In the quiet corridors of South Africa, far from the heart of Lusaka, a decision has been made that has gripped the region with shock, sorrow, and speculation: the former President of Zambia, Edgar Lungu, will be laid to rest in a foreign land — not on the soil he led, not among his ancestors, but here in South Africa.
It is a decision that is as deeply personal as it is politically explosive.
How did we get here? How did one of Zambia’s most prominent post-independence leaders, a man who once held the power of a nation in his hands, end up being denied a final farewell by the state he served? It is a question that pierces at the heart of both democracy and dignity.
President Lungu died in early June 2025 while in Pretoria. The initial response from the Zambian government was swift: national mourning was declared, and plans for a state funeral began to take shape. But it would all be short-lived. His family, citing distrust and unresolved tensions, refused the offer. They insisted he would not be returned home, and they were firm — President Hakainde Hichilema was not to officiate at his funeral.
To understand this, one must understand the deep political rift that divides Zambia today. Lungu and Hichilema were not just political opponents — they symbolised opposing visions of Zambia’s future. And even in death, that rivalry echoes loudly. The family’s decision to withhold his body from a state funeral was not just an emotional plea for privacy. It was a political stance, one that disrupted protocol and stunned the nation.
The Zambian government, in response, withdrew the national mourning. No state funeral. No official procession. Just silence. And now, the former president — a man who once stood as Zambia’s most powerful — will be buried quietly in South Africa. Not as a head of state, but as a father, a husband, a man whose life ended with as much controversy as his presidency.
This story is a lesson in many things. First, it teaches us that the legacies of leaders are not written solely by their actions in office, but also by the relationships they leave behind. That pain — especially political pain — does not end with a heartbeat. It lingers. It shapes how we grieve, how we remember, and how we say goodbye.
Secondly, it invites us to look at South Africa not just as a neighbouring country, but as a custodian of regional memory. Over the years, our soil has received freedom fighters, exiles, and now, the remains of a former head of state. What does that say about us — our political maturity, our quiet diplomacy, our commitment to continental solidarity?
Most importantly, this moment is a mirror. It shows us the fragility of peace in post-liberation democracies. It shows us how unfinished business in the corridors of power can haunt even the most sacred traditions — like burial. And it reminds us that even in death, politics doesn’t die.
To young people in Africa, to activists, leaders, and everyday citizens — this is a time to reflect. Reflect on how we treat those we disagree with. Reflect on how political transitions are handled. Reflect on what it means to honour someone, not just in power, but in their passing.
Edgar Lungu will not return home. But perhaps, in South Africa, a different kind of healing can begin — one that respects the pain of his family, acknowledges the politics that complicated his legacy, and preserves the dignity of the dead.
May he rest in peace. And may Zambia — and all of us — find the strength to heal what politics has broken.
