The air in Mongu did not taste like freedom. It tasted like sulfur, dry and biting, catching in the back of the throat before the mind could even register what was happening. Mothers clutching infants, old men leaning heavily on wooden walking sticks, and young people looking for a future had gathered under a wide African sky to listen. They wanted a speech. They got a cloud of chemical smoke instead.
When the canisters hissed into the dust, they did not care about political parties or color-coded regalia. They cared about breathing. Building on this topic, you can find more in: Why Every Freeze Narrative on Ukraine Misses the Point Completely.
Consider what happens next: panic. The crowd scatters, shoes are lost in the red dirt, and a peaceful afternoon transforms into an urban battlefield. This is the shadow falling across Zambia right now, a heavy, suffocating gloom cast by the very forces meant to keep the peace.
Elections are supposed to be a quiet miracle. Millions of separate citizens walk into a small curtained booth, pick up a pencil, and quietly rewrite the trajectory of a nation. But long before the ballot papers are printed, the real contest is fought on the roadsides and rally grounds. It is fought with megaphones, stones, roadblocks, and, increasingly, the heavy hand of state-sanctioned crowd control. Experts at The Guardian have shared their thoughts on this trend.
Let us look closely at the mechanics of this descent. Brian Mundubile, heading the opposition charge for the National Reconciliation Party for Unity and Prosperity, arrived in Western Province expecting to speak. Instead, his convoy met flying stones, and later, his rally met the acrid bite of police tear gas alongside his running mate Makebi Zulu.
The official justification from government spokespersons sounds clean, almost clinical on paper. They argue that the opposition orchestrates the chaos themselves, staging confrontations just to paint the administration in a bad light. They claim stones are thrown at officers, forcing a reaction. They talk of calculated provocations designed to turn public opinion against President Hakainde Hichilema.
But ask anyone standing in that Mongu dust if a staged riot feels any different from a real one. Ask the mother whose baby is coughing up phlegm induced by chemical irritants. To them, the origin of the political theater matters far less than the sting in their eyes.
Power has a strange, corrupting memory. Years ago, the current leadership sat on the other side of the barricades. They knew what it felt like to be hunted by the state, to have meetings canceled by administrative fiat, to watch police boots march toward peaceful assemblies with batons raised. Many citizens voted for change precisely because they believed someone who had tasted that bitterness would smash the cup forever.
Instead, the cup gets refilled.
The tragedy of modern political campaigns in Zambia is not just that violence happens. It is the casual normalization of it. When roadblocks are thrown up by angry youths wearing the ruling party's colors, or when opposition supporters retaliate in kind, a dangerous social contract begins to fray. The rule of law bends until it snaps, replaced by the primitive logic of whoever can shout louder or throw harder.
Civil society voices, like activist Laura Miti, point out a glaring truth that politicians try to blur: the police are not helpless. A security apparatus that possesses the absolute organizational capacity to shut down unauthorized gatherings in a heartbeat also possesses the capacity to stamp out political thuggery. If an officer knows that cracking down on a ruling party cadre will bring career ruin or a transfer to a remote outpost, inaction becomes the safest survival strategy. That cowardice at the top breeds anarchy on the ground.
History is watching. Long after the ballots are counted and the winners move into air-conditioned offices, the scars remain. A victory won under a canopy of fear, intimidation, and selective police enforcement is never truly won. It is merely leased from an angry public until the next reckoning.
Democracy requires thick skin. It demands that leaders listen to criticism without sending men in riot gear to clear the room. It requires a government secure enough in its own record to let opponents talk themselves into circles on a public stage without interference.
Right now, the smoke is clearing over Western Province. The crowds have gone home, wiping their eyes, nursing their coughs, and wondering if their vote will actually change the air they breathe.
The clock is ticking down to election day. The choice left for the leadership is stark, unambiguous, and entirely within their control. They can let the thugs rule the streets, or they can let the people choose. They cannot do both.
