Yellow Card for the Attorney General's Office: Between Positive Signs and the Difficulty of Breaking Free from the Chains of the System

"Society may not have proof of who killed Elvino and Paulo, but it knows very well that it was the electoral truth that precipitated their deaths."

In recent months, the Attorney General's Office (PGR) has sought to present the country with signs of a new institutional posture. Recent news of arrests, investigations, and accountability in sensitive sectors such as the National Social Security Institute (INSS) and the Tax Authority, as well as the drastic reduction in seizures, have been received by many citizens as indications that the justice system may finally be awakening to a serious fight against corruption and abuse of public power. In a country tired of scandals without consequences, any gesture of firmness deserves to be recognized.

It is fair to admit that combating economic crime requires courage, technical expertise, and independence, as the pressure comes from the same leaders who established the Attorney General's Office. When state structures decide to confront established networks of embezzlement, influence peddling, or illicit enrichment, as well as international drug trafficking networks, they provide a valuable service to the Republic. Therefore, it would be intellectually dishonest to deny that there are positive signs that should be valued. The country needs strong, active, and respected institutions.

However, the credibility of an institution is not measured solely by the processes in which it acts with visibility. It is measured, above all, by how it confronts the most delicate, dangerous, and politically sensitive cases. It is in moments of increased pressure that the true independence of a Public Prosecutor's Office is revealed. And it is precisely at this point that the biggest warning sign for the Attorney General's Office emerges: its actions surrounding the deaths of Elvino Dias and Paulo Guambe. I have no doubt that this is the cross that Letela and his team will have to bear, as it seems to be the sacrifice the regime demanded so that everyone would remain on board and benefit from the perks of controlling the state.

From now on, given the enormous public impact of these deaths, society expected rigorous investigations, responsible communication, and a transparent search for the truth. Instead, the country was confronted with a perplexing narrative: the hypothesis that both had been murdered by Nini Satar, who was then incarcerated. Far from reassuring public opinion, this version opened up a succession of logical, legal, and institutional doubts. The feeling is one of glaring perplexity, as no Mozambican expected Letela to go so far, although he didn't say so categorically, and even with a troubled expression, he seemed willing to take on the role of captain to save the crew. But a harsh truth must be raised: Letela cannot be honest in what he says, even if he wanted to; it would be a contradiction to go against the person who entrusted him with such an important position. This is the logic in dictatorial regimes disguised as democracies, where there is no separation of powers.

If a citizen deprived of liberty, under the direct custody of the State, allegedly possessed the operational capacity to order or execute crimes of this magnitude, then the problem goes beyond the case itself. It means that the prison system would be profoundly vulnerable to capture by criminal networks. It means that inmates would have means of command, communication, and influence incompatible with any minimal notion of state authority. In short, it means that the State has lost control of spaces that it should govern entirely.

And if this scenario were true, a second question becomes inevitable: where was the oversight? Where were the internal control mechanisms? Who facilitated contacts, movements, orders, or information flows? Who is politically and criminally responsible for such institutional degradation? None of these questions can be ignored.

Therefore, for many opinion circles, the hypothesis announced by the Attorney General's Office sounded less like clarification and more like serious nonsense. Instead of reinforcing public confidence, it worsened the perception of confusion and improvisation. Instead of illuminating the facts, it obscured them. Instead of bringing justice closer to the truth, it distanced it even further.

There is no shortage of voices interpreting this narrative as what journalist Salomão Moiane calls a "flight forward": constructing a noisy, media-friendly, and sufficiently shocking explanation to divert attention from the essential questions. This is a well-known strategy in fragile institutional environments: when the core of the problem cannot be addressed, a side version is produced that can occupy the public debate.

This interpretation gains strength because the narrative shifts the focus of the discussion to a figure historically associated with the world of organized crime. In doing so, the Attorney General's Office seems to suggest that everything can be explained by the actions of a character already stigmatized in the collective imagination. This simplifies the debate, reduces complexities, and offers the public an easily recognizable culprit. But serious justice is not achieved with convenient characters. It is achieved with solid evidence.

There is also an additional element that makes everything more sensitive: Nini Satar himself would also die in circumstances considered strange by several observers. Thus, by placing him at the center of an already contested narrative, the Attorney General's Office risks burying its credibility even further, instead of rebuilding it.

This episode fuels a growing perception in different sectors of society: that the Public Prosecutor's Office is too close to the political system and insufficiently detached from the interests of those in power. The independence of the Public Prosecutor's Office is not proclaimed in speeches; it is demonstrated in concrete, consistent, and balanced decisions. When this fails, suspicion arises.

Suspicion intensifies when comparing the speed and energy employed in certain processes with the slowness observed in others. Many point, for example, to the indictment of Venâncio Mondlane, accused of being the mastermind behind political demonstrations against alleged electoral fraud, as a sign of bias. Regardless of each citizen's party affiliation, the central problem is the unequal criteria.

A swift justice system for opponents and a hesitant one for influential figures is not justice: it is selective administration of the law. A Prosecutor's Office that appears harsh towards dissent and excessively cautious towards politically sensitive crimes compromises its democratic legitimacy.

This is precisely why progress in corruption cases at the INSS (National Social Security Institute) or the Tax Authority, while positive, is not enough to resolve the crisis of confidence. Combating economic crimes is important, but it does not replace the obligation to solve violent crimes. Arresting corrupt managers is relevant, but it does not compensate for the inability to offer convincing answers when human lives are lost in controversial contexts.

The moral hierarchy of the rule of law demands clarity on this point: the right to life and the punishment of politically sensitive homicides occupy a central place. When society feels that these cases are handled opacibly, the entire institutional edifice trembles.

Therefore, social silence would be a grave mistake. Citizens, jurists, journalists, academics, and civic organizations must continue to demand serious explanations, independent investigations, and accountability. Healthy democracies depend on institutions monitored by public scrutiny.

The Attorney General's Office (PGR) must be the primary guardian of legality, impartiality, and justice. It must protect the Constitution, not short-term conveniences. It must serve the people, not factions. It must pursue the truth, not fabricate flimsy narratives.

The yellow card presented here is not against the existence of the institution, nor against the honest professionals who work there. It is a warning against institutional capture, against selectivity, and against the normalization of impunity. It is a reminder that public trust, once lost, is very difficult to regain.

Mozambique deserves a free, technically competent, and politically independent Public Prosecutor's Office. It deserves a justice system that does not fear powerful figures, that does not seek scapegoats, and that does not use the weight of the law as an instrument of convenience. Above all, it deserves truth for the families of the victims and legal security for the whole of society.

As long as contradictory narratives, unconvincing investigations, and signs of bias persist, the yellow card will remain raised. Because where justice is lacking, impunity grows. And where impunity grows, the Republic weakens..