Imagine a shadowy network lurking in the gleaming towers of Sandton, where boardroom deals turn into market heists. That’s the picture Mantengu Mining paints in its latest shareholder bombshell—a letter backed by a raw YouTube video from CEO Mike Miller, who stares down the camera like a man who’s seen too many close calls. “This isn’t just about our share price,” he says, his voice steady but edged with exhaustion. “It’s about a criminal syndicate that’s turned the JSE into their personal casino.”
The story begins in early 2024, when Mantengu’s stock, riding high on its first profitable half-year and a R500 million funding line from GEM Global Yield, suddenly nosedived. From R1.20 a share to mere cents in days. Miller, a former CFO turned CEO, smelled foul play. Was it market forces? Or something more sinister aimed at derailing the company’s Blue Ridge platinum acquisition? Mantengu launched a private investigation, and what they uncovered reads like a thriller script.
At the core is a sophisticated operation: a syndicate that preys on JSE-listed juniors. Their method? Crash the price through aggressive short-selling, hide control via nominee accounts and round-tripping shares to skirt the 35% mandatory offer threshold. Then, force business rescue or delisting, strip the assets at bargain prices, and recapitalise for profit. Ordinary shareholders get wiped out; the syndicate pockets the loot. Mantengu’s evidence? Over five hours of authenticated recordings where members brag about past conquests. “We own it by Friday—no trace,” one voice chuckles. Add 500 pages of certified transcripts, WhatsApp screenshots of trade orders, and emails laying out the playbook.
One standout: a confession from a delisted company’s ex-CEO. He claims he was cornered—threats of violence unless he helped tank his own stock. In exchange? A luxury vehicle to ease the pain. “They approached shareholders directly, twisted arms,” Miller explains in the video, flipping through redacted pages. “Shares traded for Bentleys or worse.”
But the real shocker hits the JSE itself. A whistleblower slipped Mantengu a series of emails between two board directors and an external party. The threads allegedly include direct instructions to manipulate Mantengu’s price, warnings to “back off” as the company’s probe heated up, and references to payments in untraceable cryptocurrencies like USDT. “Services rendered,” one message reads coldly. Miller reported this to the JSE in February 2025. The response? Silence. “Fobbed off,” he calls it.
Undaunted, Mantengu took it to the Hawks in March. The investigating officer whispered a warning: “This docket might get hijacked.” It did. A brigadier from Randburg SAPS shut it down weeks later. Mantengu refiled in Pretoria, steering clear of Johannesburg’s Sandton, Randburg, and central precincts—zones they say are “heavily influenced” by the syndicate. Why the police involvement? Miller hints at deeper ties, where blue lights protect the perpetrators.
The personal toll? Miller has dodged two assassination attempts since April. A drone buzzed his Limpopo chrome site, capturing footage that felt like reconnaissance. Then, a mock hijacking on the N1 highway—armed men staging a “warning.” “They own the blue lights too,” Miller says, his face paling in the video. “This is a battle for SA’s financial soul.”
On the streets of Johannesburg, whispers swirl about who might be pulling strings. Some point to the Moti Group, Zunaid Moti’s empire, already tangled in Hawks probes for alleged fraud and money-laundering. Could their playbook—nominee tricks, intimidation—be at play here? The recordings don’t name Moti, but the echoes are hard to ignore.
Mantengu’s message is clear: Until the JSE cleans house, think twice about listing. The FSCA’s parallel probe might uncover more, but with dockets vanishing and crypto trails cold, investors are left wondering—who’s really regulating the regulators? Miller ends his video with a plea: “For shareholders, not ego. Let’s expose this before it claims another company.”
