The first debate was a disaster.
Prez couldn’t match his opponents on policy. He didn’t know the difference between fiscal and monetary policy. He’d never read a budget. He didn’t know which ministries were responsible for what, or why the Ministry of Finance kept talking about “debt servicing” as if it were a weather pattern they couldn’t control.
The second debate was worse. The incumbent, a man named Mundia who had been in politics since before Prez was born, smiled politely while Prez stumbled through questions about copper revenue and Chinese infrastructure loans and IMF conditionalities.
The third debate, against all odds, was different.
The moderator asked about urban development. Prez was supposed to talk about zoning laws and municipal budgets. Instead he talked about Amina.
“Let me tell you about Amina,” he said. “Amina runs a community garden in Kamwala. She feeds two hundred families a week. She did that with nothing, no government support, no donor funding, just her hands and her heart. And the city council told her they were going to sell her garden to a Chinese developer. They told her five thousand signatures didn’t matter.”
He leaned forward. The studio lights caught the scar over his eye. “Five thousand signatures. And they didn’t matter. Five thousand people, their voices, don’t matter. That’s the system we’re dealing with. That’s what we’re fighting against. And I don’t need a degree in economics to know that’s wrong. I just need to listen.” The audience applauded. The moderators looked uncomfortable. Mundia looked furious.
“You can’t run a country on emotions,” Mundia said.
“Maybe not,” Prez replied. “But you can’t run a country ignoring people either.”
It happened in Ndola.
A rally scheduled for a Saturday afternoon, and ten minutes before they arrived the sky opened. Not a drizzle, a proper kopala downpour, the kind that turns gravel roads to rivers in minutes.
“We should cancel,” Bob said. “No one’s going to come.”
“Look,” Prez said.
They were coming. Hundreds of them, then thousands, streaming through the rain with umbrellas and plastic bags over their heads and chitenge cloth held above their children’s faces. They came because they wanted to see the podcasters. They came because they wanted to believe that someone, finally, was listening.
Prez climbed onto the stage, soaking wet, his flannel shirt clinging to his body. The microphone crackled. He didn’t have notes. He never had notes.
“You came,” he said. “In the rain. You came.”
The crowd cheered.
“Everyone told us this was impossible. A podcast host can’t be president. A gardener can’t change the system. A comedian can’t fix the country.” He paused. Rain dripped from his face onto the microphone, sizzling. “But here you are. In the rain. Because you want something different. Because you’re tired of being ignored.”
The crowd roared.
“I can’t promise you I’ll be perfect. I can’t promise I’ll know all the answers. But I can promise you this, I’ll listen. I’ll try. And I’ll never, ever forget that you came out in the rain for us.”
Maya recording it on her phone. It got three million views in twenty-four hours.
Amina found Prez on the balcony of their hotel that night. The rain had stopped. The city was quiet beneath the clouds.
“Maya paid off the venue manager,” she said. It wasn’t a question.
“How did you…”
“I have friends in Ndola. They talk.”
Prez fumbling his hair next to her. “I didn’t want that to happen.”
“But you let it happen.”
“I didn’t know until after.”
“That’s worse, Prez. That’s worse.” She turned to face him. “You’re the one running. You can’t not know. You can’t be innocent of the things done in your name.”
Bob appeared in the doorway, a beer in his hand, face flushed from the rally’s adrenaline. He looked at Amina, then at Prez, and something folded in his expression, not surprise, recognition.
“You know,” Amina said. Not a question.
Bob drank. “Maya asked me. I said yes.” He shrugged, the gesture too casual, practiced.
“You wanted a full house. I got you a full house.”
Prez stared at him. “You never told me.”
“Would it have mattered?” Bob asked. “You were already on stage. The rain was already falling. The video was already…” He stopped. Crushed the can. “I’m going to bed.”
He didn’t look at either of them again.
“I’m sorry. I’m trying.” Prez said shaking his head toward Amina
— — —
At a rally in Kamwala two weeks before the election, Amina took the stage.
She was nervous. She fumbled with the microphone. She wasn’t a public speaker. But she spoke from her gut.
“I didn’t want to be here,” she said. “I wanted to grow vegetables. I wanted to feed my community. I wanted to be left alone.”
The crowd hushed softly
“But they didn’t leave me alone. They destroyed my garden. They threatened my volunteers. They told me that if I wanted to make a difference, I should shut up and stay in my lane.”
She paused.
“I’m not in my lane anymore. I’m in politics. And I hate it. I hate the lies. I hate the backroom deals. I hate that my friend had to pay someone off just to have a rally.”
A murmur. Prez shifted uncomfortably facing the earth hoping for death.
“But I’m here because I believe in something. I believe that we can build a country where gardens aren’t destroyed for shopping malls. I believe that we can have leaders who listen. I believe that a podcaster and a gardener can be more than a joke.”
