The bloody acacias of xilunguíni

Paulo Vilanculo "

The term "Xilunguíni" originates from the Changana language and literally means "place of the Balungu," meaning white people. The history of Xilunguíni, under colonial and white rule, KaPhumo was an ancestral and Black city dating back to the period of the first European presence in the lands of Delagoa Bay in the 16th century. It was particularly notable for the Portuguese and other Arab, Indian, and Dutch traders and explorers who passed through before the systematic Portuguese occupation in the establishment of a military and trading post in 1781. This settlement was further regulated after the signing of agreements with the British crown in the 19th century that defined the contours of the colonial occupation. In 1876, the settlement was elevated to a town with the name of Lourenço Marques, in honor of the 16th-century Portuguese navigator who explored the Mozambican coast. In 1887, Lourenço Marques was elevated to city status, becoming the capital of the colony of Mozambique in 1898, replacing the Island of Mozambique. For centuries, this coastal region, with Delagoa Bay and Maputo Bay, was inhabited by Tsonga and Ronga communities, organized into lineages led by traditional leaders such as Mpfumo, whose lineage is still recognized as the traditional authority of the area. The name KaPhumo, the traditional name used by the Ronga/Tsonga communities to designate the area where Maputo is today, refers to the traditional authority of the Phumo clan, established in the region before colonization, even during the Portuguese occupation. The authority of the Phumo ruler was recognized symbolically, although devoid of real power. With independence on June 25, 1975, the colonial name Lourenço Marques was abolished and replaced by Maputo. Contemporary Maputo, born of post-independence euphoria, promised to be a liberated city. The new name was inspired by the Maputo River, but also as a way to erase the colonial legacy and make room for a new identity narrative. The analogy of Xilunguíni, Ka Phumo and Maputo, the "city of bloody acacias", allows us to construct a critical and in-depth reading of the historical, symbolic and political trajectory of the Mozambican capital, a city marked by conquest, erasure and cyclical violence.The acacias, robust and flowering trees, a symbol of the urban landscape, now witness the bloodshed in their shadows and have become silent witnesses to the shootings, insecurity, and institutionalized fear. The acacias, once a symbol of life, shade, and urban flourishing, are now stained with the blood of their children, victims of a state whose uniform should protect, not exterminate. The "acacias," a metaphor for the city adorned with natural beauty, have now given birth to bloody monsters. In recent days, in the acacia groves of Xilunguíni, Maputo, has been the scene of shootings involving officers of the Republic of Mozambique Police, sometimes as victims, sometimes as protagonists. Maputo is today the city of betrayed promises and torn memories. In Maputo, the crack of gunshots no longer frightens, but merely confirms the foreboding of those who, each morning, say goodbye to their homes with their hearts pressed against the stray bullet. The mood is somber. The avenues burn with whispers, and every corner hides a new fear. The population, held hostage by armed gangs and undisciplined uniforms, no longer knows who to trust. The bloodbath has become a hallmark of the capital's daily life. Just another night of gunfire and the promise that tomorrow could be worse. No names, no public autopsies, no trials. According to popular reports and social media reports, the recent armed clashes, many of which were led by individuals identified as members of the defense and security forces, have left a trail of bodies and questions. Mourning weapons are loose, acacia trees have given birth to mountains and rats, the so-called blood whales, a dark time for the city of Maputo. In one of the most shocking cases, police officers are shot in broad daylight by as-yet-unidentified individuals, on public roads or in residential areas. Images that have circulated show bodies lying on the street, an unmistakable sign of the trivialization of death. When justice and security agencies themselves, supposed guarantors of order and law, silence or conceal information about serious crimes, especially against their own officers or citizens, this reveals a deinstitutionalization of the rule of law. The failure to immediately acknowledge victims, the cover-up of facts, the erasure of faces, and the whitewashing of responsibility by death squads reveal the establishment of a culture of official impunity in Mozambique. The denial of immediate recognition of those murdered and the constant absence of public investigations expose the tacit and active existence of squads to "cleanse" or silence uncomfortable voices beyond any authority. When murders are not investigated, the culprits are neither found nor tried, and institutional leaders remain untouchable, the message is clear: crime pays, as long as it has political cover. This creates a mafia-like system of power, where impunity serves as protection for those "inside" and as silent punishment for those "outside" or "against." The (non)existence of "secret files," "untouchable files," and "off-the-radar agents" reveals that the transition of power was never accompanied by a transition of values. The whitewashing of criminal records—that is, the disappearance or manipulation of the records of implicated individuals—and the erasure of evidence are practices that expose the existence of mafia networks within state institutions. The city is sick. The state appears to operate outside the law, acting more as a criminal actor than as a protector of public order. The direct result is the collapse of the legitimacy of the institutions of the Interior and Justice, which are now seen as instruments of selective repression rather than as bodies of public protection and arbitration. This fuels community self-defense, popular vigilante justice, and widespread fear, eroding the country's social and civic foundations. The alarm this scenario raises is profound, systemic, and dangerous for any society that claims to be even minimally democratic and just. In a country where justice is a privilege and silence is a form of survival, the shootings in Maputo are more than isolated crimes; they are symptoms of a moral and institutional collapse. Mozambique cannot continue to coexist with violence under the complicit silence of its ministers. The Minister of the Interior, for his part, merely promises investigations, while the PRM issues statements that neither convince nor clarify. The official narrative, as always, stumbles on transparency, while the people bury their own in silence and anger. The lack of ethical and structural renewal of the Ministries of the Interior and Justice, where faces change but methods remain, demonstrates an authoritarian legacy that permeates governments and presidents, becoming a culture of the regime. This points to a capture of the state apparatus by obscure interests, where crime is protected from within. The city of Maputo, today with its blood-stained acacia trees, is a reflection of a country that urgently needs to demilitarize justice and moralize the interior, before silence becomes the norm and fear replaces citizenship. Its soil, watered by innocent blood, cries out for urgent reforms. If those in charge continue to cover the sun with a sieve, ignoring the rot spreading through police stations, barracks, and offices, the risk is that the acacia trees will cease to be trees and become standing tombs, markers of our daily tragedy.

2025/12/3