Connect with us

Muckraker

Selinyane versus Robot Q

Published

on

IT must be a terrible time for DC spokesperson Serialong Qoo. Every morning he has to scrounge around for something to criticise about the government and if he doesn’t find any he will clutch at anything or simply manufacture something.

It’s not that there isn’t much to disparage about this government. Look closely and you will see a bountiful of shenanigans to bellow about. This government has been bungling and bumbling for months. Some of its blunders are as naked as a pig’s behind while some are a bit subtle. That is the nature of government.

Qoo’s problem is that he has a huge handicap: he lacks both the critical mind and the oratory skills to get his message across. That’s the disadvantage of almost all spokespersons elected rather than appointed. For Qoo waffling is a way of fulfilling his political mandate. He doesn’t have to worry about the substance of what he says because he was not hired. He doesn’t have to be competent at it because competence is not what got him elected in the first place.

So the next time you hear Qoo prating you should know that the man is not living up to any standard or trying to add value to the national discourse. He is just a robot programmed to open its mouth and say anything, including a lot of gibberish, at set intervals.

His robot-like-personality was on brazen display when Qoo was switched on to say something about Nthakeng Selinyane’s appointment as government spokesperson.

Our pliable reporters galloped to the press conference to receive what is now a weekly dosage of claptrap from the opposition. They found Qoo switched on and ready to spray some balderdash at them.

Robot Q opened his mouth right on cue and began telling a scattered story. It was difficult to pinpoint what had got his goat in the matter at hand. A week later it remains unclear whether he was saying Selinyane should not have been appointed or that his appointment is unnecessary. Due to her intolerance for gobbledygook Muckraker left the press conference before Robot Q was switched off. Colleagues however tell her that Robot Q did not say much of substance after she left. They say the speech veered off the road, meandered through dongas and clambered a few mountains before it fizzled out with a whimper somewhere near Mohale Dam.

Still Robot Q felt good about himself as he wiped the sweat induced by running his mouth for too long. Someone at the high table had the wisdom to switch on the “smile” button and Robot Q grinned so wide that his mouth was about to crack.

“There is still a spokesperson, Thesele ’Maseribane (Communications Minister),” Robot Q said.

He had a point but he quickly tripped himself with what he said next. “We are just wondering if there was no other young energetic Mosotho to hold the position instead of Nthakeng Selinyane.”

So in one breath Robot Q was saying the appointment was wrong because there is already a spokesperson and that the appointment is necessary but the appointee is too old and lacks zest.

But Robot Q was not done entangling himself in the web of his own confusion.  “They said Selinyane is going to work in the premises of government secretary which is surprising because he is not going to be a private secretary or prime minister’s spokesman either,” he said.

Whoever programmed Robot Q deserves a thunderous slap. Where Selinyane has an office in relation to his responsibilities matters only to novices like Robot Q. Selinyane can have an office in a matekoane field in Mapoteng and still speak for the government.

It’s telling that in one press conference Robot Q managed to clutter his message, mutilate it with contradictory statements and rendered it useless by trying to tie together unconnected issues. That should not surprise those who understand Robot Q.

You see, Robot Q could not claim that Selinyane was not appointed on merit because that would have opened a can of worms. Many will recall that the Size Two government was on its last legs when Robot Q became Communications Minister. It was stunning because Robot Q was still a nonentity trying to grope his way out of political wilderness.

Even goats in his village and rats in his yard were still getting used to the idea that he is spokesperson of the ruling party. Robot Q kept pinching himself and marveling at his good fortune, wondering whether he had landed the job or the job had landed on him (Muckraker will deal with that in a jiffy).

Robot Q would not dare bring up competence in Selinyane’s case because he knows his own appointment will not stand the same scrutiny. There are several reasons why Robot Q was appointed and all of them have nothing to do with acumen or competency. The first is that he happened to be one of the few MPs who remained in Size Two’s corner when the party was crumbling.

The DC had been reduced from a mansion to a shack in just a few weeks and the landlord was facing isolation. Second, Robot Q was one of the few people eager to become a minister even when it was clear the government would not last even a sheep’s pregnancy. Mofokeng (hare) was facing a pack of hungry German Shepherds.

And Mokola (the crocodile) was waiting for poor hare at the watering hole called elections. Third, he was the only person Size Two could trust to speak for the government because he would not deviate much from what the masters had dictated to him. He was an empty vessel ready to be stuffed with propaganda.

