LESOTHO continues to grapple with the ugly scourge of mob justice — an instinctive, emotional, and often irrational resort to violence that has left countless innocent people dead, families shattered and communities traumatized by acts that can never be undone.
Far too often, allegations of witchcraft, petty disputes, jealousy or rumours are all it takes for a crowd to erupt into unlawful rage. In the process, people lose not only their lives, but also their dignity, their property, and their futures.
The courts, therefore, have an obligation to send a strong, unequivocal message that mob justice will never be tolerated.
Recent judgments, both the September ruling in the Makhetha murders and the imminent verdict in the Sefikeng case, signal the judiciary’s growing insistence that the rule of law must prevail over chaos, fear and superstition.
Last week, Justice Tšeliso Mokoko reserved judgment in a horrifying case involving the 2020 mob killing of traditional healer, Mokola Lebakeng, in Sefikeng, Berea.
Mr Lebakeng was dragged out of his home, brutally assaulted, doused with petrol, and set alight by a crowd accusing him of practising witchcraft, while his brother, Seemane Lebakeng, narrowly escaped. Six of the original 14 accused now await the verdict scheduled for 5 December 2025.
This case, like so many before it, highlights a chilling pattern: a community abandons reason and due process and, instead, succumbs to collective violence driven by fear, jealousy, or fabricated narratives.
The Defence has argued that accused persons’ mere presence at a crime scene does not equate to guilt, and that identification of the culprits was poor. The Crown insists that witness accounts point to coordinated action and common purpose.
Regardless of the legal outcome, what remains clear is that Mr Lebakeng met a violent death at the hands of a mob — a tragic fate that continues to echo across the entire country.
Only two months ago, the High Court delivered a landmark judgment on similar brutality that took place in Ha Lebentlele in 2016, where members of the Makhetha family were murdered in circumstances equally as horrifying.
In her ruling, Justice Mafelile Ralebese sentenced Mathato Mafeisi (56) to life imprisonment without parole for setting Tumane and ’Malethole Makhetha alight before crushing their skulls with a stone. Her co-accused — Nthabiseng Moeti, Tumelo Mafeisi, Ramakula Fusi, Mpho Thamae, Thapelo Moeti, Seema Mafeisi, and Jeremia Fusi —received 45-year sentences each.
This deterrent judgment was not just punishment; it was a necessary moral statement. The judge meticulously broke down how the principle of common purpose applied to each accused, stressing the need for fairness while insisting on the need for deterrence.
Her description of the killings as “gravely senseless and inhumane” was not a hyperbole but an honest reflection of the brutality inflicted.
She reminded the nation that human life is sacred which, once taken, cannot be restored therefore the justice system must treat such acts with the severity they deserve. Her words — that only deterrent sentences can uphold the sanctity of life — ring especially true today.
Perhaps most haunting were the survivors’ testimonies.
Limakatso Makhetha, left permanently disabled and unable to breastfeed, woke up from a coma to learn that she had lost both parents and a sister. Lethole and Matšepiso recounted how she watched their father burn alive while desperately trying to protect a toddler and an unborn child. Their home was reduced to ashes while the family’s vehicle was destroyed and breadwinners were gone in an instant.
These are not just legal cases — they are human catastrophes.
This is precisely why the courts must maintain, and even strengthen, their stance against mob justice. For too long, communities have acted as the judge, the jury, and the executioner, often based on nothing more than rumour, suspicion, or long-held superstitions. Innocent people have died simply because someone envied their success, disliked them, or wished to settle personal grudges under the convenient guise of eradicating “witchcraft.”
In some villages mob justice — with its instant, cruel and utterly lawless punishment — has become an unwritten custom expected to dispense justice. But justice cannot be dispensed by hands fuelled by anger or ignorance. It must be delivered by courts, guided by evidence, reason, and fairness.
The judiciary’s responsibility is heavier now more than ever before. The message must be firm: anyone who participates in mob violence — regardless of age, social status, or alleged motive — will face harsh consequences.
The 45-year sentences handed down in September were not excessive; they were necessary. They signal that “mob psychology” is no excuse, and that accountability cannot be outsourced to irrational crowds.
Communities must also engage in serious introspection. Why do so many Basotho still believe killing is a remedy for fear or suspicion? Why do people so readily pick up and throw stones when confronted with a disagreement or tragedy? And why has the sanctity of life — once deeply rooted in Basotho culture — become negotiable?
While the courts must continue sending strong legal messages, all of us must spread moral lessons within our homes, churches, schools, and councils. The cycle of violence will not break by itself; it requires a deliberate national shift away from superstition-driven vengeance.
As the country awaits Justice Mokoko’s upcoming ruling in the Sefikeng case, one truth is already clear: mob justice destroys not only its victims, but the very fabric of the communities that participate in it. And unless we collectively reject this barbaric instinct, no one is safe.
The rule of law must stand taller than the flames of mob violence. Courts are beginning to show that resolve. Now it is time for society to do the same.
Lekhanya must start preparing for his exit