Muckraker
The RFP’s Super 11
Published
2 years agoon
By
The PostMUCKRAKER is always reluctant to ‘say I told you so’ when misfortune befalls on those who reject her two cents and her words come to pass.
She is not that gloating auntie who derives pleasure from being vindicated.
But there are times when she cannot resist a few jabs on heads that disobey their ears.
The Revolution for Prosperity (RFP) has just confirmed that it’s a hotchpotch of elites thoroughly convinced that they are Messiahs for Lesotho’s great unwashed.
The cabal thinks the peasants and waged are nothing but tickets to political office.
Don’t scream. Don’t snare. Don’t fume. Listen.
The helicopter party has just announced that it is reserving eleven constituencies for its 11 founding members. So the party’s Super 11 will go to the ballot without being subjected to primary elections.
Those who think this is an injustice worth some shabby placards and vigorous picketing at the party’s offices can go and hang on tomato trees.
The leadership doesn’t want to soil itself by diving into the cesspool that is primary elections.
It has spoken and its word will be obeyed. Their way or the highway.
All of which is to endorse the notorious fact that the RFP is their thing.
The message is clear: if that gets your blood boiling you can form your own party and see if anyone will call you ‘Ngamola’.
Ha u na chopper, ha u na chelete. Ha u na ntja. You are just you, your nose, mouth and nails. Perhaps a blanket. Thola!
The leadership says the idea is to make sure the Fantastic 11 gets into parliament.
Yeh, right! Up-side-down goes the logic of those who think they are smarter than everyone.
The truth is that the Fantastic 11 believe, with every fibre in their beings, that they are above the riffraff.
They don’t want a popularity contest with the poor members of their party because they are not their equals. They know the popularity they claim to have in their constituencies only exists in their heads. It’s a figment of their imagination. The hallucinations of people who don’t use a fatuku to clean their hands. The kind that doesn’t eat at funerals.
Their fear of being embarrassed by villagers in primaries is palpable. Imagine the leader being walloped by a general dealership shop owner.
The stunner who used to run our courts clobbered by a molisana.
The ravishing one who once managed our money bested by a rural teacher.
The former government secretary and minister shown flames by a retired miner.
They know that their money and schooling are not enough to win them the primary elections.
Some members are shedding crimson tears, moaning that the decision is undemocratic.
Yet it is, but there is nothing you can do about it.
You don’t invite yourself into someone’s home and seek to dictate how they should manage it.
My project, my rules.
Muckraker warned them about this reality but they said she was either bitter or high on something illegal. Some malicious fellows said she was speaking like someone had grabbed her big toe.
They didn’t realise that it is they who were drunk with false hope while thinking that clutching on the cocktails of the rich will cure them of poverty.
Now they are farting the gases of tummies full of unfulfilled expectations.
Braaaaaa. Bruuuuuuu. Nasty C, one of Muckraker’s favourites, you played yourself.
This thing is not yours, never was and will never be.
That’s the unadulterated truth. Now, swallow the lump in your throat and follow the leader.
And one last thing: The RFP didn’t invent this game. All parties in Lesotho protect their leadership from internal polls.
The RFP has just been transparent, arrogant and brazen about it.
Nka! Ichuuuuuuuuuuu!
muckraker.post@gmail.com
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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.
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.
Instead of just acknowledging the alleged incident, The Market was sweating to testify, analyse evidence, scrutinise footage and play judge.
They say she had left an “unpaid bill” at another restaurant as if they were the Small Claims Court.
They were gathering wood for a pyre to burn the woman and her allegations.
They do this by telling what they believe to be a cogent tale to illustrate that her story is incredible.
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.
As soon as the narration started Muckraker knew The Market was on an evil path.
And boy, did they march with vigour.
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.
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.
But just like that, The Market thinks they have dodged the bullet so they can go back to their cooking and notorious upselling.
You are wrong if you think The Market’s statement about the alleged rape in their toilets is just terrible public relations or some error of judgment.
The statement reflects society’s attitude towards rape victims and women in general. That much is clear in the statement’s tone.
Even someone who had drunk all the beer, ciders, cocktails, whisky, gin and brandy in The Market would not come up with such a statement. This is top-notch BS rehearsed over years and expertly mastered. The Makhadzi dance to the alleged victim’s trauma.
The one-page statement mentions the alleged victim’s name five times. Five!
It has 11 sentences and mentions the victim’s name in five of them.
You can bet your last January kobo that some dunderheads will justify naming her on the basis that she had already identified herself by posting the incident on social media. Nonsense!
To see that mentioning her name five times was not an innocent mistake you have to check how many times the statement mentions her alleged attacker‘s name. Zero!
This is despite that the alleged victim had revealed his name, or at least part of it, on social media. They call him “a staff member of one of the establishments at Maseru” and a “gentleman”.
Those with an eye for detail might have also noticed that The Market unashamedly tries to pretend to have suddenly discovered the woman’s rape allegations on her Facebook page. She reported to their staff soon after the alleged incident.
The Market’s statement mentions “toilets” as if they have many toilets.
The reality is that it’s one toilet for men and women. The main entrance is the same and so is the washing area.
Whoever designed that toilet has a brain the size of the punctuation mark at the end of this sentence.
There are no words for those who thought it fit to be used by their patrons.
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