Zambia’s quiet judicial drift under President Hichilema

When Hakainde Hichilema won Zambia’s presidency in August 2021, his victory was widely read as a repair job for a damaged democracy. He defeated Edgar Lungu after years in which the courts, police and electoral institutions had been accused of serving the governing Patriotic Front. Hichilema’s United Party for National Development promised a return to constitutionalism, cleaner government and respect for civil liberties.

That promise still matters, and Zambia has not become a dictatorship. Courts continue to hear politically sensitive cases, journalists still report on public affairs, and opposition parties operate in a competitive political system. Yet judicial independence can weaken without a dramatic constitutional rupture. It can be worn down through appointments, selective prosecutions, administrative pressure, delays and the gradual expectation that judges should avoid confronting the executive.

For Australians, the issue is relevant beyond diplomatic interest. Zambia is a major copper producer, a significant partner in the global energy-transition supply chain and a country watched by mining companies, aid organisations and investors based in Perth, Sydney and Melbourne. A legal system that appears formally open but becomes unpredictable in practice affects contracts, land rights, corruption cases and the daily security of communities.

The reform promise and the old institutional inheritance

Hichilema inherited a judiciary already carrying political baggage. Under Lungu, critics alleged that courts had been used to constrain opposition activity, while the infamous 2016 presidential election petition raised questions about how constitutional deadlines could prevent a full hearing. The Constitutional Court dismissed the petition after the fourteen-day period expired, a decision that became a lasting symbol of procedural rules overwhelming substantive accountability.

The new administration presented itself as the opposite of that past. It dropped or reviewed several politically charged cases, restored some confidence among civil society groups and spoke frequently about the rule of law. Those steps were significant. They showed that a change of government could alter the atmosphere around the courts and the prosecutorial system.

But changing the occupants of power does not automatically change the structure that gives power its leverage. Zambia’s president plays an important role in appointing senior judges, through a process involving the Judicial Service Commission and parliamentary ratification. That architecture does not make every appointment improper. It does, however, leave the judiciary exposed to perceptions of loyalty, especially when the governing party holds a strong parliamentary majority.

The test is therefore not whether judges are personally independent. Many are experienced professionals. The deeper question is whether the institution can make decisions that inconvenience the president, his ministers or the state’s security agencies without risking professional isolation, budgetary retaliation or public attacks.

Appointments, promotions and the pressure of perception

Judicial independence depends partly on the rules governing appointment and partly on the signals sent by political leaders. When presidents publicly praise courts for decisions that favour the government, or condemn decisions that do not, they help create an informal boundary around acceptable judging. Judges may never receive a direct instruction, yet they can understand which cases carry political costs.

The Hichilema administration has faced criticism over senior judicial appointments and the role of executive influence in the process. Supporters respond that the president is exercising powers granted by the constitution and that parliamentary scrutiny provides a safeguard. That defence is legally relevant, but it does not settle the public confidence problem. A constitutional power can still be used in a manner that weakens institutional independence.

The question has become especially sensitive because politically connected cases continue to move through the courts. Investigations involving former ministers and other figures associated with the previous government have been welcomed by people who believe corruption must be punished. Others see a risk of selective justice: an anti-corruption campaign can strengthen the rule of law, or it can become a tool for keeping opponents under permanent legal pressure.

For a country such as Australia, the closest comparison is not a direct one with the High Court in Canberra. It is the everyday expectation that a judge, ombudsman or Senate committee should be able to scrutinise government without being treated as a partisan enemy. The Australian “fair go” carries political force precisely because it implies that rules must apply to the powerful as well as to ordinary people.

Selective justice and the politics of prosecution

The strongest concern is not that every case brought under Hichilema is politically motivated. Corruption is a serious problem, and Zambia’s previous administration left behind credible allegations involving public funds, procurement and unexplained wealth. A government elected on an anti-corruption platform has a duty to investigate those claims.

The concern is consistency. If prosecutions concentrate on the former ruling party while allegations involving people close to the new government move slowly or disappear, the courts begin to look like instruments of political rotation. The public may see one group being punished because it lost office rather than because the evidence against its members is stronger.

Zambia’s opposition has also complained about restrictions on meetings, arrests and the use of public-order rules. The state argues that it must manage security and prevent unrest, particularly in a country with memories of election violence and economic hardship. Yet broad discretion given to police and prosecutors can affect judicial independence before a case reaches a courtroom. A person detained repeatedly, denied a timely hearing or forced to spend years defending a weak case has already experienced punishment.

