It began as a show of strength—a confident demonstration of grassroots democracy and party unity. But what unfolded resembled a political pantomime more than a disciplined electoral process. The National Resistance Movement (NRM) now finds itself buried in a flood of petitions—each alleging rigging, intimidation, or creative counting that would make even a village magician blush.
These weren’t secret ballots. Voters were asked to line up behind their preferred candidates—literally. A method meant to reflect transparency somehow ended up reflecting something else entirely: confusion, manipulation, and in some places, crowd herding that felt more like a village cattle auction than a democratic exercise.
The petitions are not just complaints; they are warning flares. A party that has ruled for nearly four decades is now struggling to organize its own internal selection without setting off alarms. And it’s not the opposition doing the shouting—it’s the faithful. These are people who know the house well and are now wondering whether it’s still standing on the same values—or just on habit.
In earlier years, a candidate who lost in primaries would dust themselves off quietly, take a consolation handshake, and perhaps be rewarded with a district position or “somewhere in State House.” Today, they are calling press conferences, drafting affidavits, and vowing to run as independents—even if it means standing alone like a stubborn anthill in a flooded garden.
The lining-up model—though hailed for being simple and cost-effective—has become a stage for drama. In one district, a returning officer delayed results because the sun allegedly moved and “confused the direction of the lines.” Elsewhere, a candidate was said to have campaigned with more chapati than manifesto. Whether these accounts are true or exaggerated, they expose a deeper truth: the method may be simple, but the trust is complicated.
There’s also an undeniable generational friction. Many young aspirants—energetic, vocal, and digitally alert—are no longer interested in playing by dusty rules. To them, these primaries weren’t elections, they were coronations for the rich and the well-connected. And instead of licking wounds in silence, they’re uploading their frustrations, one Facebook post at a time.
So, what do all these petitions mean?
They mean that the NRM—despite its legacy and machinery—is not immune to internal breakdown. That beyond the yellow shirts and slogans, there’s a growing crowd asking whether the system still respects the very loyalty it demands. That even among the faithful, frustration is fermenting faster than unity slogans can ferment maize for bushera.
2026 is around the corner. The primaries were supposed to be a test run, a display of readiness. Instead, they have revealed cracks in the party’s own mirror. A house divided can still stand—but not for long if the cracks are ignored and painted over with old slogans.
Power, when it becomes too comfortable, begins to forget its purpose. These petitions are not just internal noise—they are the echoes of a party whispering to itself, “We might be losing the plot.”
Yes, the NRM still holds vast support and the benefit of long-standing structures. But structures don’t vote—people do. And people who feel shortchanged today won’t be as quiet tomorrow.
If these primaries were meant to test loyalty, they ended up testing patience. The party that once taught the country how to take power now has to teach itself how not to trip over its own shadow—or its own lines.
Because when this many people are fighting for space behind a candidate, the more pressing question becomes:
Will anyone still be standing with the party—when the lines disappear and the real test begins?
The Author is a Political Commentator, Researcher and a Social Worker