Kung Fu in Mafeteng, slumber in America

Kung Fu in Mafeteng, slumber in America

HERE is something stolen to tickle you into this long weekend that Muckraker hopes will be a wet one.
Young Thabo bought a donkey from a farmer for M5 000.
The farmer agreed to deliver the donkey the next day. The next day the farmer comes to Thabo and says: “Sorry son, but the donkey died”.
“Well, then just give me my money back,” Thabo replied.
“I can’t do that, I’ve already spent it,” said the farmer.
Thabo scratched his head a little bit and said: “OK, then, just bring me the dead donkey”.

Farmer: “What are you going to do with him?”
“I’m going to raffle him off,” Thabo said.
Farmer: “You can’t raffle a dead donkey!”
Thabo: “Sure, I can. Watch me. I just won’t tell anybody the donkey is dead”.
A month later the farmer meets Thabo and asks what happened to the dead donkey.
“I raffled him off. I sold 500 tickets at M20 each and made M9 980,” Thabo said.
Farmer: “And didn’t anyone complain?”
Thabo: “Yes but it was just the guy who won. So I gave him his M20 back.”

That, dear reader, is how the world works. Only the shrewd and the scheming can make it in this jungle. It therefore bothers Muckraker that Lesotho’s politicians don’t think like Thabo.
Instead of finding ways to outwit opponents with smarts they resort to thuggish behaviour that only makes them look like uncouth characters.
Others might put that down to their obvious intellectual malnourishment but books and school have nothing to do with it.

Muckraker thought of Thabo’s story when she heard how Sister Rantšo of the Rehashed Congress of Lesotho (RCL) stormed her party’s conference holding a molamu after some people tried to pull a fast one on her.
Let that sink in. Rantšo was holding a molamu. Yes, Rantšo! That one! You know her.
She was brandishing a molamu while bellowing at party members she accused of plotting to shove her out of the party she formed.
In a way you could say she is justified to have threatened to clobber the delegates. After all, she formed the party and they joined. Now they are booting her out of her own party.

And it’s not as if Rantšo was making idle threats. The conference was being held in Mafeteng, her neighborhood. The people there might have rejected her in elections but they know that she is a daughter of the soil.
So it’s plausible that the Mafeteng people would have pummeled anyone who dared raise a finger against Sister Rantšo. She would not have been so brazen if the gathering was in Maseru.
The only trouble is that her stature does not allow her to descend to such gutter levels.

It wasn’t long before news of her molamu-totting performance were making waves in the media.
In the end it is her reputation that has grease. Those plotting to end her political career are now portrayed as victims of an ill-tempered politician refusing to say “goodbye” even when her party wants her out.
Sister Rantšo has therefore lost the propaganda war.
Wherever she goes people will imagine her kicking a door and storming into a conference hall, while waving a molamu. Muckraker can imagine the drama that would have ensued if someone had challenged her to a fight. There is no doubt that Rantšo would have won that contest.
Remember this is Sister Rantšo we are talking about. Yes, Sister Rantšo! That one!

Muckraker has long accepted that Africans are masters of witchcraft. There are tales of sorcerers who can strike you with lightning, make your privates disappear and send you to your ancestors.
But the real witchcraft in Africa is what its leaders are doing to their own people.

Last week nearly all of them trooped to the United Nations’ General Assembly in America (yes, its called America and anyone who calls it the United States of America has never been there).
Most African leaders took bloated entourages to the annual shindig. One African leader brought 200 people. Another had 100.
One entourage had people brought to carry bags for their leaders. Another had spectators.

It’s possible that some leaders even brought barbers and make-up artists to trim their kinky hair and paint their old faces.
Uncle Tom carried 30 people, including two officials who we were told were going to iron clothes and cook papa ka lepu. Yet all this would not be a disaster if America was a bus trip away.

But there were expensive First and Business Class tickets involved. Uncle Tom’s entourage could have easily cost the country more than M5 million. But that too would not be an issue if this was money well-spent.
The trouble is that African leaders were largely ignored at the meeting. Most addressed empty chairs after delegates went out to spend time on more profitable business than hearing some African leaders waffling about nonsense and complaining about being excluded from the high table.
Watching our leaders, Muckraker wondered why they bother to attend the event when it is as naked as a pig’s behind that no one gives a rat’s what they say.

Perhaps there are better ways to deliver the speeches than flying half-way across the world to be handed a cold shoulder by people who think you are just a bunch of losers angling for donations.
Muckraker suggests that the African leaders form a WhatsApp group on which to share their speeches from the comfort of their homes. That way they don’t have to drain resources from their wretchedly poor countries. They can then simply forward the speeches to the UN secretariat and hope that one of the world leaders will stumble upon one or two of their speeches.

If the African leaders are too old for WhatsApp, they can simply compile their speeches, print them and dispatch them to America. The idea is to get their old and tired messages across.
Because most of them are known to be terrible readers, sending a brochure of their speeches might reach a bigger audience than speaking at the event. Muckraker can hear some African First Ladies cursing her for being too clever for nothing.
Shhhhh Sisters! Your shopping addiction is well-documented but have mercy on the suffering povo.

Nka! Ichuuuuuuuuuuu!


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