Wise words for ladies

Wise words for ladies

SINCE this is Women’s Month (whatever that means) Muckraker will deliver a sisterly lecture. Place your behind on the couch and read this, for Muckraker will never say it again.
Here we go. Ladies, it’s not enough that you can afford a car. You must have enough money for the petrol as well. This is important because some of you are now embarrassing yourselves at filling stations.
You sneak in there holding M20, in coins, as if you are buying tea. Then as soon as the petrol attendant puts the nozzle in your tank you start ogling the meter as if you ordered a full tank.

We know you are not worried that the attendant might nick some milliliters.
We are not under an illusion that you are being vigilant.
None is fooled when you turn your weaved head 360 degrees to eyeball the meter.
No matter how strenuously you pretend, we are aware that your biggest fear is that the attendant might somehow put M20.50, leaving you with the struggle of scrambling in your bag for that 50 cents.

We are aware there is no way a 50 cent coin would have strayed into the corners of your tattered handbag.
You are just buying time while eagerly waiting for the attendant to say “it’s okay, tsamaea ‘M’e”.
One day you will break those long nails as you scrounge in your bag for those coins.
It’s just not right for a woman in expensive stilettos and make-up to be peeping under car seats for ten cents. Then there is the type that keeps driving the car when the gauge is on red, constantly putting it in neutral as if that saves petrol.

Busy switching off the engine at traffic lights as if that will give you a few more miles. Phew! You see that type when it drives into the petrol station clutching a M50 note. Shockingly, they are expecting the petrol gauge to sprint to full mark.
If it doesn’t move they think the petrol attendant has fleeced them. It’s just silly. Sisters, the car doesn’t move on air. If that was the case, then your beans-induced fart would be a rare commodity. Your pee is not a fuel.
If that was the case, you would demand payment to use a public toilet.
You would invite those relatives you hate to your house and pump them with Oros so they use your loo.

Ke qeta ho tšela M50 hona joale empa gauge ha e tsamaee. Listen sister, it won’t move because for the past three weeks you have been draining the reserve tank that still has to be replenished when you eventually cobble the coins to visit the garage after separating someone from their M100 by hosting a pity party.
Petrol attendants know your struggling type so they will never rob you. They know your pain because they see your “ke kopa u tšele M20” type every time. Don’t bother those poor men. They know who to rob.

Muckraker has had it to the back teeth with sisters who won’t shut up about petrol prices as if they were forced to buy cars.
If the juice is expensive use your God-given hoofs. A few months ago you were pounding the streets with your yellow limbs but now you want to pretend as if the streets have plagues.
You hear them making frantic calls to male friends to help out with a “little something for fuel”.

Most of those men are not even their husbands. You have to be callous to rob a man of his bread money because you want to avoid using your mokorotlo FOOT.
When the struggle for the petrol tank bites you hear conspiracy theories. In offices, they have routine pitsos to discuss garages they claim have petrol that miraculously disappear from the tank.
They say Puma’s petrol doesn’t last. That is a pathetic lie.
You have to feel for the coloured lips that spew such ignorant tosh. People who don’t know the size of their car’s engine claiming to be experts in petrol matters.

The motive for such gossip is to hide the reality that they cannot afford petrol and they should be nowhere near a car, including when taking selfies.
Muckraker once attended a small 4th Street binge where women were discussing nicknames for their cars. Their jalopies had nicknames like Sheryl, Nicole, Susan and Nthaby.
It was fine and dandy until the cars had to take them back home.
Susan was on empty and had to be persuaded to hang on until they got to the next garage when she was to get a lick of petrol.
Nicole was totally empty so she couldn’t move. She and her owner had to sleep at a friend’s place.

Nthaby required prayers to take her owner home because she too was almost on zero.
Sheryl moved after her owner called her male friend to send her some Ecocash.
Se khitlile lejoe mona, ke ne ke sa tsebe hore peterole e felile,” she said.
You can imagine the relief that flashed on that drunken make-up laden face when the money arrived.

