Crowds, Cops and the Constitution - From public order to public freedom?

Zambia is on the verge of a major shift in the regulation of public assembly. Parliament’s proposed Public Gathering Bill, 2026 seeks to repeal the colonial-era Public Order Act, 1955, a statute that has shaped the relationship between the State, political actors and civic organisations for over seventy years. This is not legislative housekeeping. It is a constitutional reckoning. The real question is whether Zambia is genuinely widening civic space or simply teaching an old security reflex to speak the language of rights.

A close reading of both laws reveals significant continuity, but also notable departures in structure, philosophy and procedural safeguards. On balance, the 2026 Bill represents a more rights-based framework than the 1955 Act, although certain discretionary powers remain broad enough to invite concern.

The Public Order Act, 1955 was enacted in late-colonial Northern Rhodesia at a time when public order laws across the British Empire were designed not to empower subjects to gather, but to ensure that when they did, the Crown knew where, when, and how quickly they could be sent home with broken bones and reoriented dental formulae. Thence, its stated purpose must be understood within that broader colonial logic of security, surveillance and executive authority.

The 2026 Bill, at least in its drafting philosophy, swaps the vocabulary of command for the vocabulary of constitutionalism. Its memorandum explicitly states that one of its objects is “to promote the protection of the freedom of assembly and association”. Section 4 imposes affirmative duties on authorised officers to protect peaceful assembly, freedom of expression, freedom of movement, and freedom from arbitrary arrest, torture or degrading treatment. Such language is entirely absent from the 1955 Act, which contains no rights-based obligations on police.

A provision-by-provision comparison shows where the shift is most pronounced.

First, both laws retain a notification regime, but the mechanics differ. The 1955 Act requires seven days’ notice. The Bill reduces this to five days (Section 6 Notice of public gathering). More importantly, the Bill introduces procedural certainty. Police must acknowledge receipt of notice within twenty-four hours, failing which the notice is deemed received. They must approve the gathering within three days (Section 8 Approval of public gathering), subject to lawful restrictions. Where no decision is communicated, the organiser may proceed. The 1955 Act provides no equivalent deadlines, leaving organisers at the mercy of one of the oldest tools of bureaucratic control. Silence dressed up as procedure?

Second, the grounds for restricting gatherings have changed. Under the 1955 Act, police may impose virtually any conditions “designed to preserve public peace and order,” including controlling who may speak and what topics may be discussed. Few provisions better capture the paternal instincts of the old law. The State did not merely police the crowd, it reserved the right to police the conversation. The Bill removes the power to censor speakers or subject matter. Restrictions may instead be imposed where there is a prior booking, unsuitable venue, interference with lawful business, protected areas, or a reasonable belief of likely disorder or danger. This is closer to international standards, which permit restrictions only when necessary and proportionate to legitimate public interests.

Third, enforcement mechanisms differ sharply. Under the 1955 Act, an unauthorised assembly may be dispersed, and all participants may be arrested without warrant. The Bill still criminalises gatherings held without notice or contrary to restrictions but introduces lower custodial penalties and expressly allows community service or probation. More importantly, section 4 permits dispersal only where there is a “direct and imminent threat” that cannot otherwise be contained, or where there is likely loss of life. This “direct and imminent threat” threshold is a substantial improvement over the broad discretionary powers in the old Act.

Fourth, transparency is significantly enhanced. The 1955 Act contains no public record of notifications or police decisions. The Bill requires authorised officers to maintain a public register of notices, open for inspection. This creates traceability, reduces opportunities for selective enforcement, and supports accountability. Sunlight, after all, is rarely the natural habitat of arbitrary discretion.

Fifth, access to remedies is expanded. The 1955 Act provides no administrative or judicial appeal mechanism against police decisions. The Bill allows an aggrieved organiser to appeal first to the Minister, then to the High Court. This aligns with constitutional due process.

However, the Bill is not without problematic continuities.

Like the old Act, it preserves broad exemptions for State actors. Gatherings by the President, Vice-President, Ministers, Members of Parliament, mayors and other officials are exempt in many circumstances. Although some exemptions lapse during election periods, the old constitutional irony survives. When ordinary citizens gather, it is called regulation; when those in office gather, it is called governance.

The Bill also retains police discretion to restrict gatherings based on a “reasonable belief” that disorder may occur. While narrower than the 1955 Act, this standard remains subjective and may be vulnerable to politicised interpretation.

Another concern is the appeal route. The first appeal lies to the Minister, who is part of the executive rather than an independent tribunal. Best practice in comparative democracies, such as under South Africa’s Regulation of Gatherings Act, 1993, favours independent, expedited judicial review where assembly rights are at stake.

From a civic space perspective, the 2026 Bill is nonetheless clearly less restrictive than the 1955 Act. It shifts from a permit culture toward a notification model, imposes duties on police to facilitate assemblies, removes police power to control political content, creates timelines, records and appeals, and raises the threshold for dispersal. In constitutional terms, it to some extent better reflects Zambia’s commitments under Article 21 of the Constitution and international instruments such as the African Charter on Human and Peoples' Rights.

