Someone find Mapesela’s head

Someone find Mapesela’s head

WE all have something that makes us high. For some it’s the loudmouth soup (beer). Others like matekoane, that potent weed smoked by nearly all politicians in this country.
Those who deny this scientifically proven fact should explain should explain why our politicians, especially MPs, look perennially confused. But that is a story for another time.

Now we are talking about the other sources of inebriation.
Others get their kick from hard drugs (sorry for them that reject benign means of getting smashed). Some are intoxicated by love, kisses and nyafu. It’s all good.
Muckraker likes expensive wine and foot massages. She can afford the wine but is yet to find any man who knows the difference between massaging and strangling.

Applications are not welcome. Keep your calloused fingers to yourself, comrades!
There is no way you can give a proper foot massage if you cannot afford good wine.
It is pointless to even start a conversation with a man who thinks 4th Street is a wine.

Oops, Muckraker digressed again. Back to the matter at hand.
Others are into spiritual highs induced by religious sermons. A lot are imbibing from the wells of fake prophets who are just overrated motivational speakers with a special talent in separating you from your money. If gulps of hopose are your thing so be it.
We all have to be stoned some times, especially in a country where goats are better leaders than their two-legged owners. You have to wander in dreamlands, miles away from this wretched little place were poverty and corruptions are so permanent that they have been given totems and title deeds.
Uncle Tom gets a bit tipsy when he sees his young yellowbone. Love does that. It’s all good.
The trick is to imbibe and dabble with moderation.

The trouble is when you indulge so much that you lose your senses. Drunks are always a nuisance. That is why we should all pray for Tefo Mapesela, the garrulous and rude Defence Minister, who has become hopelessly drunk on power.
Last night Mapesela took his intoxication to unprecedented levels.
He landed in a village in Khubetsoana, a gun in one hand and a stick in the other.
Eyes crimson with anger, he fired several shots in the air while spewing profanities.

The source of his anger was not gold, money or diamonds.
The man was angry over grass. Grass that some cattle tummies were already turning into manure.
Now let get this right because the drama of it all can be confusing especially when drama queens like Mapesela are involved.
A Lesotho Minister was fighting Basotho herd boys for allowing their cattle to eat grass in a South African farm. Let that sink before we move on.
Some have said that the field across the river belongs to Mapesela. So what?

It’s just some poor villagers desperate to feed their animals. But you have to notice the irony of it all to understand that this is just bizarre.
The person who was waving a gun and a stick is the Minister of Defence. We all know that the sticks are associated with herd boys. In Lesotho thugs have more guns than the police.
If you had arrived at the village from another country you would be forgiven for thinking that Mapesela is a thug. He looked the part too. And his mouth provided irrefutable evidence.

A woman who tried to drag him back to his senses was instantly labelled a prostitute.
He didn’t know this woman but he quickly decided that she was a prostitute because she was telling him to recover his marbles.
You have to marvel at the minister’s ability to stoop to such gutter level. He wallowed in mud as villagers watched in disgust. Some threw stones at him but Muckraker thinks they were not doing so out of anger. They probably wanted him to leave the mud. It wasn’t hate but love.

They were trying to say: Stop it Tefo! Just stop it Tefo! You have embarrassed yourself enough already.
We have said the same to drunk friends and uncles.
But what really irritates Muckraker is not the drama but Mapesela’s showy antics. An average bullet costs M10. Now, if he fired five bullets it means he wasted M50. That is five loaves of bread.
Mapesela, my brother! How dare you throw away bread when villagers are starving?

All this happens because people like Mapesela are not used to power. In their hands power is a weapon with which to harass the weak. Such behaviour comes from a place of weakness and cowardice. Sadly, this is the kind we have in key positions. This is the type that is expected to take this country prosperity. We are screwed.

Muckraker has long accepted that Lesotho’s politics is not for the faint-hearted.
If you are not careful it will dispatch you to your maker, pronto.
Look how Uncle Tom’s family has been torn apart by the fracas in the All Basotho Confusion (ABC). His own daughter is shoving her lawyer finger into his eye.
His son-in-law is playing with his tail while spanking him out of the kraal he built from scratch.

Now Uncle Tom has been reduced to making idle threats whose only import is to advertise his desperation to a country that already knows he is way past his prime.
A few weeks ago he said his daughter will regret hobnobbing with his enemies.
It was as if he was warning a teenage girl he still feeds. The daughter is a married woman capable of making her own decisions.

Such is the brutal nature of Lesotho’s politics that fathers have to remind their daughters that they are their seeds. You know a man has run out persuasive words when he evokes blood connections in a political battle. All these faint and pathetic kicks are because Uncle Tom has lost his mojo.
They used to describe him as a shrewd political schemer who could wriggle his way out of the trickiest political dilemmas.

Well, those days are gone. Only those high on something illegal still believe that Uncle Tom is the real McCoy Maseru, the village whose fathers insist on calling the capital.
Uncle Tom is no longer the big fish in this small but toxic pond that is our politics.
Boom! Oh, boom! Where art thou, Lekhoakhoa? Jo ’na oe! Lekhoakhoa le qetiloe ke masetlaoko.

Nqosa Mahao, a mere professor he has resorted to calling a mafikizolo and other disparaging names, is dragging him by his nose.
Uncle Tom, the man who has outwitted many opponents, is kicking and screaming but he cannot escape Mahao’s clutch.
Watching an old man being heaved around is such a sad sight.
Mahao and his crew have hung Uncle Tom on the laundry line with his eyelids. That line is not in the backyard at Makhoakhoeng but in front of a malaeneng compound in Motimopso. All can see him.
And they don’t seem to be relenting in their malice.

A few weeks ago they slapped Uncle Tom with a six-year suspension from the ABC. It is not clear how they decided on the six years but Muckraker suspects that there was mischief involved.
Here is why. Let’s suppose your ancestors are in the habit of welcoming their visitors from the land of the living with a pot of Likahare. When you get to sixty they designate a beast for your arrival. At seventy they start sharpening the knives. When you are 80 they start the fire, take the beast to the tree and wait for the call. But when you are 86 the pot of likahare is kept ready for your arrival. They know you have boarded the bus to their homestead. The message is clear: this column has no time for lazy thinkers.
Suffice to say anyone who suspends any 80-year-old for six years is malicious. It doesn’t matter whether you are suspending them from a stokvel, burial society, mokete club or church. It’s banishment that will not end well.

Verifiable science tells us most 86-year-olds are in wheelchairs or permanently stuck to a stool. If he or someone close squanders his fortune then he will be moving around in a wheelbarrow. Surely Mahao’s camp doesn’t expect an 86-year-old to crawl back into the party after his suspension ends. If they expect that they are ill mannered rascals.

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