She looked at Prez.
“I believe in him. Even when he makes mistakes. Even when he lets things happen that he shouldn’t. I believe in him because he keeps trying. And that’s more than anyone else has done for us.”
The crowd erupted.
Prez was in tears.
Amina stepped off the stage and walked to him. “That’s the last time I do that,” she said.
“You were brilliant.”
“I was terrified.”
“Me too,” he said. “Every single time.”
The polls closed on a Thursday.
In Zambia, elections aren’t decided in one night. The counting takes days, sometimes a week. The waiting is its own kind of torture, stretched across hours of uncertainty while rumors breed in the gaps.
Thursday night, Prez and Bob sat in Bob’s living room, surrounded by empty pizza boxes and cold coffee. Maya had commandeered the kitchen, calling every contact she had for exit poll data.
“Nothing official,” she said, for the tenth time. “ECZ is still counting.”
“Count faster,” Bob muttered.
“Counting takes time. You want it accurate, don’t you?” “I want it to be over.”
Friday came. No results. The news channels ran endless coverage, analysts dissecting every rumor from every polling station.
“Rumors that Mundia is ahead in Copperbelt,” Maya announced.
“Rumors aren’t facts,” Prez said.
“Rumors make people panic.”
“Stop telling me the rumors.” Prez eventually erupted slamming the door in defiance.
Friday night. Still counting.
Prez couldn’t sleep. He paced the living room, locking and unlocking his phone. Walked towards the window, fingerprint unlock. Nothing. Pace to the toilet, phone out bent over facial recognition unlocks. No new notifications. The ECZ website open on his laptop refreshing every thirty seconds, watching the numbers crawl.
Bob found him at 2 AM. “You need to rest.”
“I can’t.”
“Prez…”
“What if we lose, Bob? What if we went through all of this, the rallies, the promises, the dancing like decapitated chickens, just to lose?”
Bob sat down heavily. “Then we go back to the podcast. We talk to local heroes. We…”
“We’ll never go back,” Prez said. “Even if we lose. Because now everyone knows we tried. And they’ll always ask, ‘What if?'”
Saturday.
The results started trickling in. Mostly from rural constituencies, which leaned toward Mundia. Prez watched his lead shrink.
“We’re losing,” he said.
“Early results,” Maya said. “Urban areas count slower. They’ll go our way.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know that people want change. I know that.”
Sunday.
The trickle turned to a stream. The stream became a flood. And then, at 6 PM on Sunday evening, the Electoral Commission of Zambia announced the final results.
Prez watched the screen. The numbers blurred.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer said, shuffling papers, “we have the final count.”
Prez couldn’t breathe.
“The winner… of the presidential election, with 52.4% of the vote, is Mr. President Phiri.”
The room turned chaotic, pillows flung in the air. Maya screamed, jumping up and down. Bob fell off his chair. People were crying, hugging, dancing the same ridiculous dances they’d done on stages across the country.
But Prez was frozen.
“We won,” Bob said, grabbing him by the shoulders. “We actually won.”
“I know.”
“You don’t look happy.”
“I’m terrified.”
Bob laughed, desperate and manic. “Me too. But we can’t tell them that.” He pulled Prez close, whispered: “What if they find out? What if they realize we’re still the same idiots who couldn’t keep the podcast’s audio from clipping?”
Prez pulled back. Bob’s eyes were wet, shining, the same panic Prez felt in his own chest. “They won’t find out,” Prez said, not believing it.
“Right,” Bob said. “Because we’ll learn. Because we’ll figure it out.” He wiped his face, suddenly businesslike, suddenly Bob again. “Later, right?”
Prez didn’t answer.
Prez looked across the room. Amina stood in the corner, arms crossed, watching. She wasn’t screaming. She wasn’t crying. She was just… present.
He walked to her.
“You don’t look happy,” he said.
“I’m not unhappy,” she said. “I’m just… I don’t know. Scared. Proud. Angry. All of it.”
“Angry?”
“Because my garden is still gone. And no one is going to bring it back. And the grandmothers who taught me to plant, they’re still scared. And I’m afraid we’re going to forget. I’m afraid we’re going to get to State House and forget why we started.”
Prez took her hand. “I won’t forget. I promise.”
She looked at him. “It’s not enough to promise. You have to remember. Every single day. Even on the days when it’s impossible.”
“I will.”
“I’ll hold you to that.”
“I know.”
She squeezed his hand. “Congratulations, Mr. President.”
“Don’t call me that yet. It still sounds like someone else. I’m still Prez”
“It is someone else,” she said. “The man who stood in the rain is someone else now. But you can still be him. You just have to try harder than everyone else.”
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