The fourth reason is that Robot Q was not going to bother his boss with thoughts of his own because he was known to do very little thinking of his own. He has zero originality. He was a minister who did not know whether he was responsible for communication or communications. He was a minister of science who needed two hours to explain the difference between a beaker and a buret.

The fifth reason is probably the most important. There is speculation that Size Two did not intend to hand the job to Robot Q specifically. What happened, according to a rumour, is that when cornered Size Two climbed atop Moposo Building.

In his hands was a bucket full of small balls with ministerial positions marked on them. From the roof Size Two started unleashing each ball into Kingsway. Whoever was hit got the ministerial position on that ball. The Communications ball landed on Robot Q’s forehead as he was coming from the DC offices.

Eyewitnesses say he momentarily fainted. And when he came back to life he was sitting in Size Two’s office, a bandage on his forehead. When Size Two told him he was now the Minister of Communications Robot Q is said to have fainted again. The shock was more than he could bear. Not in his wildest dreams did he think he would be in cabinet one day. A miracle had happened and Robot Q had been stunned into unconsciousness.

“Why me, why? Why has this honour been bestowed upon a soul like me that cannot even spell its name under pressure,” he is reported to have mumbled as he staggered out of the office, still dazed by the impact of the ball and the effect of the news he had just received.  How he performed in the few months as a minister has never been a subject of much debate. Robot Q just fumbled endlessly until the government collapsed. He spent the first few weeks learning scientific terms.

A few days were spent on mastering the difference between 2G and 3G technology. Several hours went towards understanding how it came to be that he was hit by the ministerial ball in the first place. He had not understood all those things by the time he said “adios”.

He is one of those who did not regret much when their tenure was cut short. Instead of moaning about the projects he was about to implement he exclaimed: “Ah, damn! I knew this was not real.”

Robot Q however deserves some credit for keeping the debate about Selinyane’s appointment at its petty level. He might not be a thinker of note but he sure knows how to tip-toe his way around substantial issues. He knows the limitations of his mind and skill.

Now that we have explained the nauseating noises of Robot Q it is time to turn to Selinyane himself. He was magnanimous in his reaction to the brouhaha triggered by his appointment. He said he will try to do the job. It was clear he was not bothered about the allegations that a position had been created for him.

He also did not want to be drawn into the argument of whether he was the best man for the job or a beneficiary of the crumbs from the political table. For staying away from those matters Selinyane deserves some praises. Here is a man who knows that how and why he got a job are irritants that should be ignored with contempt.

He is not the first or last man to be jumped up into a concocted position. Positions are created every time. New ministries have been created and ministerial positions have been dished out. Until recently we did not have the ministries of development planning, social development and small businesses.

We did not have a deputy minister who is deputy to a deputy minister of a minister (this one is a miracle). To be fair, it’s not as if Selinyane is a hopeless case. He understands the politics of this country and knows a bit about the media. He might not be gifted with the writing skills of Muckraker (even cows in Mokhotlong are nodding to that) but at least he gets a message across.

Sometimes he is lost in his bombastic ways but there is no doubt that he is far better than all the ministers who have been pretending to be speaking for the government in recent years. Metsing was a boring and colourless character who could not even communicate direction to his home in Mahobong. Ask him how to get to Mahobong and Metsing would scratch his heard clasp his hand and look to the sky.

“O Molimo, ke tla re’ng? E ka ‘na e aba leboea.” (Oh God, what can I say? Maybe it’s in the north). Tseliso Mokhosi was a glum and irritable fellow with the personality of a stone. Letsatsi was a pompous chap who had the guts to complain when journalists called him during his dinner as if reporters were supposed to know when he is digging into his papa ka lepu at his house.

Despite being a pathetic reporter in his heydays Letsatsi would not miss an opportunity to lecture journalists on ethics, a subject very close to his heart yet very far from the grasp of his brain. He was also susceptible to bouts of silly dreams. At some point he grew so bigheaded that he wanted to close Facebook and Whatsapp as if they oozed from his Wasco tap in his home.

Even stray dogs in Thamae were disgusted at that nonsensical proposal. Muckraker spanked him until he came back to his senses and disowned that scheme. Mochoboroane was a decent man but he was too fast for his own good. Eventually he found himself dealing with a dogfight between two principal secretaries instead of communicating government policy.

