The Weight of the Crown and the Wisdom of Dust: A Philosophical Reflection on the Lungu Presidency- Dr.  Lawrence Mwelwa

The Weight of the Crown and the Wisdom of Dust: A Philosophical Reflection on the Lungu Presidency

By Dr.  Lawrence Mwelwa

In African thought, we are taught that “umuntu mutwe wa bantu”—a person is the head of the people. Leadership is not an individual’s triumph, but a communal experience. When a man assumes office, he does not carry only the authority of the state; he carries the hopes, fears, and contradictions of the nation itself

Today I write of one such man: President Edgar Chagwa Lungu. And I do so not as a partisan, not as a praise-singer, and certainly not as a bitter critic—but as a witness to his season, a citizen of this republic, and a believer in truth tempered by grace.

President Lungu came into office at a time of political flux, following the death of President Michael Sata. He was not the most charismatic in his party, nor the most feared by his rivals—but he was trusted enough to inherit the reins of power. And from that moment, he governed through some of the most unpredictable chapters of Zambia’s democratic journey.

His presidency was not without blemish, and I have previously spoken on those matters—issues of civic space, press freedom, and governance challenges. But today I want to pause and examine another side, one that history must also record: the remarkable restraint, the rare magnanimity, and the moments of statesmanship that defined his tenure.

Perhaps his most underappreciated decision was one that risked his very hold on power: his assent to the amended Republican Constitution in 2016. He did not hesitate to subject himself to the uncertainty of the 50+1 threshold—a change that no sitting president in Africa would embrace without concern for political survival. But he signed it into law, knowing it could cost him. That singular act elevated the democratic threshold in Zambia. It was not just legality—it was leadership.

We must also speak of his respect for judicial authority. In an era when many African leaders saw the courts as tools to be manipulated, President Lungu often complied with rulings even when politically inconvenient. He had at his disposal the sedition laws, the Public Order Act, and a partisan police service. But rarely did he turn these instruments into tools of vengeance. Critics were watched—but not always caged. For a president under pressure, that level of restraint is not weakness; it is discipline.

Then came the agriculture sector. Amid a region plagued by climate shocks and erratic rainfall, his administration managed to secure timely delivery of farming inputs, expanded the Farmer Input Support Programme, and guided the country to several bumper harvests—even during drought spells. Food security may not stir headlines like roads and airports, but it feeds the dignity of a nation. In this, his legacy is solid.

And above all, there is this: he handed over power in peace.

After losing the 2021 general election, President Lungu bowed out with humility. No barricades. No bitter speeches. No challenge to the will of the people. In a region where peaceful transitions are becoming the exception rather than the norm, this act alone ranks among the highest forms of statesmanship. It was not a retreat; it was a reaffirmation of Zambia’s constitutional soul.

Now, does this absolve him of his missteps? No. There were moments when the voice of civil society was muffled, when cadres ruled the streets more than the law did. There were appointments that raised eyebrows and omissions that wounded trust. But to understand a leader is to judge the full measure of the man—not just his shadows, but also his light.

African wisdom reminds us: “Icikokola n’gombe—what eats the grain can also fertilize the field.” Power can corrupt, but it can also cultivate. President Lungu’s legacy lies not in being flawless, but in being instructive. His governance offers us a mirror—not to admire or scorn, but to study.

To his supporters, your loyalty is not in vain. It was grounded in the vision you believed he carried. To his critics, myself included, our duty remains: to be honest, but also fair. And to his family—I offer the respect due to any household that carried the weight of national scrutiny with grace.

Let this be the lesson: that we can critique without contempt, and remember without rewriting.

Because in the end, Zambia’s story is not written by angels or devils. It is written by men—some cautious, some courageous, many both. President Lungu was one such man. And when the dust of politics settles, may we remember not just who ruled, but how we grew.

A mirror in which Zambia must look and ask: do we want strong men or strong institutions? Do we want praise-singers or patriots? Do we want a nation where power is feared—or where justice is trusted?

Let the answer be found not in insults or blind nostalgia, but in sober reflection.

Because when the wind blows, even the tallest tree must bow.
And when history is written, let it be said that we spoke the truth—gently, courageously, and with love for the land that bore us all