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Come I kiss you Tekane!



SOMEONE should advise Chief Justice Sakoane Sakoane to drink a glass of cold water and calm down.
He must take ten deep breaths (by the way, this is a simple remedy for hiccups), close his eyes and whistle a little bit.
Then as he cools down, he must remember that power, by its nature, is a restless visitor.
A lover with a roving eye. It ogles and winks at the next person, always looking for the next vessel to inhabit. Those who have it should never be too comfortable, hold it dearly or let it get to the head. Muckraker offers this free counsel, even though it deserves Silk rates, in light of a recent event at the Palace of Jokes where Chief Justice Sakoane is said to be brandishing a very long sjambok.

At the end of that whip is Advocate Tekane Maqakachane who he has ordered to pull up his robe and bend over for some spanking. Advocate Maqakachane’s crime is to have told some uncomfortable and irritating truths to the chief justice and his battalion of judges in a biting statement at Justice Thamsanqa Nomncqongo’s memorial service. The Chief Justice has been roiled by Advocate Maqakachane’s description of the rot in the judiciary.

In brief, Advocate Maqakachane said some judges should be taxi drivers rather than judges.
Notice that he didn’t say taxi owners because those are not employees.
He said they should be employees of taxi owners.
Those rowdy fellas whose only qualification is to count coins and sit on horns of yellow-bellied jalopies. Ouch! Even Muckraker would not have chosen those words but she wholeheartedly approves of them.
Come I kiss you Tekane! You are the GOAT who got the Chief Justice’s goat.
Take me anywhere you want. Now! Mafube or Qaqatu.
Advocate Maqakachane also said judges were running small fiefdoms from their chambers.

He said there was mismanagement, lack of or misuse of resources, selective allocation of cases and unequal distribution of work.
Anyone who disagrees with these notorious facts has the brain the size of the punctuation mark at the end of this sentence. The Chief Justice concurs that these are fundamental issues but he wants Advocate Maqakachane to explain what he meant and name names. Mmmmmmm!
Which is a pointless endeavour because those things are as naked as a donkey’s nose. As stubborn as a tired mule. As conspicuous as Sarah the donkey. If you are sensitive you can call the donkey Jacobo.
Advocate Maqakachane promptly responded but he didn’t have to.

The judge could have simply walked to stopong for a quick survey on how people think about those wigged chaps. That trip would do him some good because staying too long in his chambers and being chauffeured around has probably disconnected him from the people.
If he considers the trip to stopong beneath him he can read the Afrobarometer survey which revealed that people don’t trust judges. Muckraker would add that she trusts taxi drivers more than judges.
They never give you wrong change and they drop you where you want, even if it’s in the middle of the road.

Judges, on the other hand, take your case and never deliver judgements.
That is what Advocate Maqakachane was saying. It will be easy to say he has hit the nail on the head but that would not be an apt way to describe what he did.
Tekane has slapped the dung with his bare hands and it splattered at the chief justice and the judges.
For that, he deserves the bell. It can be the intoxicating Bells or the bell that announced the end of that torturous mathematics lesson in high school. The choice is his and Muckraker will deliver it. With a kiss of course!

Nka! Ichuuuuuuuuuuu!

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Meet the new zealots



Someone should tell Uncle Sam and those around him that there is no political mileage to be gained from having an expensive car with South African number plates in his motorcade. And it doesn’t matter whether that car belongs to him or one of his companies.

The optics are just horribly wrong, especially when he is selling himself as a man of the people. Having fought for public office, Uncle Sam should stop behaving like a private businessman. Those around him should whisper to him that opulence is wrong for political leaders even if they are not using state resources.

Just like gluttony is considered wrong even if you are eating your own food.

Zealots defending that public relations boob know zilch about the power of perception in politics. It’s not about him having the cars and using them to save the government money. It’s about a prime minister of a poor country being seen perambulating the streets of Maseru in a very expensive car in a land teeming with poverty.

It’s about him being chauffeured in a car with foreign number plates. And yes number plates matter because he is not the prime minister of South Africa. It’s not like there is a shortage of number plates in Lesotho.

He can use any number plate as long as it is not foreign. Being driven in a foreign registered car is similar to him being seen in a Bafana-Bafana or Springbok jersey.

RFP zealots, both the originals and the Johnny-come-lately now screaming louder than the originals, should know that not everything has to be defended.

While they were bellowing to defend the public relations disaster, those around Uncle Sam were scrambling to deal with the shame. They understood the implications and how it would look to the public.

But the RFP’s unsophisticated blabbermouths on social media were adamant that there was nothing wrong. It will be years before they understand that their party gets more credibility by simply admitting mistakes and rectifying them.

Nothing is to be gained from playing the nauseating holier-than-thou game on social media. Some of them insist on behaving as if their party is still in the opposition.

