Paschalino Cefai, Mario Mifsud ‘make peace’ in front of magistrate

Paschalino Cefai and Mario Mifsud, two names that have dominated Maltese headlines for weeks, stepped out of the shadows of Valletta’s law courts yesterday and into an unexpected embrace that left onlookers whispering like extras on a film set. Moments earlier, both men had formally withdrawn their respective charges—Cefai’s accusation of assault and Mifsud’s counter-claim of defamation—before Magistrate Rachel Montebello. The handshake was firm, the smiles tentative, but the message clear: the feud that had electrified village bars and family WhatsApp groups was over.

The quarrel began last October at the Festa ta’ San Pawl in Rabat, when Cefai, a veteran fireworks artisan from Żebbuġ, publicly accused Mifsud, a Gozitan entrepreneur behind the popular “Ħobża Maltija” food truck chain, of poaching his star petard maker. In true island fashion, the argument spilled from the band-club balcony into Facebook comment sections, radio phone-ins, and eventually the police blotter. Charges flew faster than Catherine wheels; memes followed.

Malta’s festa season is no mere calendar of fireworks and brass bands—it is the pulse of community identity. Families plot their summer holidays around their village’s titular saint, and allegiances to competing band clubs can be fiercer than any Premier League rivalry. Cefai’s “Tal-Karmnu” factory has crafted pyrotechnics for 47 consecutive Marches of St Joseph; losing a key technician to a commercially savvy upstart felt, to many Żebbuġi locals, like cultural treason. Mifsud, meanwhile, argued he was simply offering better pay and health insurance—“a modern employer in an old-world trade,” as he told NET TV last month.

Yesterday’s reconciliation did not happen in a vacuum. Behind the scenes, Archbishop Charles Scicluna’s envoy, Fr Joe Mizzi, mediated for ten days, shuttling between Mifsud’s Għajnsielem office and Cefai’s workshop smelling of gunpowder and pastizzi. “We reminded them that Saint Paul himself preached unity,” Fr Mizzi said, referencing the very saint whose feast sparked the row. “In small islands, forgiveness is survival.”

The courtroom corridor buzzed with relatives clutching rosaries and reporters live-tweeting every blink. When the magistrate confirmed the case was “withdrawn and extinguished,” Cefai turned to Mifsud: “Ejja, let’s have a Kinnie.” They walked together to a nearby kiosk, ordered two cold bottles, and posed for selfies that instantly trended under #MaltaReunites. By sunset, the photo had been re-shared by Prime Minister Robert Abela, who wrote, “This is the Malta we love—where disagreements end with a toast, not a tribunal.”

Local businesses quickly capitalised. Ħobża Maltija announced a limited-edition “Pace Pie”—a flaky pastry filled with ricotta, peas, and a dash of edible gold dust “to remind us every quarrel can turn golden.” Meanwhile, the Żebbuġ fireworks committee invited Mifsud to light the first wheel at next weekend’s feast, an olive branch wrapped in magnesium. “We’ll make it the brightest wheel in history,” Cefai promised, eyes twinkling like the fountains he builds.

Beyond the feel-good optics, the episode highlights a deeper Maltese truth: we argue loudly because the stakes are personal. A village festa is not just spectacle; it is genealogy, memory, pride. When Cefai and Mifsud hugged yesterday, they acknowledged that shared heritage outweighs private grievance. Their truce sends a signal to other feuding factions—whether over hunting zones, band-club marches, or parking spots outside pastizzerias—that dialogue can prevail.

As dusk settled over Grand Harbour, the bells of St Paul’s Shipwreck Church rang out, echoing across the limestone bastions. Somewhere in Rabat, volunteers were already repainting the street arches for next week’s celebrations, this time adding a fresh slogan beneath the coloured bulbs: “F’Malta, ilkoll aħwa.” In Malta, we are all brothers. And for one balmy April evening, the islands believed it.