On the morning I decided to go look for fuel, Machava already looked like a cemetery of engines. It was not exactly silence. It was worse. There were hysterical horns, minibuses coughing black smoke, passengers squeezed together like wet clothes, badjia vendors shouting in the middle of the queues, motorbikes invading pavements, and men carrying empty containers like modern pilgrims chasing a liquid miracle.
My blue twenty-litre fuel can became the most important object in my life. More important than my salary. More important than my bank card. More important even than hope itself. It was in that infernal queue that I met Jamal.
He had come from Nampula six years earlier, but he still spoke as if he were sitting on the ground of a khangala in Namicopo. Thin, always smiling, owner of that loud joy typical of people who learned early that life only avoids complete madness because people laugh.
He carried three yellow containers tied together with rope. When he got close to the line he asked loudly:
— Chiefs… are they selling fuel here or distributing suffering?
Some people laughed. Others did not even have the energy for that. Jamal lifted one of the containers and asked:
— Who’s the last person with a jerrycan, my brothers?
A man immediately turned around:
— It’s not a jerrycan, my friend. Here in Maputo we call it a fuel can.
Jamal made a serious face.
— Fuel can is what, man? Name of a singer?
The whole queue exploded in laughter. From that day on, half the petrol station started debating the linguistics of fuel containers. In the South they said “fuel can.” Jamal insisted on “jerrycan.”
— Back home this is a jerrycan.
— This is not Nampula.
— The fuel is not from here either and everybody is looking for it.
Silence. The man had no answer. Because humour sometimes humiliates more than an argument.
As the days passed, Jamal became famous in the queues. He moved from petrol station to petrol station offering hustles to unemployed youths.
— You got strong legs?
He would ask.
— I do.
— Then carry two jerrycans and go search for fuel in Matola.
And so a new national profession was born: fuel hunter. Young people crossed the whole city carrying empty fuel cans or jerrycans. Some walked for kilometres. Others slept in queues. Others memorised secret delivery schedules like students preparing for final exams. And others simply camped there…
Maputo had turned into a treasure hunt. Except the treasure smelled of petrol or diesel. And it was sold by the litre.
The unemployed discovered business inside the crisis. Some charged money to hold places in the queue. Others rented out containers. Some pushed dead cars without fuel. Others sold information:
— They say a truck arrived on Julius Nyerere.
— They say they are only serving connected people there.
— They say the fuel was diverted to Zimbabwe.
In Mozambique, whenever transparency disappears, a parallel market of imagination is immediately born. Jamal loved commenting on everything.
— This country is very funny, man… we have more gossip than fuel.
On the radio, ministers appeared with calm voices:
— The country has sufficient fuel in its reserves.
The whole queue listened to that like people listening to dark comedy. Because in front of the petrol stations, reality was different. Minibus drivers slept inside their vehicles so they would not lose their place in the queue. Workers walked kilometres because there were no minibuses. Passengers fought for space like urban refugees. Ambulances, firefighters and police got trapped in traffic. Children arrived late to school. Patients arrived late to hospitals. But the Government kept insisting:
— There is sufficient fuel.
Jamal shook his head:
— Then their fuel went to work alone, because it never appears at the petrol stations.
The whole city began to look like a traffic-jammed photograph. Cars parked on pavements. Vehicles abandoned at house entrances. Motorbikes stranded across the avenues.
— Huummm… the other day we saw a car stopped in front of the cemetery funeral parlour…
Jamal commented immediately:
— Even the brothers who already died must wait for fuel before dying.
The queue almost collapsed from laughter. Mozambican humour is dangerous. The more the people laugh, the closer they are to collapse.
By midday, the queue stretched beyond seven blocks. SEVEN.
Meanwhile, discreet men filled their tanks without limits. Luxury vehicles appeared, crossed invisible queues, and disappeared with full tanks. Maybe coincidence.
In Mozambique, coincidence is just corruption wearing expensive perfume.
That day, after nine hours of waiting, my turn finally arrived. The petrol attendant looked at my container.
— How many litres?
Before I could answer, Jamal interrupted:
— Brother, put twenty in my jerrycan, man. Just a little.
The attendant became irritated:
— Friend, that is a fuel can!
Jamal crossed his arms dramatically.
— Brother… there is not enough fuel in the whole country and you still want to change the name of my suffering?
Even the attendant laughed. But then he sighed:
— We can only give ten litres.
TEN.
I watched the petrol slowly entering my blue container like an IV drip entering a terminal patient. Beside me, a man in a luxury vehicle filled up without limits while talking on the phone about “business.” Jamal slowly approached and whispered:
— Mozambique, man, has two queues. Ours… and the other queue for dangerous lazy bandits.
I picked up my fuel can. Or jerrycan. At that moment the name no longer mattered. What mattered was survival.
As we returned home through the motionless traffic, we saw young men running from station to station looking for hustles, carrying empty containers on their backs like soldiers in an absurd war. And maybe they truly were.
Because in that surreal Mozambique, fuel had stopped being just fuel. It had become currency. Power. Privilege. And above all, hope.
That was when I realised: the real crisis was not only the lack of petrol or diesel. It was an entire country pushing cars, minibuses and dreams… while a few continue driving with full tanks and the people distracted arguing whether the thing is called a fuel can or a jerrycan…
Oro Wa Ka Munguambe
May, 2026
Maputo
