“A Polished Widow and the Broken Traditions of Mourning”
By Linda Banks ©
There she stood — radiant, dignified, and composed. The widow of a beloved pastor, Moses Chiluba, stood behind the pulpit to deliver her tribute. Draped in a regal outfit, with her face graced by immaculate makeup and lips painted a bold red, Victoria Chiluba’s image stirred a country that prides itself on solemn funeral rituals.
In Zambia, funerals are sacred rites of passage, steeped in tradition. Mourning is meant to be raw, public, and physically evident. The bereaved are expected to carry visible signs of grief: red eyes from tears, disheveled hair, and somber clothing. A widow is often expected to be broken, subdued, and withdrawn — a walking emblem of loss. But when a widow appears polished, standing tall, and speaking boldly at her husband’s funeral, the whispers begin.
“She even had time to do makeup,” murmured one attendee.
“Already moved on,” scoffed a Facebook commentator.
This critique reflects an unspoken rule in Zambian society: grief must be performative. It must be visible to be valid. And nowhere is this expectation more rigorously enforced than in the case of widows.
There is an unwritten script for widows in Zambia. First, they must be crushed under the weight of their loss. Their physical appearance should reflect their inner devastation — no makeup, no bright colors, no signs of self-care. They are expected to wail openly, collapse from grief, and refuse to speak, as though their vocal cords, too, were severed by death’s cruel hand. Any deviation from this script invites judgment.
But what does this say about us as a society?
Grief is deeply personal. It manifests in different ways, yet we insist on packaging it into a single, recognizable template. A widow who wears makeup at her husband’s funeral is seen as disrespectful or unfeeling. But why should a woman lose her dignity and self-presentation along with her spouse? Why should grief erase her identity and humanity?
Perhaps the discomfort stems from our cultural fixation on suffering as a marker of authenticity. In Zambia, people often equate visible hardship with virtue. The more visibly broken you are, the more genuine your grief appears. A polished widow disrupts this narrative. She challenges the idea that mourning must strip a person of their composure.
Victoria Chiluba’s tribute was brief but powerful. “I am broken, I am beaten, but I am not out because the Lord is with me.” Her words revealed a truth that the audience seemed unwilling to accept — that resilience and grief can coexist. A widow can mourn deeply while maintaining her dignity. She can weep in private and present a composed face to the world. She can wear red lipstick and still carry a shattered heart.
The backlash against her appearance speaks volumes about our society’s discomfort with women who defy expectations. A grieving widow is expected to be silent and invisible. But Victoria Chiluba’s boldness unsettled people. She addressed dignitaries, including the president, with grace and authority. In doing so, she reclaimed her voice in a space where widows are often voiceless.
One Facebook commentator remarked, “Only those who lose everything that comes with their spouse mourn deeply. Those who benefit mourn like they’ve lost nothing.” This bitter statement reveals another layer of societal judgment — the assumption that widows who stand strong must be motivated by personal gain.
But grief is not a performance. It is not a spectacle for public consumption. And it is certainly not a competition to determine who is the most broken.
Perhaps it’s time we let widows grieve on their own terms.
Let them cry. Let them wear makeup. Let them speak. Let them mourn in silence. Let them shout their tributes from the rooftops. Let them be human.
Because, in the end, grief looks different on everyone. And dignity, even in mourning, is not a crime.