cabinet Minister, her leadership of the Forum for Democracy and Development, and crucially, her pivotal role in Hichilema’s own political journey when she stepped aside during the formation of the United Democratic Alliance. “That’s the same woman who allowed you to shine,” Mwenda says, his voice breaking. “That’s the same woman who could have stood in your way, but instead lifted you. And now that she’s gone, you can’t even pause to show the nation what she meant to you?”

The sting of perceived hypocrisy makes the wound even more painful. Mwenda draws a sharp contrast between the President’s current silence and his public mourning for foreign leaders. “When Queen Elizabeth died, you were among the first to run and sign a condolence book. You mourned her like family. But your own – a woman who served your country, your people, your movement – nothing. Not even a flag at half-mast.” The comparison raises troubling questions about values and priorities at the highest levels of leadership. “If you can’t mourn Nawakwi, a mother of this nation, a woman who stood in Parliament and in Cabinet – who will you mourn? Who will you respect?”

Mwenda extends his criticism beyond the President to the entire circle of power. “Where is your conscience?” he asks of the advisors and aides surrounding Hichilema. “If you love the President, you must guide him. But if you let him walk past Nawakwi’s passing like it means nothing, then you don’t love him. You love power.” These words strike at the heart of Zambia’s current political moment, where the treatment of a deceased leader has become a litmus test for the government’s humanity.

As preparations continue for Nawakwi’s final journey home, the absence of official recognition becomes more glaring with each passing hour. The continuing campaign events, complete with their celebratory atmosphere and loud music, stand in jarring contrast to the somber mood across much of the nation. “This isn’t about party lines,” Mwenda insists. “It’s about who we are as a people. It’s about culture, respect, and humanity.” His warning carries the weight of history: “Future leaders are watching. Zambians are watching. History is recording every decision made or not made during this moment.”

In his final plea, Mwenda articulates what many Zambians long for – not political theater, but simple human decency. “Mr. President, suspend the rallies. Postpone the speeches. Let the nation mourn. Let Edith Nawakwi come home with dignity. Let her children, her family, her fellow citizens see that their President has a heart.” The power of this appeal lies in its simplicity – a call for leadership to match the moment, for politics to make room for basic human compassion.

Zambia has not yet buried Edith Nawakwi, and in these lingering days before her funeral, her legacy continues to grow – not just through her lifetime of achievements, but through the national conversation about respect, remembrance, and what truly matters in leadership. Mwenda’s haunting question – “Where is your heart, Mr. President?” – hangs in the air, unanswered. The silence speaks volumes, and a nation waits to see if its leaders will rise to meet this moment of collective grief with the dignity it deserves.