However, the true test will lie not in legislative language but in implementation. To align with global best practice, Zambia should consider three further reforms. Replacing ministerial appeals with direct judicial review; narrowing the grounds for restriction to “clear, present and demonstrable” threats; and introducing mandatory publication of police reasons for every restriction or refusal.

If enacted and implemented in good faith, the Public Gathering Bill, 2026 could mark Zambia’s most significant expansion of civic space since independence. But if discretionary powers are exercised without transparency or judicial oversight, the risk remains that old habits may survive under new language.

Kozo.

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Postscript
This article was written before knowledge that the Public Gathering Bill has been passed in Parliament.

Am I losing Kasisi?

 

Reflections on Kasisi Children's Home centenary

There are questions that arrive silently. They do not knock. They do not announce themselves with urgency. They slip in through old photographs, through yellowing memories, through the glow of a computer screen late at night, through a name remembered, through a face no longer here.

And lately, one question has been sitting beside me with unsettling nostalgia. Am I losing Kasisi?

For twenty-nine years, I have sat behind a keyboard as the webmaster of Kasisi Children’s Home website. Twenty-nine years of uploading Kasisi news, photographs, correcting broken links, answering questions from strangers who somehow became family and trying, often inadequately, to tell the world that somewhere in Zambia there exists a place where love became an institution long before technology ever found it.

Twenty-nine years. Long enough for children to become parents. Long enough for benefactors to become memories. Long enough for voices once familiar to become silence.

And perhaps long enough for a man to wonder whether he is still holding Kasisi. Or whether Kasisi is slowly slipping through his fingers.

I think back to the articles I wrote in the years gone by.

A postcard from Fiji.
Thousands of kilometres away from home, on an island surrounded by waters so blue they seemed unreal, I discovered something I had not expected. Which is that Kasisi travels.

It is not confined to brick walls, jacaranda trees, chapel bells, or the laughter of innocent children playing in the corridors. It lives in memory. It follows you into airports, hotels, foreign streets, and lonely evenings.

Even there, Kasisi found me. Or perhaps I found that I could never truly leave it.

Footprints in the Sands of History.
Some footprints are fresh, sharp, unmistakable. Others are fading, almost erased by time. I have spent years walking through Kasisi’s history, tracing the lives of those who built what many I inherited – a love beyond self.

Sisters whose sacrifices were never meant for applause. Children whose names have slowly faded from my memory. Workers who arrived before sunrise and left after sunset. Donors who gave quietly. Priests who prayed faithfully. Each left a footprint of love.

And I have often asked myself. What right do I have to walk among them? I am not a founder. I am simply the man who built a website. And yet, somehow, history allowed me to become its witness. Sometimes its storyteller. Sometimes its mourner. And sometimes, painfully, its archivist.

There are stories that still ache.

Peter! I am sorry.
This was a lesson of love beyond self. Some names never leave you. Some regrets never completely fade. There are moments in life when words arrive too late, when understanding comes after goodbye, when apology becomes less about being heard and more about honouring the truth.

Peter taught me that love is not always neat. That service is not always victorious. That memory can be both blessing and burden.

And if I am honest, there are still conversations with Peter that I continue in silence.

My father and the picture on my wall.
A picture that has become more than paper and frame. It has become a mirror.

As the years have passed, through Kasisi Children’s Home, I have begun to understand him in ways youth never allowed. His silences. His sacrifices. His stubbornness. His quiet dignity.

And sometimes, as I look at Kasisi, I wonder whether my relationship with this home has begun to resemble my relationship with that picture. Something I deeply love. Something I cannot fully possess. Something that shaped me. Something I fear one day I may only look at from a distance.

Then came Susan.

A world without Susan.
There are some people whose absence becomes louder than their presence ever was. Susan was one of those.

Her departure left a silence that words could not fill. And yet, strangely, her absence also taught me that Kasisi was never built around individuals. It was built around something larger. Something divine. Something that survives funerals. Something that survives tears. Something that survives us.

And then there was Francis.
Without fear, he walked with us.

Some people carry courage so naturally that you forget how rare it is. Francis walked not as a hero seeking recognition, but as a servant who understood that love often requires bravery.

He reminded me that fear is not the absence of danger. It is the refusal to let danger define your mission.

And now I ask myself. Am I still walking with that same courage? Or am I slowly becoming a spectator to the very story I once helped tell?

And finally…

Where angels walk among us.
Perhaps that article was never really about angels. Perhaps it was about recognising grace in ordinary people. A sister folding laundry. A child sharing bread. A caregiver staying awake through the night. A donor remembering birthdays. A volunteer holding a frightened hand.

Angels.

Not with wings. But with worn shoes. And tired eyes. And faithful hearts.

I have met many of them at Kasisi. More than I deserve. More than I can count.

