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ONCE again the hope game has started. Our opposition parties have found another oasis of hope in an abundantly hopeless situation.

Hooray, Jacob Zuma, the King of Nkandla, will visit our little kingdom next week.

The opposition zealots think he will knock some sense into Size Two and his people. Their mouths are watering at the prospect of watching the beleaguered dancer dragging the man from Tsoelike, kicking and screaming, back to the table for yet another talk show with the opposition.

Muckraker wishes this would happen for the sake of progress in this wretched little place of ours.

Sadly, things don’t work that way in diplomacy. Zuma is the king of Nkandla not Lesotho, so he will not speak to Size Two like a boss but a colleague.

He will cajole rather than dictate. He will suggest, not instruct.

That’s not wishful thinking but the reality opposition leaders should accept pronto if they want to keep their blood below boiling point.

Of course Zuma will mention the security and political issues but he will not do so in the same way as a village teacher talks to a student. He will do so like a herd boy talking to another herd boy.

“You see, my brother, winter is coming so you need to sort out your hut and gather some firewood.”

“My brother I am unsettled by the way you looked at my black cow last week. I hope you are not harbouring sexual thoughts.”

That is how herd boys speak to each other: stern warnings wrapped in soft words that can be easily mistaken for pleading.


Size Two and Zuma are not herd boys but they were once before age, times, money, education and power washed them. The bit about education does not apply to Zuma who is proud of not having wasted his precious time listening to some pompous chalk-holding fellow masquerading as a giver of knowledge.

Time has passed since Size Two was clobbered by a molamo in a Tseolike veld but you still can see hints of the herd boy in him especially when he starts off loading insults on opponents (don’t believe him when he says the 2015 election mellowed him. His tongue is still itching to spank someone). He uses idioms as a tactic to leave room for him to interpret his way out of trouble. When you start walking towards him with clinched fists he can simply laugh and chide you for having stayed too long in town to understand the wise words from the village.

It is not known how much of Zuma’s mind remains in his herd boy days but there are clear signs it could be as much as 90 percent. You see it in the carefree way he goes about his business even when trouble is baying for his blood at the door. Zuma wouldn’t know a crisis even if it sat on his face. Nothing sticks on that oily one.

Guptagate, Nkandlagate, and rapegate have left him standing, apatheticlike a baboon whose fleas are being picked by another. Two leaders with the abrasiveness and endurance of herd boys will meet for a chat.

That is how you should look at it if you want to keep your sanity. Frankly, nothing much will come from that meeting, at least when it comes to breaking the impasse between the government and the opposition.

Here is some stress management advice: drink some water and watch the spectacle with the indifference of a cow to a goat in pastures.


It will be preposterous and naive for our politicians to think Zuma is coming to help fight their battles.

Zuma, by nature, fights for himself. He has been fighting for himself for years. It’s easy for a mere grade zero to rise to the summit of a liberation struggle army. It takes more than talent and luck for an illiterate man to lead Africa’s most powerful and prosperous country. Today he faces enemies who want to yank him out of power before his due date.

Yet he stands tall, unashamed by the ruination of his actions, unfazed by the howls of his countrymen and yowls of his political foes. Zuma fights for no one but himself. So he is likely to mention the political situation in the country as an afterthought. He will only do so after he has persuaded Size Two’s government to keep pushing the Highlands Water Project despite complaints from the youths about the lack of a power generation component.

It is when he is assured that our water will keep flowing into South Africa in the next few years that he will venture to mumble something about our political situation. The notion that Zuma has our interests and happiness at heart is a fallacy manufactured my myopic minds. Either that or it is just a self-deluding idea meant to help us endure the pain of being inconsequential as a country.

For all our pretence at being an independent state, South Africa sees us as nothing more than a huge dam.

They really don’t care what happens to Lesotho as long as its water keeps flowing into Gauteng. Where we seek peace for the sake of prosperity they seek peace for the sake of water.

That Lesotho has people and a government is an inconvenience to South Africa. Given a choice they would find us plots somewhere in Limpopo and turn Lesotho into one big dam. That is what this country is to South Africa: a bucket of water.


Muckraker has had it to the back teeth with this MMM thing. It is clear authorities have no clue to stop people from ‘investing’ in MMM. No amount of press conferences, workshops, billboards or adverts is going to stop people from investing in a scheme that gives him 30 percent in a month.