Molapo was fine but his accent was too British to be understood by our journalists, most of whom did their secondary at St Sefate and St Fokol high schools where even dogs barked in deep Sesotho and English books were considered biting animals or germs that could cause a nasty rash. Maseribane hasn’t communicated a thing since he came in so Muckraker will spare him the rod. Qoo is still a joke.

Don’t bother about Qoo because it’s a notorious fact that he was just a robot and he remains so today.

Advertisement

Muckraker

Mokherane’s nonsonso

Published

on

MUCKRAKER has been waiting for our MPs to explain why they want a M75 000 salary.

She hoped somewhere in the sewage the MPs were spraying as justification for their attempt to rob us blind was some reasonable argument.

Just something to show that there was some sort of method to their rank madness and shameless greed.

Sadly, Muckraker has been waiting for Godot because none had emitted anything showing that they carry a brain bigger than the punctuation mark that ends this sentence.

Instead, we have been treated to some of the most inane arguments proving beyond all reasonable doubt that our parliament is full to the brim with imbeciles masquerading as MPs.

Thanks to Mokherane Tsatsanyane, that one who came into parliament through the window while dressed in DC colours, we now know we are being led by slow minds.

After reminding us that MPs “run this country” and are a special breed, Tsatsanyane went to the meat of his bizarre argument.

“He! He! Mokherane is crazy, he wants M75 000! That’s what people will be saying. But I have just spent almost M5 million in my area. I bought 40 wheelchairs at Moshoeshoe II, one wheelchair costs M3 000, that means I have spent something like M300 000,” he emitted while frothing at the mouth as if someone stole his goat.

It is tempting to follow his argument to its finality just to be sure his mouth has pulled the middle finger on his brain but that is obvious.

His problem is that he just can’t do simple arithmetic.

It is impossible to spend M300 000 after buying 40 wheelchairs at M3 000 each. It can’t!

He was inflating his numbers and ego just like he wants us to pay him an inflated salary. The other possibility is that he was just entangled in the web of his lies. They say liars must have good memories. Muckraker would add that they should learn to count as well.

At that moment, someone should have told Tsatsanyane to stop telling tall tales but the man was now on fire. After all, he thought he had just gotten away with the lie that 40 multiplied by 3 000 is 300 000.

So he pushed on.

“They are happy and celebrating, He! He! Mokherane is donating wheelchairs and food parcels. In a day you can spend around M400 000 when you are an MP helping people. But tomorrow when you want an increment, they complain.”

Muckraker wanted to call Tsatsanyane to deliver some crude words but remembered that his kind is beyond redemption.

The critical question is what kind of grade he smokes. The one from Mapoteng is not that potent. It takes a special kind of high for someone who claims to be spending M400 000 a day on charity to shed a Maqalika of tears over M75 000 per month.

But his lies and hallucinations are not the crux of the matter.

The question is who invited him to be in parliament.

More precisely, who voted for him?

Expect a blank face instead of an answer because he was neither invited nor elected.

The people of Qoaling rejected him in the last election and he only sneaked into parliament via the proportional representation list.

Now this unwanted, unelected, and unelectable nonentity is telling us that M75 000 is “nothing to write home about”.

So why cry for it like a hired mourner?

Even if it’s a small amount, you still don’t deserve it here and in heaven.

Hear, hear, hear, a man who claims to have just spent “almost M5 million” in his “area” is complaining about being underpaid.

You cannot make this up.

Even if his salary is increased to M75 000, Tsatsanyane will not earn M5 million over his five years in parliament. At the current salary of M40 000, he will earn M2.4 million over five years.

There are five logical explanations for his alleged spending habits.

He could be filthy rich, extremely generous, reckless, bad with mathematics or just a pathological liar.
What is clear is that no amount of lying, screaming or flawed reasoning will help the MPs get the M75 000. This time it won’t happen.

Gone are the days when these lazybones would make threats to get away with evil deeds. There will be no increase for those freeloading impostors.
Nada!

Those who feel underpaid should surrender their seats and leave us in peace. Muckraker can bet her last kobo that their absence will not be missed. Most of them can even be replaced with donkeys and there will still be no real effect on the quality of parliament’s work.

