A Trial for the English to See

In the Mozambican collective memory, few wounds from the post-independence period are as deep as those caused by the hidden debt scandal. This episode, which began between 2013 and 2014, was not only an economic crime of colossal proportions, but also a visible symptom of the institutional rot deep within the state. With fraudulent contracts involving loans worth $2.2 billion from VTB and Credit Suisse banks, supposedly to benefit public companies—Proindicus, EMATUM, and MAM—the scheme revealed itself, in fact, to be a veritable plundering scheme orchestrated by well-positioned state elites.

Today, the protagonists of this national drama—Gregório Leão, Ndambi Guebuza, António Carlos do Rosário, Ângela Leão, and others—are free again. A freedom that isn't scandalous because it's legal, but because it's morally offensive. The question that lingers is: was the trial truly about justice, or just a performance for the world to see?

The answer seems increasingly clear. The trial, which was even broadcast live, was marketed to the public as a symbol of a new era of accountability. However, the facts show that it was a carefully scripted ploy to appease international creditors, especially the IMF and the World Bank. These organizations had suspended foreign aid to the country, demanding criminal accountability as a precondition for reopening credit lines.

It was in this context that one of the biggest media spectacles on the African continent took place: a makeshift court, lengthy hearings, and the apparent rigor of justice. However, as soon as external interest was satisfied, and the international spotlight dimmed, everything returned to normal. The convicts were gradually released from prison, and the narrative of exemplary punishment was replaced by technical justifications and controversial judicial decisions. Everything indicates that the system merely gave in momentarily, only to subsequently reinforce the walls of impunity.

What's at stake here is not just the embezzled funds, but the governance model that has crystallized in Mozambique. Frelimo, the party in power since independence, demonstrated alarming moral resilience in this episode. It turned its cadres into voluntary martyrs to preserve institutional legitimacy before international partners, subsequently guaranteeing them a return to a life of comfort. This choreography of sacrifice and reward represents a deeply ingrained political rationality: crime pays, as long as party loyalty is maintained.

The social consequences are devastating. The diverted resources could have been used for healthcare, education, basic infrastructure, and job creation. Instead, they served to finance a cycle of illicit enrichment that keeps the elites at the top and pushes millions of Mozambicans to the margins of survival. The debt, still outstanding, falls on all taxpayers today—many of whom lack even access to clean water or functioning hospitals.

In this climate of widespread disillusionment, the newspaper Jornal Preto e Branco conducted a survey following the release of prisoners owed hidden debts: "Do you think the Mozambican state should recover part of the looted assets?" Of the 36 responses collected, 80.6% said "Yes," 16.7% "No," and 2.8% said "No opinion." These numbers, while symbolic, echo a national sentiment: the justice system in Mozambique is technically and ethically bankrupt.

The survey's results are not surprising. We live in a time when trust in institutions is eroded. The Executive, Legislative, and Judicial branches are perceived as tentacles of a single political body, shackled by private interests and electoral calculations. The separation of powers, a fundamental principle of democracy, has become an abstract concept, repeated in speeches and official documents, but rarely practiced.

In countries where the state is strong but democracy is weak, justice isn't blind; it sees its allies. The conditional release of those implicated in the hidden debts case, coupled with the lack of real measures to recover the misappropriated assets, shows that the punishment was more symbolic than substantial. Prisoners were imprisoned to appease; they were released to preserve.

The freedom of those involved also casts a shadow over the role of international institutions. While the IMF and the World Bank were decisive in cutting off funding, their subsequent rapprochement, without demanding real reparations for the damages, sends an ambiguous message. After all, the illusion of justice was enough to reopen the doors to funding. This legitimizes, in practice, the logic of judicial pretense as a bargaining chip.

Furthermore, there is a moral and symbolic question: what does it mean for a young Mozambican to see that the embezzlement of millions of dollars can not only go unpunished but also guarantee prestige and later comfort? What message is conveyed to a generation growing up amid unemployment, violence, and precariousness? In a country where merit is the exception and cronyism the rule, cynicism becomes the only philosophy of survival.

Perhaps the greatest tragedy is not the theft itself, but the normalization of theft. Mozambique is becoming a laboratory for how corruption can be institutionalized under the guise of legality. Public hearings, sentences, and reports—all carefully written—create an appearance of rigor that disguises the hollowing out of the very concept of justice.

The case of hidden debts is not closed. There are still scores to settle, memories to recover, and assets to return. But as long as the faces of corruption are welcomed back into freedom with the same pomp they once displayed in public office, the wound will remain open. And the scar, when it finally appears, will be the silent testimony of a country that knew everything, saw everything, but chose to do nothing.