Between silence and sirens: What secret recruitment says about the State
By Dr Lawrence Mwelwa
THERE is an African proverb that warns: “When the drum beats in the night, the village must ask who is dancing.” In Zambia today, the drumbeat is unmistakable—reports of a large, opaque police recruitment exercise have stirred unease, not only in political circles but within civil society and the church.
At the centre of this debate is a simple but powerful question: can a public institution recruit thousands in silence and still command public trust?
Tonse Alliance leader Brian Mundubile has described the exercise as “secretive and highly suspicious,” alleging corruption, nepotism, and disregard for established procedures.
The Evangelical Fellowship of Zambia (EFZ), in unusually firm language, has echoed similar concerns, warning that public service “cannot and should not be privatised.” When political opposition and religious institutions converge in concern, the issue demands careful attention.
The Zambia Police Service is not an ordinary institution. It is the visible arm of the state’s coercive power, entrusted with maintaining law and order, protecting citizens, and, crucially in an election year, ensuring a level playing field. Its legitimacy rests not merely on authority, but on perceived impartiality.
And perception, as history teaches, is everything.
Another proverb reminds us: “Trust arrives on foot but leaves on horseback.” Once doubt enters the public mind, it does not walk—it runs.
The controversy surrounding this recruitment is not simply about procedure. It is about process, timing, and trust. Recruitment into public service—especially security services—has long been expected to follow clear, transparent, and competitive channels. Advertisements are issued. Criteria are outlined. Citizens are given equal opportunity to apply.
When these steps appear to be bypassed, even for reasons that may be administratively defensible, suspicion becomes inevitable.
The Police Service’s reported shifting explanations—from denial to claims of an “internal process”—have only deepened that suspicion. Consistency, in matters of public communication, is not a luxury; it is a necessity. Inconsistent narratives create a vacuum, and in politics, vacuums are quickly filled with doubt.
EFZ’s intervention is particularly significant. Religious bodies in Zambia have historically positioned themselves as moral arbiters in moments of national uncertainty. Their warning—that such processes risk fostering corruption, nepotism, and even tribalism—goes beyond administrative critique. It touches the ethical foundations of governance.
In African political thought, legitimacy is not derived solely from law, but from fairness. A process may be legal, yet still be viewed as unjust if it excludes, obscures, or privileges.
And this brings us to timing.
With the August elections fast approaching, any major institutional decision—especially within the security sector—will inevitably be viewed through a political lens. Whether or not the recruitment is politically motivated becomes almost secondary. What matters is whether it can be convincingly shown not to be.
Here, another proverb offers guidance: “The one who fetches water must not muddy the well.” Institutions tasked with safeguarding democracy must avoid actions that, however unintentionally, cast doubt on their neutrality.
Mundubile’s warning that such recruitment could influence the electoral environment may be dismissed by some as political rhetoric. Yet it reflects a broader anxiety within the opposition—that state institutions are becoming increasingly entangled in partisan calculations. Whether this perception is accurate is less important than the fact that it exists.
And perceptions, once formed, shape behaviour.
If citizens begin to believe that institutions are not neutral, their confidence in the electoral process diminishes. Participation becomes cautious. Outcomes become contested. And the stability Zambia has long been praised for begins to feel less certain.
It is also worth considering the economic argument raised. In a country where many struggle with rising costs of living, the optics of large-scale recruitment—especially one perceived as opaque—can appear disconnected from everyday realities. Governance is not only about what is done, but how it is seen to be done.
Transparency, therefore, is not a procedural requirement. It is a political necessity.
This is not to suggest that recruitment into the Police Service is unwarranted. On the contrary, strengthening security institutions can be both necessary and beneficial. But necessity does not excuse opacity. If anything, it demands greater openness.
The EFZ’s call is, in essence, a call for restoration—restore the process, restore transparency, restore trust.
And trust, once eroded, is not easily rebuilt.
There is a final proverb that may guide this moment: “A leader who listens only to praise will one day hear only silence.” Institutions must not mistake the absence of immediate outrage for acceptance. Often, silence is simply the space where concern is gathering strength.
Zambia stands at a delicate juncture. The coming election will test not only political parties, but the institutions that underpin democracy. The Police Service, like the judiciary and the electoral commission, must remain above reproach—not only in action, but in perception.
Because in the end, democracy does not collapse only when rules are broken.
It begins to weaken when trust is quietly withdrawn.
And when that happens, even the loudest assurances cannot restore what has been lost.
The question, then, is not whether recruitment should happen.
It is whether it can happen in a way that reassures a watching nation.
Because as the elders say: “When the house is built on trust, even the storm must knock before entering.”