The mathematics is simple and the choice obvious. As the authorities shout their voices hoarse about the evils and dangers of MMM or any other Ponzi schemes people are walking to the nearest banking hall to ‘invest’.

Farmers are selling their livestock to put money in Ponzi schemes. Some are taking loans to play in Mavrodi’s scheme. And there is nothing the authorities can do about it.

You see, the problem with MMM is that you never know who is playing it. There is a possibility that even those at the central bank are playing the game.

The police can warn us about Ponzi schemes but they are most probably playing it at night. It’s not by mistake that not a single politician has said a word about MMM. Pastors and the so-called men of God are playing it. In short, everyone in this country is playing it.

After all it’s just a community of people helping each other.Kkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk. Let this daughter of Motsoeneng laugh out loud. MMM will only end when it collapses on its own weight. Until then the authorities should stop wasting their breath on it.

They must allow people to play the game until they are bruised. In the meantime they should save some money because many will need sessions of counselling when the Ponzi scheme collapses with their monies. He who sits on a red hot stove shall surely rise.


On the upside though Muckraker feels MMM is teaching people to share.

Blessed is the hand that giveth, so says the scriptures. Muckraker had always doubted those words until MMM came.

Indeed those who donate money are being ‘blessed’ with 30 percent more. It’s a ‘marvellous’ way of bringing the Scriptures to life. Mmmmmmmm. People are giving money to strangers and they are being ‘blessed’.

All of which makes Muckraker wonder why Basotho find it difficult to help their starving and struggling relatives.

If you want to see how tight-fisted a Mosotho is ask him for a R5 to buy fatcakes. He will look at you with a disgusted face before telling you things about your mother.

Why he has no qualms ‘helping’ a stranger on MMM is because the generosity is instantly rewarded. If only this tomfoolery will last. Phew!

Nka! Ichuuuuuuuuuu!

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Machonisa on fire



It was only a matter of time before the so-called socialist party owned by a machonisa started unravelling. Now the capitalist owner of the Socialist Revolutionaries is lashing out at anyone who dares to tell him to behave himself.

Teboho Mojapela is moving around his party’s structures with a phafa, leaving his victims scratching their bums.

Muckraker has no sympathy for his victims. They deserve what they are getting.

Having deluded themselves to think that they are stockholders in the SR, they should now enjoy their harvest of thorns. They were guests at Mojapela’s house but tried to tell him how to arrange his furniture and what to eat.

He is telling them to go find somewhere to play because the SR is his personal property.

That the SR is in Mojapela’s armpits has always been clear. He formed and funded it.

It’s just that some were too naïve to realise the obvious.

Thabo Shao packed his bags and left after Mojapela whipped him out of his house. He now mumbles something about Mr Machonisa being a dictator. He says that as if it’s a discovery to be shared with the rest of the world.

Yet anyone with something between their ears would have known that a machonisa who brags about beating his naughty workers could not possibly be a democratic leader.

Only Shao and a few dimwits didn’t know that.

Anyway, Shao’s exit will not change much because he just doesn’t matter. He is a political nonentity who overrates himself.

What interests Muckraker is Mr Machonisa’s nerve to call Shao an uneducated rascal. That hurts because it’s an insult coming from someone who has made it a mission to give education a bad name. Mr Machonisa’s definition of someone educated is Tlohelang Aumane. Hear, hear, and hear. Phew!

Does anyone remember Aumane saying anything either educated or educative?

Muckraker only knows him as a political jezebel incapable of staying in one political bed for more than 15 minutes. He is always itching to be married to the next political party.

Muckraker is tempted to say Aumane is politically horny but she won’t say it for fear of offending the oversensitive souls. The kind that claims to have almost suffocated to death after someone farted in a hall.

But Mr Machonisa doesn’t care about Aumane’s habits because he thinks he is renting a brilliant political mind. A few things will happen in that union.

Mr Machonisa will soon realise that Aumane is just an empty-headed political slay queen always looking for the next partner to get him Ice Tropez (May lightning strike whoever drinks that but cannot afford it. Fire!)

Aumane will realise that Mr Machonisa is a moneyed but unrefined village bumpkin whose mouth has a terrible habit of rebelling against his brain.

Mr Machonisa will find the next brain to rent while Aumane will be putting on his stilettos to find another political lover to smooch on the Maseru streets.

Nka! Ichuuuuuuuuuuu!

