The feasting ones

The feasting ones

Let’s start with a story from malaeneng in Thamae.
’Mamojakisane, the compound’s chief gossipmonger, sees a pastor coming out of ’Makhotso’s room.
’Mamojakisane rushes to ’Makhotso with her ears pricked. ’Mamojakisane: My friend, this is the fourth time I have seen the pastor coming out of your house.

’Makhotso: So?
’Mamojakisane: Ah, have you started a church?
’Makhotso: I have seen the barman coming out of your house for months now. Is your house a bar now?
’Mamojakisane retreats to her room with her tail between the thick legs.
The simple lesson here is that you must mind your own business.
The pastor could have just been discussing tithes with ’Makhotso.

Perhaps the barman was teaching ’Mamojakisane to make cocktails.
Think what you may but we will never know what happened behind those doors.
If you suspect that there was some hanky-panky then you are probably a pervert.
Wink, wink and wink.

The more complex lesson, however, is that things are not always as they seem.
And that is the pith of this article.
We knew, as early as five months ago, that the Covid-19 storm was coming.
Yet instead of scrambling for solutions and resources, we established the so-called Command Centre.

Civil servants and ministers galloped to the centre to pretend to be busy on strategies.
It was later revealed that they were just misdirected busybodies out of their depth.
Unable to come up with a coherent plan to ‘command’ the disease, the gang took out their frustrations on food.

And boy did they eat like pigs. It instantly became a Command Centre of Feasting.
They quickly forgot the task at hand and loaded their tummies with samp, papa, potatoes and pork.

Within weeks some were so fat that they couldn’t walk or think properly. Not that it was a congregation of thinkers in the first place. They were what we could get from the chaff. You work with what you have.
We however didn’t expect them to put on rotund cheeks and potbellies while Covid-19 cases were mounting.
People were not being tested.

The masks and testing kits from some well-wishers were being stolen hand over fist. Thousands were starving in their homes in the name of a national lockdown that was a sick joke.
Meanwhile, the ’Manthabiseng Convention Centre’s septic tank was flooding while the core business was left undone. Instead of a national strategy we were only occasionally treated to some shabby press statements so convoluted that only a prophet could decipher their meaning.

Remember the lesson: things are not always as they seem. For months, the government told us that it had everything under control. We now know that they were telling blue lies.
Physics tells us that work done equals distance moved over time.
Activity without progress is therefore not work.

We should therefore not wonder why we are in the throes of a Covid-19 tsunami.
We are unprepared because some people were feasting for months.

We must get a few things right before stampeding to condemn those who worked at the Command Centre of Feasting. People, by nature, don’t like working.

What they really want is the money. So if they can pretend to be working and still get the money they will do it.
Nyoe, nyoe, nyoe, I am a workaholic. My foot!
You are struggling to finish the work because you have been promoted to your position of incompetence. Or you are just battling for relevance. Or you have a terrible team around you. Or you are just incompetent.

Let not the nonsense about passion, drive and work ethic fool you. Never! They are all excuses to justify more moolah. That is why such rosy statements are targeted at bosses and those who decide what you earn.
Those at the Command Centre of Feasting were in it for the money.

You will be an unmitigated dunderhead to think they cared about the country. A real patriot doesn’t enjoy tea that costs M120. They don’t eat a M300 lunch when the people are starving. They will never be anywhere near a M300 dinner during a crisis.

All this is to debunk the nonsensical notion that those at the Command Centre of Feasting should have focused on the task at hand.
We should therefore not be shocked that they behaved like rats unleashed into a granary.

And there is only one reason for their unbridled gluttony.
The county did not have a government from January to early May. We had something that tasted, felt, looked and smelt like a government.
But the reality was that it was not a government but a conglomeration of squabbling zealots fighting to keep their loud mouths in the pot.
Each party was playing its own games.

The ABC people were busy beating each other to pulp. Some were clinging on to the Feselady’s skirts. Others were bellowing from the Professor’s corner.
The ADs were doing what they know best: making money while the sun shines. They were wise enough to know that only strangers benefit when brothers fight.

So they stuffed their mouths while pretending to be the most organised group in the dysfunctional coalition government.
The BNP was busy fanning the fires while also preparing to jump ship when the manure hit the fan. When 30 000-something is all you can win out of a possible 500 000, you must always have a plan B.

Look at them now as they ride on the new horse. It doesn’t matter that this is a two-legged horse. The last one was dead.
Don’t you dare ask what the RCL was doing. Those are just a confused lot and we cannot blame them.

It happens to anyone who stumbles into a ministerial position. They spent the past two years pinching themselves to confirm that they were still in government.
When your supporters cannot fill a 4plusOne you have to run like a headless chicken.

Nka! Ichuuuuuuuuuuu!

Previous Armpits and hypocrisy
Next Women’s chance to shine

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