MPs who mourn about being paid less than their counterparts in South Africa are free to cross Mohokare River and contest.

As for those who believe they can jerk up their salaries to recover what they used to campaign, Muckraker says: Go hang! The ropes are on Muckraker.

Muckraker warns anyone who is even thinking of entertaining the MPs’ demands that there will be chaos in this country.

Some furniture will fly, bones broken and someone will run.
This is not a threat but a promise.

Bring it on! We are sick and tired of a few people defecating on us.

Muckraker will not be having a wet weekend because she is going to the gym. You know why. It’s about time we get fit to deal with nonsonso.

Nka! Ichuuuuuuuuuuuu
muckracker.post@gmail.com

Continue Reading

Muckraker

Maretlane’s dish rubbish

Published

on

Muckraker is still recovering from the Moshoeshoe Walk but her fatigue has nothing to do with the 116km she endured. The walk in the mountains – far from the rascals, perverts, thieves and pretenders of Maseru – was fun.

The pain in her muscles was inflicted by the epic incompetence she witnessed over the three-day walk. Someone should tell Thabo Maretlane to either shape up or ship out.

They say it takes at least 10 000 hours to master a skill. Maretlane has been managing the walk for 17 years but has been consistently doing a shoddy job of it. He is dependable like that.

He has one year to organise the three-day event but for some reason, only known to him, he still botches it every time.

This year he bungled spectacularly. It was as if he had spent the past 16 years mastering the art of mismanagement. By the time this year’s walk started, he was ready to deliver some top-notch shit show.

Oh shame! He brought his ‘A’ game to the mountains and stole the show while the world watched. It was a fantastic display of incompetence. 

The kind that leaves you dazed. He pushed the frontiers of mediocrity. 

Even he could not believe he was capable of sinking to such levels. 

Maretlane started dishing it out from day one. Breakfast was a croissant, a small yoghurt and a piece of dry cheese. And that was it. Off you go into the mountains, he said. 

After a few kilometres hikers were stopped for some speeches from dignitaries. 

And so they waited, waited and waited. There is nothing wrong with some delays. 

But it’s bad manners to park people in the scorching sun for hours without any explanation or apology.

Maretlane and his people were behaving as if the tortuous wait was part of the schedule. 

Yet it wasn’t the lack of communication or the roasting that got Muckraker’s goat. 

Ladies who wanted to relieve themselves had to find some hiding spot in the veld because Maretlane didn’t find it reasonable to provide mobile toilets. When nature called they had to visit a gulley or squat behind a rock. There were not many rocks big enough to cover both the face and the big bums. 

If too scared to use the gully or rock you had to ask friends to shield you from the crowd. 

And that was the source of Muckraker’s irritation. Maretlane forced Muckraker and her friends to be toilet walls. That humiliation of having to invite a congregation to a peeing session would persist for the next three days Maretlane unashamedly basked in the glory of having done something as part of our 200th Anniversary. Water was brought in lituntoana so Maretlane could be amused as we behaved like cattle at a watering hole.

Maretlane didn’t seem bothered because he was on a mission to make the most from the least effort. He had promised water and had delivered. 

 If you didn’t like how it was delivered you could tell it to the mountains or go hang. 

March on, this is not your mother’s house. Drink up and move it, lunch awaits across the mountains. After they finally dragged themselves to the lunch venue, they came face to face with the stinker Maretlane had been cooking while they dragged through mountains and valleys. 

Lunch was something that tasted like chicken but could have been easily mistaken for some newly invented type of rubber. It came with five chips, a piece of bread as hard as Weetbix and a salad that looked like it was about to pinch your nose. It was vulgar. 

Next was some fish smaller than the lemon that was supposed to season it. 

It was served with a sandwich that looked like some leftovers from last year’s walk.

The five chips and the threatening salad were there again, warning you against eating them. 

They were back again when Maretlane unveiled the foul-tasting hot dog.  

It was khemere all the way. By the way, there is nothing traditional, organic or healthy about that drink. The salt on the wound is that hikers paid M1 000 for those meals. The message was clear: we make you pay through the nose for kaka and then make you kaka in the bushes. Come again next year for Maretlane will do you dirty again!

Don’t expect Maretlane to have learned anything from that episode. 

He hasn’t learned in 17 years. 

