When the state perpetuates gangsterism 

THE theft of state firearms by national security agents is basically an act of profound betrayal of the Constitution by those entrusted to protect it. 

The latest allegations that members of the Lesotho Defence Force (LDF) siphoned weapons from state armouries and sold them to famo gangs – infamously known for mass killings of civilians – mark a dangerous new low in Lesotho’s long-running security crisis. When the guardians of the state become suppliers of violence, the very foundation of the nation is shaken. 

At stake here is far more than missing rifles and pistols. What is imperilled is public trust, national security, and the fragile social order in communities already terrorised by these famo gangsters who engage in organised criminal violence. 

Both Basotho and South Africans have been living in fear for the longest time, due to the mass killings committed by famo gangs within various communities. 

And now the reports that high-calibre weapons such as AK-47s, Galil rifles and pistols were systematically stolen, reassembled and trafficked under the noses of military and police command structures send a chilling message: that parts of the state have become complicit, actively or through negligence, in fuelling the bloodshed that claims innocent lives. 

This scandal does not exist in isolation. It fits into a disturbing and well-documented pattern in which state firearms, once locked away in police stations and armouries, resurface in the hands of gangsters, illegal miners and private militias. Police officers have previously been convicted, dismissed or investigated for similar offences, with only a fraction of stolen weapons ever recovered. The alleged entry of soldiers into this criminal trade represents a grave escalation. The military is meant to be the last line of defence of the state. When that line is compromised, the consequences are dire. 

The repercussions are immediate and severe. Every stolen firearm multiplies the capacity for murder, intimidation and lawlessness. It entrenches organised crime, escalates inter-community conflict and leaves ordinary Basotho less safe in their homes, villages and businesses. Communities living under the shadow of famo gangs will now justifiably fear that the guns pointed at them may once have been state property. Law-abiding citizens are left asking a painful but unavoidable question: if criminals are armed by those in uniform, who, then, is protecting us? 

Internationally, the damage is no less serious. Lesotho already struggles with a reputation for weak institutions and fragile security-sector governance. Allegations that military weapons are leaking into criminal markets, possibly even across borders, undermine confidence among regional partners and investors alike. A state that cannot secure its own armouries cannot credibly claim control over its territory or its monopoly on the legitimate use of force. 

Perhaps the most corrosive impact is internal. This scandal sends a devastating message to honest officers within the police and the army: that discipline is optional, that loyalty to the constitution is negotiable, and that criminal enterprise can coexist with a uniform and a salary. Left unchecked, such a culture of impunity will hollow out the security services from within, replacing professionalism with cynicism and fear. 

Prime Minister Sam Matekane cannot afford to treat this matter as just another police docket. As both head of government and Minister of Defence, responsibility ultimately rests with him. This is a moment that demands decisive political leadership. 

First, there must be an unequivocal public condemnation from Mr Matekane himself, affirming that the theft of state arms is an attack on the nation, not merely an internal disciplinary issue. The country needs reassurance that its leader understands the gravity of what has occurred and recognises it as a threat to national security and constitutional order. 

Second, investigations must proceed without fear or favour, regardless of rank, political connections or past service. If serving soldiers, retired officers, police officials, politicians or members of private security details are implicated, they must all face the full force of the law. Anything less will confirm public suspicions that there are untouchables within the system and that justice is selective. 

Third, the government must urgently overhaul armoury management and oversight across both the LDF and the Lesotho Mounted Police Service. Modern inventory controls, digital tracking of weapons, independent audits, lifestyle checks and severe penalties for negligence are no longer optional reforms; they are necessities. The repeated claim that weapons simply “went missing” over time has lost all credibility. 

Fourth, command accountability must be enforced. Where systemic failures occur, senior officers cannot hide behind the convenient fiction of “rogue elements”. Leadership means responsibility, and responsibility must have consequences. If armouries have been bleeding weapons over years, then command structures have failed, and that failure must be acknowledged and corrected. 

Finally, there must be a broader reckoning with the militarisation of politics and private security in Lesotho. The presence of heavily armed bodyguards around politicians, some allegedly carrying state weapons, dangerously blurs the line between lawful protection and private militias. That line must be redrawn clearly and enforced without exception. 

This crisis is not just about guns; it is about who controls violence in society. Either the state reasserts its authority now, or it concedes ground to criminals armed with its own weapons. History shows that once such ground is lost, it is paid for in blood. 

Lesotho stands at a crossroads. This scandal can either become another forgotten chapter in a long book of impunity, or it can mark the moment when the state finally chose to defend itself from its enemies, and from betrayal within. The choice belongs to those in power. The consequences will be borne by the nation.