Exiled in death: How African Presidents are buried amid politics and power struggles

 

By Adonis Byemelwa

The death of Edgar Changwa Lungu, Zambia’s former president, has stirred an emotional whirlwind, one familiar in the annals of African political transitions. If Lungu is ultimately buried in South Africa, as his family insists, he will join a long list of African leaders whose passing became less a private mourning than a national, and often continental, reckoning.

Lungu, who led Zambia from 2015 to 2021 and was a polarizing figure in both governance and opposition suppression, died on June 5, 2025, in Pretoria. What should have been a solemn, unified national farewell quickly morphed into a highly politicized standoff. 

His family refused to allow the current President Hakainde Hichilema, once jailed by Lungu, to attend the funeral, stalling repatriation. Even after the Zambian government scheduled a state funeral for June 22 and burial at Embassy Park on June 23, the family abruptly halted plans again, citing breaches in protocol.

 In a stunning move, President Hichilema ended the national mourning period, declaring that the state funeral would proceed, with or without family cooperation. As of now, the family maintains that Lungu will be buried in South Africa, but the date remains uncertain.

This is not an isolated moment. Across Africa, the deaths of presidents and political giants—particularly those who lived in exile—often ignite complex disputes over where and how they should be buried. These tensions frequently expose longstanding political rifts, unresolved family feuds, and the deeper question of who gets to control historical memory.

In Angola, the 2022 death of José Eduardo dos Santos, who ruled for nearly four decades before retiring to Barcelona, Spain, laid bare these contradictions. His family insisted he wished for a quiet burial in Spain, away from the turmoil of Angolan politics.

 The state, eager to capitalize on the moment, pressed for a heroic return. It took court battles, family resistance, and political pressure before his body was repatriated for a state funeral just days before national elections.

Cameroon’s first president, Ahmadou Ahidjo, died in Senegal in 1989 and remains buried there. While occasional voices in Yaoundé have called for the return of his remains, the political will to repatriate him has never materialized. His ghost, both symbolic and literal, still lingers far from home.

Then there’s the case of Mobutu Sese Seko of the DRC—once a towering strongman of Zaire—who died in Morocco in 1997 after fleeing amidst a collapsing regime. Although the Congolese parliament passed a resolution in 2007 to repatriate him, no government has taken the bold step. His remains lie in Rabat, untouched by Kinshasa’s shifting political tides. Burial, it seems, becomes the final battleground of contested legacies.

Some stories do find partial closure. Mutesa II, the King of Buganda and briefly President of Uganda, died in exile in London in 1969 following a coup by Milton Obote. His remains were returned to Uganda in 1971 and reinterred at the Kasubi Tombs, though only after a change in political climate allowed it. The symbolic return of a monarch who was once cast out reflected the cyclical nature of political fortune in Africa.

Other sagas are layered with legal and familial complexity. In Burundi, the exiled King Mwambutsa IV died in Switzerland in 1977. Despite his remains being taken to Burundi in 2012, legal battles led to his reburial back in Switzerland in 2016—an eerie reversal of the usual trajectory of return.

Tunisia’s former president Zine el Abidine Ben Ali died in exile in Saudi Arabia in 2019 and was buried quietly, away from public gaze. Though Tunisian officials hinted at repatriation, no state honors followed. His death, like his exile, was marked by secrecy and unresolved reckoning.

Zimbabwe’s Robert Mugabe may have died in Harare in 2019, but even that did not prevent an all-consuming dispute over his burial. Initially flown from Singapore and given a state funeral, Mugabe was eventually buried in his hometown of Kutama, against the government’s wishes. The dispute between his widow, Grace Mugabe, and President Mnangagwa’s administration echoed Zimbabwe’s deep political divides.

 Even years later, traditional leaders attempted to exhume his body and relocate it to Heroes’ Acre, citing violations of custom. The family resisted. The government, unwilling to be publicly defied, subtly applied pressure. As of 2025, the matter remains unresolved, with Mugabe still resting beside his mother in Kutama. “He gave everything to the liberation struggle,” said a villager at the time, “but even in death, peace has eluded him.”

Some cases, like those of Félix Malloum of Chad or Ange-Félix Patassé of the Central African Republic passed without fierce contestation, their burials handled quietly and respectfully. But these are exceptions.

The story of Thomas Sankara is perhaps the most transformative. Assassinated in a coup in 1987, his body was hastily buried in a mass grave. For decades, the official silence around his death spoke volumes.

 It was only after Blaise Compaoré’s fall from power in 2014 that Sankara’s remains were exhumed. A landmark trial followed in 2021, leading to life sentences for those responsible. In 2023, Sankara and his comrades were reburied in a national ceremony at the very site of their assassination. 

A year later, the space was consecrated as a memorial designed by acclaimed architect Francis Kéré, transforming a scene of betrayal into one of education and reverence. “This is not just a mausoleum,” said a visitor to the site, “it is the heart of Burkina Faso’s conscience.”

Kwame Nkrumah’s death in Romania in 1972 similarly became a pivot for national soul-searching. Initially buried in his hometown Nkroful after repatriation from Guinea, where he had lived in exile, his remains were later moved to a national mausoleum in Accra. The transition from village tomb to a shrine at the site of Ghana’s independence declaration symbolized a reconciled legacy—a final chapter that acknowledged both his exile and his enduring role in shaping modern Ghana.

What binds these stories together is not just geography or politics—it’s the intersection of memory, power, and identity. Where a leader is buried is not merely a question of logistics; it is a question of meaning. It reflects who gets to define the narrative of a nation’s past and who is allowed the last word on a life of consequence.

Disputes over burial sites often reveal deeper fractures. They expose the ongoing tug-of-war between familial wishes and national symbolism, between personal redemption and political rehabilitation. These are not trivial disagreements—they are about the soul of postcolonial African identity.

African leaders often leave behind not just policies but unfinished stories. Their final resting places become proxies for larger questions: What does it mean to be a national hero? Who gets forgiven? Who remains in exile, even after death?

As Zambia grapples with the unfolding saga around Edgar Lungu’s burial, there are lessons—many uncomfortable ones—to be drawn. In the shadows of history lie the bones of those who once ruled, now caught between past grievances and present politics. 

Whether buried in homeland soil or foreign earth, their stories don’t end with death. In fact, sometimes, that’s where the real struggle begins. “The grave may silence a man,” mused one historian, “but it rarely silences his legacy.”