History occasionally presents us with parallels so precise that to ignore them is an act of intellectual negligence. The drama currently unfolding within South Africa’s highest security institutions is not merely a domestic affair. It is a mirror, an instruction manual, and above all, a benchmark for the courage demanded of statesmen in nations where the tendrils of corruption threaten to suffocate the very concept of sovereignty. To grasp the gravity of the moment Mozambique now faces, we must look to our neighbour, not to copy, but to use their struggle as a measure of the audacity and resolve our own historical crossroads demands.
In South Africa, the Political Killings Task Team (PKTT) was established in the volatile province of KwaZulu-Natal to staunch a tide of violence that was claiming the lives of local political figures. Led by the provincial commissioner, Nhlanhla Mkhwanazi, a man of remarkable integrity, and with the institutional backing of his superior, National Commissioner General Fannie Masemola, the team began its work. They soon realised, however, that the contract killers, the notorious izinkabi, were merely the visible tip of a monstrous iceberg. Inevitably, their investigations began to uncover the nexus of the violence: endemic corruption, rigged public tenders, and fraudulent state contracts. The masterminds of the killings were not common criminals; they were figures embedded in political and economic power structures, including businessmen like the infamous Vusimusi “Kat” Matlala and, allegedly, senior police officials such as Deputy National Commissioner Shadrack Sibiya.
The PKTT’s success became its greatest liability. As investigators drew closer to the heart of the system, the political pressure became unbearable. Orders came from on high to slow down, to divert, to close cases. The culmination of this obstruction was a directive to disband the investigative team itself. It was at this moment, in July 2025, that Commissioner Mkhwanazi made a decision of rare courage. Instead of submitting quietly, he called a press conference and, before the nation, exposed the political interference, the rot within his own ranks, and the sabotage attempted from the very top of the chain of command.
His whistleblowing was a controlled detonation. It was not an act of desperation but a strategic manoeuvre that forced the government’s hand. The result was the establishment of two commissions of inquiry, one judicial (the Madlanga Commission) and one parliamentary. Today, before the eyes of the nation, the grotesque details of this decay are being laid bare. The corrupt, once arrogant in their impunity, are being summoned to testify, their networks dismantled, their reputations shattered. The courage of one man, institutionally supported by his chief, tore open the veil and initiated a process of national catharsis. This act did not just save an investigation; it reminded an entire country that the fight against corruption requires heroes willing to risk everything.
It is against this backdrop that we must analyse the events of today, 13th October 2025, in Maputo. President Daniel Chapo’s opening of the National Conference on the Fight Against Corruption cannot be dismissed as just another ceremonial event, another well-intentioned speech to fill the diary. That would be a mistake. This event, and the actions preceding it, must be interpreted as a signal, a potential turning point that echoes, in our own Mozambican way, the courage of Mkhwanazi. The courage of Chapo.
The prime example of this courage lies not only in the words delivered from the conference podium but in a government decision whose full significance many have yet to appreciate: the suspension of mining activities in the Manica province. This was no mere administrative act. It was a direct confrontation with one of the most hideous faces of grand corruption, the kind that does not content itself with stealing from the public purse but which destroys a nation’s most sacred heritage: its land, its water, its very lifeblood.
What happened in Manica is a crime against the nation. There is no other term for it. A cabal of influential individuals, hiding behind licences obtained through corrupt means, plundered the province with a blind and predatory greed. Seven rivers did not run dry due to an act of God; they were murdered. They have been erased from the map, their basins transformed into toxic craters. The Revue River, once an artery of life, is now a vein oozing sludge contaminated with cyanide and mercury. In Chicamba, there are no more fish. The great Púngoè and Búzi rivers, vital to the entire central region of the country, are in their death throes, their waters poisoned.
Manica, once a breadbasket of Mozambique, a land of plenty that exported flowers, citrus fruits, and paprika, has seen its productive capacity compromised for decades to come. Its people, who lived from the land’s abundance, are now forced into an expense they never imagined: buying safe drinking water, because what comes from the tap, when it comes at all, is a gamble. To drill a private well in the provincial capital, Chimoio, costs over 300,000 meticais (approximately £3,700), a fortune beyond the reach of most.
By suspending this activity, President Chapo is not just attempting to mitigate an environmental disaster. He is slamming his fist on the table. He is declaring that the cycle of impunity, where a small elite enriches itself at the cost of the common good, must end. This decision, which strikes at powerful and politically protected economic interests, is his “Mkhwanazi moment.” It is an act of courage that creates a fissure in the system, an opportunity for light to flood in and expose those responsible. The licence holders are now, as has been said, hiding like startled moles. The question is: what will the rest of us do with this light?
And here we arrive at the heart of the matter. The courage of one man, whether a police commissioner or a president, is the spark, but it is never the entire fire. On its own, Chapo’s courage is not enough. It is a necessary, but tragically insufficient, condition. Mkhwanazi had Masemola, and they both had the pressure of a civil society and a press that refused to be silenced. President Chapo has opened a door. It is now up to us, all of us, to storm through it and transform this opportunity into a national crusade.
Corruption, as President Chapo stated in his speech and as the Manica disaster so tragically demonstrates, is not just about the petty extortion of an irresponsible civil servant. That is the retail face of the problem. The real threat is grand corruption, the strategic corruption that sits on corporate boards, that drafts concession contracts, that approves fraudulent environmental licences, and that, in the process, sells off the country’s future for immediate, selfish gain.
It is time to pursue these actors. If the President has had the courage to suspend their operations, then the other arms of the state have a patriotic duty to act. The Attorney-General’s Office must use this moment to open criminal investigations, not just against low-level functionaries, but against the ultimate beneficiaries of this destruction. Who signed the licences? Who conducted the fraudulent environmental impact studies? Who are the owners, the names behind the companies that annihilated seven rivers?
Investigative journalism has an obligation to dig, to find the “startled moles” and to expose their faces and their connections. There is no longer an excuse for silence. Civil society, environmental organisations, and universities must scientifically document the extent of the disaster, quantify the costs of recovery—which will take hydrological years—and give voice to the martyred populations of Manica.
President Chapo’s courage, manifested in the Manica decision and the tone of today’s conference,
Egidio Vaz | Comms Strategist 