In that vacuum, the M23 government spokespersons stepped forward and filled the air with creative explanations. First, the President was said to be on a working holiday. Then the nation was told he was working on his own hustle.
Zambians paused. Since when did governing a country become a personal side project? Especially considering that, like the rest of us, he had just enjoyed a long Christmas break, plus an extra day he added as a day of rest to commemorate the National Day of Prayer, a day he used to refer to as useless.
That is a story for another day. When PresidentHakainde Hichilemafinally resurfaced, it was not with a national address or an economic roadmap in the final months of his presidency. It was with a handshake, or rather, a different one.
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The familiar right hand was retired and the left hand made a surprise debut. Analysts are still debating whether this was symbolism, strategy, or simply a quiet announcement that something had shifted. What did not shift, however, was the instinct to pursue perceived enemies.
Almost immediately, police were dispatched toMalambo Constituency, where they raided the home ofMakebi Zulu. Officially, the police said they were responding to an illegal meeting. Unofficially, the operation looked less like crowd control and more like a search mission.
A search for what, you ask? The body, of course. The ghost that is allegedly haunting him into hiding.
Allegedly, BanaBaabo, allegedly. Makebi Zulu is not just any lawyer. He is the spokesperson of the late former PresidentEdgar Chagwa Lungu.
In today’s political climate, that role appears to come with supernatural implications. Memory has become dangerous. Association has become suspicious.
Grief has become a security concern. #BanaBaabo – Let’s be honest, this was never about visitors. Zambia has never required permits for people to greet each other.
Handshakes have never been illegal, whether performed with the right hand or the newly fashionable left. But when people gather at the home of the man who speaks for a departed president, the state suddenly develops nerves. Police officers moved in as though acting on intelligence from a spiritual source.
They attempted to disperse what they described as visitors, yet their urgency suggested something else. These were not visitors in the eyes of state paranoia. These were witnesses, or worse, participants in an imagined political ritual.
One could almost hear the unspoken fear. What if the body is here? What if memory refuses to stay buried?
The fat pot-bellied Bujus whispered to one another. The largest one among them stepped forward with a shamboko under his arm, wagging a finger at the crowd and bellowing, “Disperse in the name of the President.” The crowd refused to be bullied. The police searched in spirit, if not in fact.
Cupboards were not opened, but suspicion filled every room. Faces were scanned. The question hung in the air, quietly and absurdly.Alimo? Is he here?
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