They haven’t woken up to the reality that the standards by which their party, and the government by extension, is judged have dramatically changed. It’s time to govern, not scream on social media. Grow up!

Some excitable busybodies seem to have made it their vocation to pelt stones at anyone who criticises the government. You hear it from their whataboutism pervading social media. Muckraker has news for them.

This government is not their aunt’s. It belongs to all Basotho and every one of them has a right to criticise it.

That includes those wretched thieves in the previous ruling parties. Their criticism doesn’t have to be reasonable or justified. Uncle Sam is not the prime minister of the RFP but of the whole Kingdom.

Those who don’t want to hear him criticised should stuff their ears with manure because it’s about to get worse. Emotional charlatans should just get used to that reality.

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Running chiskops



Whoever told our police and the army that Basotho are thrilled with them running in our streets in the morning will not enter heaven.

Muckraker has had it to the back teeth with those morning jogs that block the traffic at the busiest hours.

There is always some zealous chap in front of the mob, barking orders at drivers to stop or use another lane.

His troopers will be trotting while belting out some Acappella discord that hurt our ears.

There is nothing impressive or entertaining about a group of men and women with chiskops running and singing in the streets.

It’s not a competitive marathon so nothing is interesting about it. It’s neither fun nor funny.

Just a bunch of men and women causing a pointless jam on our roads and causing noise pollution.

If they are not disrupting traffic they are waking the whole villages with their songs. Their hoooooo, hahahahahah, heheheheheh and hihihihihihi starts just after 6am.

Why a simple morning jog has to be accompanied by some shrieking, Muckraker will never understand. Suffice it to say they are irritating even to the most tolerant.

They should run silently at 3am instead of harassing our ears at 8am.

Maybe that will scare wretched thieves breaking into our houses while the police and the army snore. Or better still, they should just find some spots in the mountains for their morning exercises.

If they are as fit as they want us to believe they should be running up mountains, not the Mpilo Boulevard. They should be jumping over real boulders, not street pavements.

As for the police, those morning jogs don’t seem to be helping in their fight against the rampant crime in the country.

When was the last time you saw a police officer chasing a thief in Maseru?

In any case, today’s policing is not about chasing thieves but investigative skills, profiling, intelligence and surveillance. Muckraker is not saying officers should not be fit.

It’s just that the only time we see that the officers are fit is when they are torturing suspects to extract confessions or when they spend hours stretching their hands to collect bribes from drivers.

Nka! Ichuuuuuuuuuuu!

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Ts’olo’s phuza face



The lesson from the Frazer Solar saga is that a country should never appoint empty heads to strategic positions.

Lesotho is being chased around the globe over a fictitious debt invited by Tšolo, a man who should never have been allowed anywhere near the cabinet.

We could have appointed a donkey to the cabinet because it doesn’t sign random contracts. A donkey would never write letters committing the government to dubious deals.

And even if it signs something with its hoof it would never come up with the same inane denials that Tšolo tried to sell us when confronted with a contract bearing his signature.

He said his signature was forged by the same man whose project he was touting in the cabinet and working overtime to secretly approve.

His other explanation is that he could not have signed the contract because he knows the procurement regulations.

Phew! He discovered those procurement regulations after negotiating with Frazer Solar and signing the contract on the government’s behalf. The other lesson from the scandal is that history repeats itself.

It reminds Muckraker of the time the white-man came to Africa, saw vast land he thought was unoccupied and seized it. They said they discovered Kome Caves and Malentsunyane Falls.

They thought they were coming into a country of primitive fools dressed in animal skins and fighting with spears.

That is what the Frazer Solar officials felt when they arrived in Maseru and met Tšolo. There he was, bumbling through Uncle Tom’s cabinet with a quart of Maluti hidden in his oversized jacket.

He would sip the beer from under the table and pretend to be paying attention.

The Frazer Solar officials instantly knew they had stumbled upon their village bumpkin (not pumpkin). He was exactly what they wanted. A man who could be pampered with beer and food until he sold his country.

After a few beers, Tšolo was saying: “Where do I sign? My hands are itching to sign something. Ha ke batle ho bora moreki!” He was saying this with his phuza face.

You could see from his letters to the company that he was now their man. Well pocketed. In one letter he almost shed tears as he explained how a contract that would transform lives in Lesotho had been delayed.

He was waxing lyrical about the project despite that the project had no feasibility study or financial projections. He doesn’t even know what an LED light is. He thinks solar power comes from ancestors.

This was just an excitable African swallowing nonsense fed to him by his handlers. They gave their slow African a contract and he signed. Period!

And they will never call him as a witness in their court cases because they know there is a vacuum between his ears. He might tell the court that he signed the contract after three bottles of Vodka.

“Me no sign konterake. Ke monna ea bitsoang Vodka”.

They know their African.

Nka! Ichuuuuuuuuuuu!

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