[Toxic Bank Loans, Fees, and Profitable Contracts...] Lakwizinn: The Well-Oiled System That Turned the State into an ATM for the Power Elite

For a decade, a consistent pattern has emerged, to the point of becoming a signature: under the MSM government, especially during Pravind Jugnauth's leadership (after SAJ), the state coffers seemed to function like a money pump serving a select circle. This system, known as "Lakwizinn," is now revealed through a series of scandals, investigations, and damning figures that expose a perfectly locked mechanism, alarmingly profitable for those on the "right side" of power.

The fees collected by Ravi Yerrigadoo, exceeding Rs 32.2 million between 2017 and 2024, are merely the tip of a vast iceberg. Recent figures unveil a logic of internal redistribution, where public funds did not circulate based on the country's needs but rather on political intimacy. The case of Shamila Sonah Ori is emblematic: nearly Rs 84.7 million in fees, allowances, and claims. An astounding amount, unimaginable in favor of Kobita Jugnauth's cousin and personal advisor to Pravind Jugnauth. Similarly, Satar Hajee Abdoula reportedly received around Rs 287.2 million, almost equivalent to a ministerial budget.

At the heart of this scheme, public and para-statal banks have also played a crucial role. The Maradiva affair has become a symbol of this modus operandi. How did "Dhyanavartam Ltd," owner of the Maradiva hotel, manage to secure nearly Rs 470 million in loans from the State Bank of Mauritius and the Mauritius Investment Corporation when the company was financially drained? The arrests of Sanjiv Ramdanee and the former CEO of SBM, Premchand Mungur, now open a window into what seems to have long been a taboo: were these decisions influenced by connections, pressures, or family interests? The question of the ultimate beneficiary of the loan remains open—and pressing.

While institutions attempted to justify the unjustifiable, other episodes added layers of opacity: a suitcase containing Rs 114 million, so far unexplained, has never been dissociated from Pravind Jugnauth's name in public debate. A suitcase that still symbolizes the possibility of parallel wealth, circulating outside the state and away from the citizens' gaze.

For many observers, this is no longer a series of isolated scandals but a demonstration of a well-organized, coherent, and structural system. A system described as "mafioso," where the state served as a safe, a slush fund, and a toolkit for a clan. A phrase attributed to the former Prime Minister resonates particularly in this context: "That public money, I treat it as my own money." More than a reassurance, as he wanted to make believe, this phrase summarizes a philosophy of management—or rather appropriation—of public funds.

The lingering questions reveal the extent of the malaise: did these funds serve to enrich individuals, consolidate the Sun Trust empire, or create an electoral reserve? Where is this money today? Is it still in the Mauritian financial circuit, or has it crossed borders? All of these areas of uncertainty must be clarified by current investigations.

Meanwhile, Mauritians are paying the price. The billions squandered on dubious fees, toxic loans, and unproductive contracts—such as the Pulse Analytics fiasco—are now resulting in record public debt and unbearable living costs, with public services deteriorating year after year.

One year after the government change, the country continues to uncover, piece by piece, the architecture of a system where political power seemed less about governance and more about redistributing public wealth to a close circle. Investigations are just beginning. But one thing is already certain: this system, as it appears through the accumulated files, has not only weakened institutions. It has widened the gap between politics and the population, a financial, social, and moral chasm. And it will take more than promises to bridge it.