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The queen Mampara



Muckraker once promised to say nothing about the Feselady but that Mampara’s mouth keeps running as if it’s connected to Muela Hydro Power Station.

The Feselady told some ABC members who visited her home that she will not associate with the party until it distances itself from the remark of suspended spokesman Montoeli Masoetsa. What made her relapse to her Drama Queen ways was Masoetsa’s attack on her and her hubby. He said the ABC lost because of Uncle Tom and Feselady.

That simple truth, known to even donkeys in Qaqatu, pierced her cheeky heart and got her tummy roiling. She now says she will never wear the ABC’s regalia until the party apologises. Don’t laugh. If this was a threat, the Feselady has lost her touch.

She used to beat people for merely looking at her in a funny way or calling her hubby.

She would harass government officials in public. Now she has been reduced to threatening to avoid yellow dresses and T-shirts to fix the ABC. Boom! Boom! The mighty Drama Queen has fallen.

What remains is just the fading memories of power sexually transmitted.

The transmitter of that power has long ceased to function literally and figuratively.

But the Feselady is too engrossed with herself to realise that she has neither the power nor the capacity to make threats to anyone. She rules only her home, yard and a few idiots still clinging to her.

It takes some sophistication to read irony and the Feselady doesn’t have even a pinch of it. Her people in Mokhotlong rejected her when she tried to sneak into parliament via that hollow popularity garnered through matrimony.

ABC supporters think she is just an uncultured blabbermouth. That she thinks anyone would lose sleep over her threats to burn the party’s regalia or turn them into fatukus is comical. Her tantrums will not change a thing. Her boycott might be the best thing to happen to the party since the October 7 defeat.

Why would the few remaining ABC supporters worry about a garrulous charlatan boycotting their party?

The last time she was wearing the ABC like a wig, it lost more than 200 000 voters, flew to the opposition benches and became a smallanyana party. Nothing hurts more than that. So bring it on mummy!

Nka! Ichuuuuuuuuuuu!

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The RFP’s thokolosi



The RFP leaders should fire whoever is advising them on how to deal with constituencies demanding a conference to elect a new executive committee. Their response to those demands has been a comedy of errors.
It’s been nothing short of kindergarten blunders unbefitting of people who sold themselves as the smart ones to lead the country out of darkness.
The secretary general told those bellowing for a conference to take a chill pill and wait for Uncle Sammy to give directions.
Uncle Sammy said those people or their kind are divisive, dragging the party off its agenda and incapable of understanding his dream for the country.
Other leaders have said those clamouring for a conference can go plead their case to a mountain because the current national executive committee will run the party for another six pregnancies.
Never mind the words they use, the leaders are telling the members that they will not be told how to manage a party they started. This is to say the leaders will not be taking instructions from the riffraff. Yes, I said it! Those rubbed the wrong way can curse.
Someone should round up the RFP’s executive committee members, lock them up in a room, throw away the keys and spank them until they understand politics.
They are clearly struggling to make a distinction between a political party and private companies. You would think this is common sense but the human mind is always slow to banish habits.
The RFP leaders were used to being business owners, not political leaders. That is why they cannot understand why anyone who wasn’t there when they started the party can tell them how to manage it.
But make no mistake, reality will grab them by the noses and eyelids back to their senses. They will be taught three simple lessons. The first is that political parties are voluntary entities in which power lies with the members.
The second is that party members are not employees you can just instruct to jump around because you pay their wages.
The third, which is more important, is that the only time a political party is a personal property is when it’s an idea in the founder’s head. Once registered and people join, the members own the party together with its structures, leaders and vision.
The other problem with the RFP’s responses to the demands for an elective conference is that they keep pretending that those three constituencies are just rogues out to sabotage the party. Nothing can be further from the truth.
Those constituencies are small thokolosis of someone right there in the party’s echelons. They represent a growing faction in the party. That faction that is a thokolosi was birthed when the party was still a spirit. It was nurtured when the party was registered and continued to grow during the campaign.
By the time the RFP became government, it was a full-blown thokolosi vigorously doing bedroom things to produce more thokolosis. Now it is granddaddy thokolosi living in the RFP’s armpits.
There is a simple way to find the thokolosi’s owner.
Just round them up and beat them until their parents start wailing. If the parents don’t come out the thokolosis will run to them for protection.

Nka! Ichuuuuuuuuuuu!

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