Don’t try telling him anything. He is now too busy preparing to deliver another scandalously shoddy show next year. Muckraker will not be paying to be abused again. Never! 

Maretlane has eaten enough from her. It will take her months to relearn how to use a toilet again.

Nka! Ichuuuuuuuuuuuu
muckracker.post@gmail.com

 

Continue Reading

Muckraker

The market of rascals

Published

on

THE Market’s management is either high on something illegal or just reckless.
They could also be either proudly incompetent or simply daft.
Muckraker suspects they are high, reckless, incompetent and daft.
That is a heavy burden to carry but self-inflicted and deserved.

Their job is to feed tummies and quench thirsts but they believe they are capable of many jobs. In addition to cooking chickin, they fancy themselves to be detectives, expert witnesses, rape experts, psychologists, communication gurus, criminologists, prosecutors, CCTV analysts and many other things they conjure up in their small minds.
That much is lavishly clear from their crude statement reacting to a woman who alleges she was raped in their toilet last week.
Instead of just acknowledging the alleged incident, The Market was sweating to testify, analyse evidence, scrutinise footage and play judge.
They tell us the alleged victim arrived at the restaurant “heavily intoxicated” as if they had measured the alcohol content in her blood.
They say she had left an “unpaid bill” at another restaurant as if they were the Small Claims Court.
They claim CCTV footage shows the victim coming out of the toilets holding hands with her alleged attacker as if they are certain that the handholding was consensual and not one dragging the other. Make no mistake about the sinister motive behind those salacious details sprinkled all over the statement.
They were gathering wood for a pyre to burn the woman and her allegations.
Their demented reasoning is something like this: she could not have been raped because she was intoxicated, absconded her bill down the street and was holding hands with the alleged attacker. None of those things have been proven and they might be just shameless lies told by uncouth characters.
The point, accepted by everyone else except some nincompoops, is that The Market should not have mentioned anything about a bill or intoxication. They are not just trivialising her serious allegations but also calling her a drunk who dodges bills and lies about being raped.
They do this by telling what they believe to be a cogent tale to illustrate that her story is incredible.
Muckraker read that clumsy statement several times and each time she was further disgusted by both the writer and The Market as a business.
They say the gentleman from another restaurant who is “well known to The Market staff” claimed that the woman had left an unpaid bill. That is not some random anecdote but an attempt to justify why they allowed him into the bar after they had closed.
It could also be a flimsy attempt at saying the man could not have violated the woman because he is “well known” to them.
As soon as the narration started Muckraker knew The Market was on an evil path.
And boy, did they march with vigour.
They say while the two were discussing the unpaid bill, the victim “indicated that she needed the bathroom”. Then comes the killer line in the statement: “Moments later, the said gentleman also walked to the bathroom, where after a while they both emerged holding hands”.
The public is invited to conclude that the discussion about the unpaid bill was resolved in the toilet and the two “emerged holding hands”.
In other words, whatever was said or happened in the toilet was so mutual that a debt was settled and hands were held.
The victim blaming and bashing could have ended there but The Market was just getting started.
After social media clobbered them for their callous and inept statement, The Market came back with a second one pretending to be correcting the first one.
This time they tried to sanitise the first statement by weeding out the offensive parts but avoided withdrawing the first statement and sincerely apologising to the woman.
They forget that people will never unlearn what they learned from the first statement and are most likely to read the second statement as an update rather than a correction.
But just like that, The Market thinks they have dodged the bullet so they can go back to their cooking and notorious upselling.
Their message to women is stinging: “It’s your funeral if you run away from a bill and get raped in our toilets. We will protect ourselves and the suspects at all costs. For good measure, we will tell the public you enjoyed free drinks and got so drunk that you made allegations of rape against our friend who was only trying to get you to pay”.
Muckraker will not speculate on what happened but can say, without fear or favour, that The Market’s management are unmitigated and unrepentant rascals. Only a business managed by accredited scoundrels reacts with such brazen thuggery to allegations of rape on its premises. Muckraker didn’t say CHE accredits scoundrels but that the mischief exhibited by The Market is of such high quality that it deserves a certification of sorts and at a higher level. It’s Level 8 stuff.
Nka! Ichuuuuuuuuuuuu
muckracker.post@gmail.com

 

Continue Reading
Advertisement

ADVERTISEMENT

Advertisement
Advertisement

Trending