We also have the battalion of women who think it’s fashionable to puke trash about men.
They say “all men are dogs” as if they have been with every man.
Often, they are referring to the naughty man they have in their life but they cannot admit that they are living with a rascal, pervert or lazy bone.
To deal with their misery, they would rather include every man in their vile characterisation of the male species. They find comfort in numbers. With time, they convince themselves that they are not alone in their despair. Speak for yourself, sister! It’s your choice to be with that jerk. Kiss and cuddle him.
If he cannot be changed feed him some phehla. If he becomes a zombie that won’t leave your skirts then he is your zombie alone.

The last eleven sentences also refer to those women who leave their men but want to steal conjugal benefits from other women.
Yet these eaters of stolen pleasure still rile against men, calling them ‘dogs’.  They don’t see the irony in calling them dogs while robbing other women’s kennels.

They have no qualms sharing ‘dogs’ from other kennels.
The trouble is that they forget that they don’t own the dogs. In no time they get comfortable in their thieving ways and start behaving as if they own both the ‘dog’ and the kennel.

They want to be equal to the ‘dog’ owner but they are not cleaning the kennel.
Single mothers are the most notorious offenders. Nyoe, nyoe, nyoe, your man came to me. Nyoe, nyoe tie your ‘dog’. Blah, blah, if your man is chasing me it means you are not doing something right. Nonsense!
If men are dogs then there are a lot of stray dogs in Lesotho.
There are many who are not committed to a yard or fastened to a leash. Get your own, sister. Wash, feed and tame it. Live with its terrible manners.

Embrace the fact that sometimes it eats from bins in the village. It is yours for keeps. But if you don’t want any dog in your yard then you should be ready to be alone.
Don’t go around shoplifting other women’s ‘dogs’.
And don’t manipulate those ‘dogs’ to help you out when they should be hunting for their rightful owners. Those who don’t own dogs should not eat meat. Fair deal.

Let’s move on to the drama queens in our offices.
You don’t know what and who pissed them off. It could be their tired pillow or some rude cockroaches back home. Don’t bother asking because they will not tell you. And whatever soured their mood has nothing to do with you. They come to the office itching to dispense their unhappiness to everyone.
If they are seniors (most of those are seniors) they will harass juniors over minor things.

If they are juniors, they never stop moaning about mundane issues they have always lived with.
But whatever they do be sure to tell them off. Silence doesn’t work with such characters.
Watch out for those who don’t greet you when they are in that foul mood.

Don’t greet them when they are feeling better tomorrow. They cannot choose when to forget their manners. As soon as they come into the office quickly wear your earphones and listen to Demi Lovato’s, Really don’t care! Madonna has a good one called Unapologetic bitch.
Whistling loudly is recommended if you don’t have earphones.
For those who don’t like English songs Muckraker has composed a Sesotho one with a chorus: Mathata h’a fele. A hao h’a fele le a ka h’a fele. Bophelo bo ka itsoella pele. Try whistling this chorus. It’s therapeutic. The idea is to show them that they don’t matter either here or in the afterlife.

We close this magnificent lecture with a few words for those women who think it’s fashionable to be mean to other women. They are there in every office. A small promotion is all it takes for them to start spitting on their kind. You don’t need to provoke them to suffer their wrath.
Your nice shoes are enough for them to spank you. Your beautiful smile can get you in trouble.

You have to feel that they are bosses.
They are just unpalatable characters. But don’t lose heart for such people will always meet their match.
One day, they will fall with a thud. And when the chips are down, they will rediscover their manners.

Rub it in when they are screaming. Kick them in the teeth when they are on the floor.
Remind them of their evil ways. Help them when they clear their desks when they are fired.

Bid them farewell with a grin. You will be completing their lesson and helping other women they will meet with their luck turns.
But remember to learn from their mistakes because, sooner rather than later, you might become one of them in both rising and falling. Happy Women’s Month, Sister!

Nka! Ichuuuuuuuuuuu!


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