‘I doesn’t care’ too

‘I doesn’t care’ too

LET’S start with life lessons. American comedian Chris Rock says men cannot go back sexually and women can’t go back in lifestyle.
Aunt Muckraker will explain that concept in a jiffy. Wise women know that in bedroom matters you never introduce anything you are not prepared to sustain for as long as the relationship exists.

If you kiss his ears and he likes then it’s on the menu for forever. If you wear stillettos and perform pole dancing then it’s on the menu until you kick him out of both your heart and house.
If he likes the way you rub his back and whisper in his ears then be ready to do it every time. He will demand such mollycoddling at all times and in all places. There are no exceptions to the rule.

Sister, you will toil for your experiments.
And when you refuse to pander to his whims the relationship will quickly sour. He will say you are rebelling, shifting goal posts or doing them to someone else.
“You have changed babie.” He will say those words with a straight face devoid of any shame. Those moustachioed mouths are capable of committing such brazen acts of emotional blackmail.
Basotho men will tell you rudely that you are now ill-treating them.
Those with a sense of humour will say you are changing because you have become too comfortable. One moron told Muckraker that she has become too familiar with him like the path to a VIP toilet.

Men have a way of sulking like kids denied bonbon when you cancel the little goodies from the sexual menu.

Women, on the other hand, will never go back in lifestyle. They never backslide in lifestyle. They are forever looking for the next best thing in life.
Once they date a man with his own car they have no time for anyone who pounds the streets with two sticks from their Maker. Never again will they settle for Mokorotlo FOOT.
If they date a man who has a house they will never deal with one who stays in malaeneng or in his mother’s spare room.
They will never look back to the lowly men they left behind.

Of course, circumstances can force them to settle for less but that doesn’t mean they will be happy. In their mind it’s a temporary setback. They are taking a breather before they reclaim their former glory.

In the meantime they will live in the past because the present is painful. They have a way of soothing themselves with bygones.
Ever wondered why they spend hours gossiping about yesterday’s events.
If you say the holiday will be spent with nosy in-laws in Mafeteng she will quickly recall the romantic vacation she had in Cape Town with you or someone else.
In fights she will remind you how she could have been with someone better if she had not tolerated your silly charms. When bad times hit she will remind you how fabulous her life was before you lost your job.

To her you are a thief of their good times. A robber of dreams. A saboteur of good things. A crocodile infested river on her way to the pleasures of life.
You switched off the electricity to her party. And she will never forgive you or forget the good things of life she used to enjoy.
Even in dark times she always thinks she is just doing a three-point turn back to that splendid life.

She doesn’t have to have lived a particular life style for her to call it hers. Once she had convinced herself that she wants to live in a certain way that’s how she rolls.
So when a woman talks about Generations Legacy, that awfully shallow drama, they are not interested in its artistic value but the life lived by the characters.
That’s her life and if you can’t give it to her you are not working hard enough.
Where you get the money doesn’t bother her.

You can beg, mug people, gamble or be a pimp. It’s your business so long as you bring the money to her.
When she is angry it’s not that she loves you less but that she hates the life you brought her. Nothing scares a woman more than poverty. No wonder they are the most reliable employees.

So where is Muckraker going with this? Well, it is the election we are talking about.
The wives and nyatsis of MPs and ministers should brace themselves for miserable times ahead.
When their men are out of power or parliament those plump behinds will shrink fast.

They will look like gumtrees. Flat! As for yellowbones, there will be no lotion to smear that skin. Slowly, it will become ashen and cracked.
The fingers will be calloused and the nails will look like hacksaw teeth. You will downgrade your makeup to some cheap fongkong powders that will make you look like a ghost.
From Lesotho Avani to the Mama’s. Maseru West to malaeneng. From a mansion to a hovel. Opulent parties to grocery stokvel meetings.

Such is the equalisation power of elections. They have a way of toppling people from high horses and slamming them back to mother earth.
Muckraker is, therefore, kindly advising those nyatsis and wives to start reaching out to friends they had rejected as riffraff. Call those relatives you have been avoiding like a plague since your husband became an MP or minister.

In the meantime you better learn the art of eating Makoenya with class and style. You hold that fatty flour ball with two fingers and bite it like a delicacy.
Whatever you do, just don’t shove the damn thing into your mouth. Bite a little bit with your front teeth and chew slowly.
And don’t forget to say: “Mmmmmmmm they taste just like my mother’s fatcakes. I always wondered why my kids like her baking!”
The gutter does not discriminate.

Poverty has enough limps to embrace everyone, including those who swore never to return to it.
Happy return to humble beginnings sisters.

Muckraker has always thought Size Two to be a fantastic orator. His speeches are lucid. But there are times when he allows anger to interfere with his thought process, especially when berating the opposition which always gets his goat.

He forgets the rules of decorum when talking about ABC and BNP.
This year things are particularly ominous for him because so much is at stake. He desperately wants to prove he is Lesotho’s top political schemer.
Men like Size Two want to leave on their own terms.

He wants to announce his retirement like he is doing the people a favour. He imagines us eulogising over what a great leader he was.
Yet Uncle Tom and his battalion want to throw banana peels on his path.

Size Two is therefore hopping mad because the State House might not be his home after June.

Moving house during winter is irritating: it takes time to know the warm corners of a new house.
That explains why Size Two’s mouth does not wait for instructions from his brain when he is angry (it happens to all of us in such moments). So his boo-boo at a recent rally is not a surprise.
“Ha hona sekatana se ka bang sa ema ka pela rona. I doesn’t care,” he said, leaving Muckraker rolling on the ground with laughter.
Basotho quickly plonked the video on social media. In a moment of anger Size Two had unwittingly handed Basotho a sjambok with which to spank him.
What he really meant became a subject for a mundane debate, punctuated with chuckles. The man from Tsoelike was not there to explain himself for he had moved on to more pressing issues like figuring how to extend his lease to the State House.

The job of defending him fell upon his self-appointed zealots who opined that the gaffe was probably deliberate.
Our leader was mimicking a former teacher, said one of his one-eyed supporters.

Don’t make a fuss over our leader’s small mistake because English is not his language, they advised.
Tone down on the insults, they said, because your own leaders cannot string a single sentence in English. They were right but they missed the real crux of the matter.
The joke is not that Size Two misspoke but the worry written all over his 70-something-year-old face as he said “I doesn’t care”.
The look betrayed his true emotional state.

His words were a futile attempt to hide the burden of the nightmares he has over the elections. Size Two is so worried that he cannot even express himself.

On a different matter, Muckraker is irritated by the lame headlines in local newspapers. “Thabane is not the commander: Ntoi,” announced one newspaper last week.
Anyone who doesn’t know Thabane is not the commander has a morsel of pig manure in their head.
At no point did Thabane claim to be a commander of the army.

Nor did Army spokesperson Brigadier Ntlele Ntoi really mean to proffer a clarification to a fact known even to goats and rats. So how come a whole national newspaper was announcing that to us?

Someone, and not the reporter, slept on the job. It’s called indolence and we have it in abundance in our small country.

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