Election time is a very interesting time in Zambia. Every election year, political parties pay some of the country’s biggest musicians to release songs that end up becoming the soundtracks of their campaigns. While the lyrics can be debated, the music itself tends to be bangers that even I listen to from time to time. It is no wonder that when one of these songs drops at a political rally, people break into all sorts of dances. The politicians themselves are not left out of the party. Despite being stiffer than I, they try to put on their best dance moves. Watching some videos of politicians dancing this year has been nothing short of hilarious.

When the hit song drops, the dances come out. Some politicians who are much stiffer than me attempt to move their bodies in a determined effort to do what humans call dancing. In so many ways, it is a celebration. What exactly they are celebrating, I do not know.

Music and politics are intimately intertwined in Zambia – far more than I have seen anywhere else. Music has become one of, if not the, primary vehicles through which political parties engage with people and communicate their manifestos. So when elections are around the corner, politicians try to get the biggest musician they can, pay them handsomely, and have them produce a song that sets the tone for their campaign. Musicians accept the offer, at least in part, because of the money, while politicians know that these artists will draw massive crowds to their rallies. As someone once said, “Political rallies are the only events where many Zambians get to see some of our biggest local acts perform live and ‘for free.'” It is, in many ways, a win-win-win situation for everyone involved.

Then election day comes. The music dies out, the political regalia is taken off, and the votes are cast. A winner is declared and, in theory, the time to put into action the words contained in those campaign songs begins.

The politicians who spent weeks travelling through every major city and town in Zambia, campaigning on their manifestos, settle back in Lusaka. Perhaps they become so exhausted from months of campaigning that it takes them another five years to recover. That, at least, is sometimes what it feels like.

The dancing politicians cease to dance. What is there to dance for? What is left to celebrate? They return to their offices and, somehow, the electorate – the very people they danced with and for – begins to feel distant.

This is not a condemnation of the current government or of any government that has come before it. It is simply an observation. Politicians dance when it is election time. They celebrate with us. They laugh with us. They promise us a better tomorrow. But once the election is over, the dancing becomes few and far between.

It makes me wonder what makes political office such a difficult position. Why do politicians make so many promises and deliver so little of what was promised? Is it because they underestimate the work involved? Is it because they enter office for the wrong reasons? Is it because leadership is simply much harder than campaigning? Or is it all of the above? I honestly do not know.

But perhaps the harder question is not about politicians at all.

Perhaps the question is whether I am any different.

It is easy to show up when the music is playing. It is easy to make promises in moments of excitement. It is easy to celebrate when everyone is watching. The harder part is remaining faithful when the music has stopped, when the crowds have gone home, and when all that remains is the quiet, ordinary work that no one applauds.

Maybe that is why leadership is so difficult. Not because it demands great speeches or good dancing, but because it demands faithfulness long after the campaign is over.

I may never hold political office but I hope I never become someone who dances with people when it is convenient but disappears when the real work begins.