And now, as Kasisi Children’s Home approaches its centenary Thanksgiving Celebration on December 5, 2026, one hundred years since the first seeds of love were planted on that sacred ground, I find myself standing at a strange crossroads.

One hundred years. A century of children. A century of prayers. A century of tears. A century of laughter. A century of miracles disguised as ordinary days. A century of love beyond self.

And I ask again. Am I losing Kasisi? Or is Kasisi preparing to teach me one final lesson?

That Kasisi was never mine to hold. Not in 1997 when I first became its webmaster. Not through the stories. Not through the photographs. Not through the names of Peter, Susan, Francis, or the countless others who shaped my soul.

Kasisi was never something to own. It was always something to serve. Something to witness. Something to remember. Something to pass on.

Perhaps what I am losing is not Kasisi. Perhaps what I am losing is the illusion that I could ever keep it for myself.

And perhaps that is exactly how centenaries work. They remind us that institutions built on love do not belong to one generation. They belong to every footprint. Every angel. Every child. Every prayer.

Ora pro nobis.

Beyond the Number - What 77 Bills really mean

Few issues have generated as much social media commentary in Zambia’s 2026 pre-elections legislative season as the claim that “77 Bills in one sitting is simply too much.” At face value, the number sounds alarming, almost tailor-made for social media outrage. To some, it suggests an overburdened Parliament, rushed lawmaking before elections, and inadequate scrutiny.

A closer examination of the 77 Bills before the National Assembly of Zambia tells a very different story. One that is less about legislative excess, and more about scrutiny burden, governance priorities, and public interest.

To understand what is beyond the number, the Bills were classified using the “Objects of the Amendment Bill”. That is, what each Bill is intends to do. Six legislative intent categories were derived. These are Institutional Reorganisation; Institutional Structural Reform; Regulatory and Enforcement; Rights, Benefits and Protection; Governance and Accountability; and Statutory Rule Adjustment, as shown below.

The first finding immediately challenges the “77 Bills” narrative. Of the 77 Bills, 57 Bills (74.0%) fall under Institutional Reorganisation. These Bills mainly reorganise existing public institutions through board restructuring, and other governance adjustments.

More importantly, these 57 Bills average only 3.6 pages each.

This single statistic changes the conversation. A three-page amendment revising the composition of a statutory board cannot reasonably be treated as equivalent to a forty-page sector reform Bill. Yet on social media, both are casually counted as “one Bill.” That is how legislative noise is manufactured. One headline, one post, and one incomplete statistic at a time.

And this is where the numbers start telling a very inconvenient story, when scrutiny burden and public interest are introduced into the conversation as shown below.

Scrutiny burden is the expected parliamentary effort required for legal reform comprehension, stakeholder consultation, legal complexity, fiscal implications, constitutional sensitivity, and implementation oversight. And public interest, is the probability that a Bill attracts citizen attention, media coverage, civil society engagement, sector lobbying, or political contestation.        

While Institutional Reorganisation Bills dominate numerically, they carry only a moderate scrutiny burden and generally attract low to moderate public interest. They mainly affect revision of composition of boards, commissions, authorities, and statutory bodies.

By contrast, Institutional Structural Reform Bills, though only three in number, carry a very high scrutiny burden and very high public interest. Averaging 43.3 pages, these Bills redesign governance systems, institutional relationships, mandates, and service delivery architecture across entire sectors.

Similarly, Regulatory and Enforcement Bills, though only four in number, attract high scrutiny and high public interest because they affect compliance obligations, penalties, licensing, prohibitions, and enforcement powers.

Rights, Benefits and Protection Bills, carry both high scrutiny and very high public interest because they directly affect pensions, retirement benefits, privileges, compensation, and statutory rights.

The politically sensitive Governance and Accountability Bills, including the Electoral Process (Amendment) Bill, 2026, are only three in number, yet they carry very high scrutiny burden and very high public visibility because they touch elections, ethics, representation, and public accountability.

Even the shortest Bill tells an important story. NAB 76 the Public Holidays (Amendment) Bill, 2026, runs to just 2 pages. Yet it still attracts moderate scrutiny and high public interest because changes to public holiday observance affect workers, employers, schools, business operations, religious observance, and the national calendar.

The lesson is simple. Legislative significance is not measured by page count or by Bill count alone.

The evidence therefore points to one unavoidable conclusion, as derived from the graph below.

The real story of the 77 Bills is not that Parliament has “too many Bills.” The real story is that Parliament is processing a legislative programme made up largely of short institutional amendments, with only a small number of structurally transformative, politically sensitive, or rights-based reforms.

So when critics say, “77 Bills in one year is excessive,” the better question is not how many Bills? The better question is. “How much scrutiny does each Bill demand, and how deeply does each Bill touch public life?”

Perhaps the problem was never 77 Bills. Perhaps the problem was counting Bills without reading them.

That, ultimately, is what lies beyond the number and what 77 Bills really mean.

Veritas est adaequatio rei et intellectus.