The crazy madam

The crazy madam

It’s a pity that humans cannot walk into a market to buy a dozen of manners like eggs. If that was the case Muckraker would have profusely pleaded for donations to get the Feselady a scotch-cart of manners.
And you can be sure that within a few minutes the Feselady would have a warehouse full of manners. That is because everyone, including rats, can see that the lady is in dire need of some manners.
That much has been clear for the past three years, during which she has fragrantly paraded her lack of decorum in the most outrageous of ways.

This is the Feselady who fights at a hospital, threatens to clobber waiters, berates people for calling her husband, barks instructions at government officials and tells a whole prime minister to sing hymns. Now she has taken her antics to court.
Only a person without manners can skip the country when asked to report to the police for questioning.
But it gets worse. After three weeks on the run the Feselady casually walked into a police station as if she was just coming from an extended visit to a VIP.
“Ke nna enoa,” she probably said as she walked into a police station.
This week we discovered that not even a murder charge can infuse manners into her bones. She remains haughty and despicable.

On Monday she strutted into the magistrates’ court as if she was Naomi Campbell on a catwalk ramp. In tow was her husband whose sullen demeanour perfectly fit the occasion.
Uncle Tom has the mind to grasp the meaning of the occasion to himself, his wife, his family and the country.
Here was a whole prime minister about to be charged with his wife’s murder.
Swaggering ahead of him was his wife who is accused of the same murder.
No wonder his eyes were cast down as he avoided looking at the gallery. Yet his wife would not allow the misery and shame of that surreal moment to steal her limelight.
Arrogant all the way, she tried to turn what should have been a walk of shame into a walk of honour.

A journalist snapping pictures caught her eye as she was about to walk out of the court. She turned, peeped from under her hat and told the journalist to stop taking her pictures because “it’s not right”. Here was a murder suspect walking in a court with her husband who is accused of murder but her only irritation was that someone was taking her pictures.

That is to say that even in her moment of extreme shame the Feselady still thinks she can bark instructions at people. Muckraker was stunned by her lack of sense of occasion.
It’s not as if the Feselady did not know that she will be a star of this show and journalists were going to jostle for her picture. She was dressed for the photo shoot. She probably ordered one of her aides to get her that outfit for the court appearance.

The hat perched on her weaved head made for a great photo. Her step said “watch me nae nae”.
To top it all she was walking in front of her entourage as if she was the one to be charged.
That moment of disgrace belonged to Uncle Tom but the Feselady could not resist stealing it.
She led when she was charged and led when her husband was about to be charged.
That’s the Feselady for you, always leading from the front even when it’s a contest of wallowing in the mud. She bounced in the court as if she was a guest of honour at a wedding, behaving like that rich aunt who comes to the wedding late just to make a grand entry so people can talk about how she had funded the shindig and is filling the tummies.

If she didn’t want journalists to take her pictures then she should have stayed at home or hid under chairs at the court. One of Uncle Tom’s bodyguards could have given her his oversized suit jacket to cover her face. She could have worn a balaclava instead of that fashion hat.
If the balaclava was going to make her look like a cattle herder she could have worn a Halloween mask. If that was not to her taste then a cardboard box or a Shoprite paper bag would have served the purpose.
She is a murder suspect just like her husband. She therefore cannot decide who takes her pictures. An accused person cannot be bellowing instructions at journalists or anyone.
She is a former fugitive.

The Feselady just doesn’t get it. She cannot have her cake and eat it. She has been inviting journalists to her birthdays and events where she was giving food and blankets to orphans.
At all those occasions she would smile ear to ear as journalists took pictures.
She didn’t stop journalists taking the pictures of her needlessly long gown at her wedding.
When journalists were not at hand she took selfies which she dispatched to friends who she knew would send them to everyone. Remember the video of the singing couple.

We recall pictures of the State House braai that got tongues wagging.
Now that she is in the dock she sees those journalists as enemies. Holy dung!
Perhaps the saddest part is that the Feselady doesn’t know that the jig is up. By July she will be a common Mosotho woman from Ha Abia. Her life as a haughty and highflying First Lady will be replaced by a life of court appearances. From Feselady to accused number 1.

And if the police have it their way she might end up as inmate number mang mang. Some prison warder will control when she eats and visits the toilet. She will see Pioneer Mall through that tall fence. No make-up but just a bar of soap. A cold shower will hit that yellow skin until it cracks.
And only then can she avoid photo shoots. In the meantime she should just drink some water, shut up and let journalists record her demise for posterity.
She owes those pictures to future first ladies who have to learn that power should never replace manners.

Still on this drama, Muckraker cannot understand why people suddenly become eager to tell us about their illnesses when facing charges.
The Feselady said she had a doctor’s appointment when she was pleading for bail.
She told the court that she was on medication.
Last week Uncle Tom also declared himself ill when he was supposed to appear in court.
We are now being told that a prime minister who once said he was fit to rule the country is now too frail to appear in court. The same man who has been fighting tooth and nail to remain in office is now too sick to be driven five hundred metres from his office to the magistrates’ court. Phew!

Imagine what would have happened two months ago if a journalist had written that the Feselady and Uncle Tom were sick. There would have been a statement from one of the nurses at the State House, cheekily declaring that Uncle Tom was as fit as a butcher’s dog.
Their zealots would have jammed the airwaves with insults, reminding us all that the prime minister’s health is none of our business. But these are different times, so frailties have to be advertised.

Nka! Ichuuuuuuuuuuu!

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