This is where delays matter. A technically independent court that cannot deliver a timely remedy offers limited protection. Constitutional petitions, bail applications and cases involving speech or assembly can lose their public meaning when they are postponed until after an election, a protest movement or a government decision has passed.

The same principle applies to disputes outside overtly political cases. A community challenging a mining licence or land acquisition may technically have access to court, but legal costs, distance, delay and unequal resources can make that access largely theoretical. The Lamu port land-rights case offers a useful regional reminder: development disputes are also tests of whether institutions hear affected communities before irreversible decisions are made.

Copper, land and the practical meaning of the rule of law

Zambia’s economic future makes judicial credibility particularly important. Copper dominates the country’s export economy, while the government is seeking investment in new mines, processing facilities, transport corridors and energy projects. Hichilema has worked to improve relations with international investors and reposition Zambia as a stable destination for capital.

Stability, however, is not simply the absence of coups or street violence. Companies require confidence that licences will be issued through transparent procedures, tax disputes will receive impartial hearings and communities will have a meaningful avenue to challenge land decisions. Investors may tolerate a slow court system if it is predictable. They are less able to manage one in which political relationships determine which rules will be enforced.

The consequences fall most heavily on people without access to political networks. Farmers, informal traders and residents near mining sites may face relocation, environmental damage or delayed compensation. Traditional authorities, local councils and central ministries can have competing claims over land. If the courts are seen as too close to the executive, citizens may turn to protests, international campaigns or informal bargaining rather than legal remedies.

Australian businesses have a direct stake in this environment. Perth is a global mining hub, and Australian engineering, exploration and services firms often operate through complex local partnerships. Corporate risk teams may focus on tax, logistics and security, but judicial independence belongs in the same assessment. A contract is only as reliable as the institution that interprets it when negotiations fail.

There is also a reputational dimension. Australian investors increasingly talk about environmental, social and governance standards, while institutional funds in Sydney and Melbourne face scrutiny over supply chains linked to critical minerals. A copper project that looks commercially sound can become a governance liability if nearby communities cannot obtain an impartial hearing. Legal accountability is therefore part of responsible investment, not a separate civic concern.

Why the erosion remains quiet

The erosion of judicial independence is quiet because it rarely arrives as a single, unmistakable act. There may be no decree abolishing the courts and no public order declaring judges subordinate to ministers. Instead, the changes appear as isolated appointments, unresolved complaints, administrative reshuffles, aggressive rhetoric and cases that move at different speeds.

This gradual pattern can be difficult to report. The government can point to court rulings that went against it, prosecutions of officials from its own side or procedural reforms that appear respectable on paper. Critics can identify pressure but may struggle to prove a direct chain of command. The result is a contest between formal legality and lived experience.

Public trust is also shaped by stories beyond politics. A media environment that explains institutional power helps citizens connect legal procedures with everyday consequences. Even a seemingly light subject, such as a review of kermis-themed slot games, raises questions about licensing, consumer protection and who is accountable when regulation fails. The same demand for transparent rules applies to courts, police and public procurement.

Zambia’s civil society organisations, lawyers and journalists remain important safeguards. So do professional associations and judges who insist on reasoned decisions. Their work deserves attention without romanticising it. Institutions can survive political pressure for years and still become less willing to challenge power. International partners should therefore track patterns, not wait for a spectacular constitutional crisis.

Australians are accustomed to hearing politics filtered through the ABC, parliamentary committee hearings and an adversarial press. That system has its own weaknesses, including concentrated media ownership and declining local news coverage. Still, the underlying expectation that public decisions should leave a paper trail is valuable. In Zambia, accessible judgments, clear appointment criteria and timely publication of court records would make it harder for political influence to remain invisible.

The immediate task is not to label Zambia a failed democracy. Such a description would obscure the country’s institutional resilience and the many citizens working to defend it. The task is to identify where executive authority is becoming too comfortable with judicial dependence, and to insist that anti-corruption policy, investment promotion and public order remain subject to impartial review.

A durable response would include transparent judicial appointments, stronger parliamentary scrutiny, secure court funding and clearer safeguards against politically selective prosecution. It would also require the government to accept adverse rulings without attacking judges, while opposition parties and civil society hold themselves to the same standard of evidence and restraint.

Readers following Zambia should look beyond presidential speeches and headline cases. Track who is appointed, which cases are delayed, whether communities can challenge mining and land decisions, and whether the courts apply the same standards to allies and opponents. Share clear reporting that connects constitutional procedure with the lives of people in Copperbelt towns, farming districts and urban neighbourhoods. Supporting careful, independent coverage is one practical way to keep quiet institutional erosion from becoming an accepted fact.