…when the law becomes the crime
THE death of Poulo Ramangoaela in police custody in Teyateyaneng is tragic, horrifying and depressingly familiar. It is not shocking because it is new. It is shocking because it is normalised.
For years, Basotho have been fed the same tired script: suspects “fell ill”, “sustained injuries before arrest”, or “died while receiving treatment”.
Meanwhile, families bury their loved ones, cases gather dust, and the Lesotho Mounted Police Service (LMPS) carries on largely untouched.
The Poulo case fits neatly into this disturbing pattern. A young man enters police custody alive and relatively healthy. Days later, he is dead. His brother, instead of being protected as a complainant, is arrested while attempting to open a case against the police. Their mother now lives in fear, convinced that her family is being bullied into silence.
This is not an isolated incident. Police brutality is a deeply embedded human rights crisis, characterised by torture, unlawful killings and excessive force. What makes it worse is not only the violence itself, but the near-total absence of accountability. Investigations are routinely delayed, internal processes are opaque and officers accused of grave crimes often remain on duty, sometimes even promoted.
The Teyateyaneng incident is therefore not “news” in the strict sense. It is simply the latest chapter in a long, ugly story. What was surprising, however, was the 2019 Hlotse case, where former Leribe CID boss, Superintendent ’Mabohlokoa Makotoko, and seven subordinates were charged for the alleged murder of three civilians who died in holding cells. That moment briefly raised public hope that the culture of impunity might finally be cracking.
But that hope was short-lived, with allegations that Makotoko must have fallen out with her bosses and was being “fixed” by being charged.
This because serious allegations have continued to surface, including claims that Police Commissioner Advocate Borotho Matsoso refused to charge six officers accused of murdering an inmate in Quthing, despite a clear directive from the Director of Public Prosecutions in July 2024. When even DPP instructions can be ignored without consequence, it becomes clear that the problem is not a few “rogue officers”, it is systemic rot.
In the Ramangoaela matter, Berea District Police Commander, Senior Superintendent Kabelo Halahala, insists that Poulo and Retšelisitsoe were injured during a tavern fight. Yet the detailed and consistent account provided by their mother paints a far darker picture of alleged beatings with spades, knobkerries and iron rods, a so-called “torture room” within police premises, prolonged shackling that prevented medical treatment, and internal injuries so severe that doctors later described Poulo’s organs as having “turned to porridge”.
The police’s version of events has not only failed to convince the family, but has also triggered widespread public backlash. After the LMPS circulated information on Facebook claiming that Poulo had been sick and that his brother Retšelisitsoe was arrested for the attempted murder of a police officer following the tavern altercation, social media erupted. Commenters accused the police of spinning the story to sanitise a custodial death and shield the institution from accountability. To many Basotho, the narrative appeared less like an explanation and more like damage control — a familiar attempt to rewrite events before an independent investigation could take shape.
That public anger is telling. It reflects a deep and growing distrust of official police statements, born out of years of contradictions, cover-ups and unpunished abuses. The reflex to “sweep it under the carpet” is by now a well-practised art within the police command.
This culture of denial and deflection is dangerous. It erodes public trust, fuels anger and ultimately undermines the rule of law. When the police — the very institution tasked with protecting citizens — are perceived as a threat, society begins to fray. People stop reporting crimes, resort to vigilantism, or suffer in silence, convinced that justice is not for the poor and powerless.
So what should happen?
First, there must be independent investigations into all deaths and serious injuries in police custody. Not internal probes. Not polite inquiries led by colleagues. Truly independent bodies such as the commission of inquiry which had probed the Lesotho Correctional Service last year.
Second, officers implicated in torture or custodial deaths must be immediately suspended, not reshuffled. Keeping suspects in uniform sends a chilling message to victims and witnesses.
Third, the DPP’s authority must be respected and enforced. Any police commander who defies lawful prosecutorial directives should face disciplinary and criminal consequences.
Fourth, Parliament and civil society must push for the strengthening of police oversight mechanisms, including revisiting the independence and effectiveness of the Police Complaints Authority.
It is totally wrong to label brutality as “normal”. Every silence, every shrug, every forgotten case strengthens the hand that beats the next suspect.
Poulo’s death should not become just another statistic. It should be a line in the sand. If the state cannot protect citizens in its custody, then it has failed at the most basic level. Justice delayed is justice denied, but justice buried is a crime in itself.
