When a former president dies, most countries instinctively hit the national pause button: flags drop, hymns rise, and the coffin makes a final lap of honour through the capital’s streets. In Zambia this June, however, the final journey of former president Edgar Lungu has turned into a bizarre tug-of-war between his family and the state — a political standoff wrapped in mourning garb.
Lungu, who died on June 5 in South Africa at the age of 68, has yet to be buried. That’s not for lack of planning. The Zambian government, led by his longtime rival President Hakainde Hichilema, offered a full state funeral. National mourning was declared. Dignitaries were lined up. But the coffin remains stranded in Pretoria, held hostage to old grudges and very much alive tensions between Zambia’s political past and present.
At the heart of this morbid standoff is a personal feud with national consequences. The late Edgar Lungu, who ruled from 2015 to 2021, had a notoriously tense relationship with Hichilema. Their rivalry reached a boiling point in 2017 when Hichilema was arrested and jailed for what many believed were politically motivated charges under Lungu’s administration. The two have never truly reconciled, and even Lungu’s death has become an extension of their cold war.
The Lungu family, in an unprecedented move, refused the offer of a state-organised repatriation of his body. Instead, they insist on organising the process independently, saying that the late president had explicitly wished to keep Hichilema away from his funeral. According to family lawyer Makebi Zulu, “President Lungu made it clear before his passing that he did not want President Hichilema or any government official close to his casket or family.”
This has left Zambia in a strange state of suspended mourning. The official flags may be flying at half-mast, but the nation itself is watching with half-patience. The government has extended its hand repeatedly, urging the family to allow a dignified and united farewell, but the family remains firm: no Hichilema, no funeral.
On June 18, yet another repatriation attempt was cancelled. Flights had been discussed, logistics mapped out, and preparations were underway in Lusaka. But just hours before the supposed arrival of the body, the family issued a fresh statement halting the plan, citing “unresolved issues” with government involvement and an alleged breach of trust.
It’s the kind of situation that could be lifted from a satirical political novel — a coffin stuck in diplomatic limbo, with Zambia’s two most prominent political families engaging in a chess game over where and how a former leader should rest.
The government, for its part, has tried to strike a tone of restraint. Information Minister Cornelius Mweetwa has repeatedly urged unity and national dignity, stating that “the funeral of a former head of state is a matter for the entire nation.” Hichilema himself expressed sadness over Lungu’s death and said that the government “stands ready” to support a proper send-off, regardless of political differences.
But that’s hardly comfort to a nation that’s starting to look on with increasing frustration. Zambians are torn — many sympathise with the Lungu family’s grief and desire to preserve the wishes of the deceased. But others feel that this has gone too far, that personal animosity has hijacked a moment meant for national healing.
In some quarters, especially among Lungu’s loyal supporters, the delay is being spun as proof of state disrespect and overreach. In others, especially among Hichilema’s backers, the family is accused of turning grief into grandstanding. Social media is ablaze with hashtags like #LetHimRest and #FuneralGate.
Meanwhile, the late president’s body remains in cold storage in South Africa. The Zambian High Commission in Pretoria is caught in the middle, trying to mediate logistics without offending either camp. The original funeral date, once expected to be June 19, now seems highly unlikely, and no new timeline has been confirmed.
Analysts warn that if this standoff continues, it could further polarise the political climate in Zambia. “This is not just about a funeral,” says Dr. Mwelwa Mumba, a Lusaka-based political scientist. “It’s a symbolic battle for legitimacy and moral superiority — who gets to control the narrative of Zambia’s past, and who has the right to close its chapters.”
Edgar Lungu, even in death, has found a way to remain at the centre of Zambia’s political theatre. And unless compromise prevails soon, his final journey may end up being less about rest and more about resentment.
