This is not the IMF, chief

This is not the IMF, chief

BY now the Feselady must have settled into some sort of a routine. Bath, smear some make-up, wear her Sunday best and bask in the sun while reminiscing about the good old days.
Stripped of her dozens of aides, she will have to do some mundane chores in the house.

She also has her soiled reputation to clean.
A little bit of adult education would not hurt. Get some education sister!
In between the moments of rumination she will bake some bread, watch the Muvhango repeats and catch up on the Real Housewives of Johannesburg (a silly reality show about lazy women spending their husbands’ monies and quarrelling over who has the best manicure).

When bored she can flip through the latest edition of Moeletsi oa Basotho.
In the afternoon she will catch up on the latest gossip and insults about her.
There will be a prayer in the evening (she needs a lot of that) and another Muvhango edition. The following day she will do the same. On Fridays she will see a shrink to help her adjust to the new life without the trappings of power. Saturdays are good times to visit a sangoma to help her fend off the witches who want to finish her off for good. Sunday is obviously prayer day.
Given the number of enemies she has amassed, the woman needs both pastors and shamans.

Now that she is out of the State House, Muckraker will not waste any more ink on her.
There is no point in kicking a sister who is down and out. Her shenanigans will haunt her for a long time. It’s her business. Like a pig, she must be allowed to roast in her own fat.

But what is becoming clear is that for all her tomfoolery, the Feselady was only a small player in the toxic politics that felled Uncle Tom.
Her crime was to take things too far. Power must be imbibed in sips not gulps.
She however thrust a lituntoana on her scrumptious lips and refused to let go.

She was sloshed and lost control of her mouth. It didn’t matter that she didn’t have much control of that beak even before she became intoxicated with power.
Her enemies seized on her inebriation and she became a convenient scapegoat for every wrong that happened in her hubby’s government.
She was blamed for corruption, droughts, hunger and the weather.
Even the stray dogs in the villages were of her making. People would see an emaciated dog rummaging through their bins and say: “Oa ’mona Feselady oa hao”.

Rats and cockroaches were her creations. When rats invaded their house they would say: Ke mofere-fere oa Feselady.”
Even the police minister’s drinking habits were placed on her doorstep.
“Ke Moramotse oa Feselady,” they would say.
All this is not to say she was an innocent victim of a vicious smear campaign.

Her actions made her the ideal villain. The shoe fit her squarely.
For that, she has to own much of the criticism that came her way.

Yet events over the past few days have shown the inanity of blaming the government’s ills on one or two vile characters.
At the core of our problems is the rotten system of the politics of the stomach and entitlement.

For evidence of that look no further than the drama unfolding in the government.
As Uncle Tom returns to Abia a new fight has erupted in the government.
Prime Minister Moeketsi Majoro (Muckraker is still pondering an ideal nickname for him and will welcome suggestions) is being pilloried for not dishing out cabinet posts to some All Basotho Convention (ABC) MPs.
We are told he did not consult the executive committee when he parcelled out the posts.
The screams will only get louder in the next few days as zealots take to the airwaves on our patently biased and incompetent radio stations to bellow about the so-called injustice.
We will hear inane stories about some districts being side-lined as if ours is a federal system where location rather than competence decides who gets to be a minister.

There will be talk of favouritism. Yet we must never be under any illusion that this brouhaha is about consultation or fair representation.
This has nothing to do with the country getting the most capable cabinet. Never!

Rather, it is the same archaic and noxious fight about plum positions.
We should therefore not be shocked about the screams from the MPs and their hangers on.
This fracas over positions only shows that we have refused to break with the past.

To our politicians any cabinet that doesn’t include them is not good enough.
It is not that they think they can do a better job. That is why there is no mention of the quality of people in the cabinet. Not that those who got the positions are any better.
The point is that people just want to be appointed because they are MPs. It’s about getting a piece of the cake. Nothing more.

This is the same shrieking that happened under Uncle Tom when his yellowbone was accused of pummelling her bootlickers with government positions.
Back then, as is now, the issue was about opportunities.

Forget the uproar about a bloated cabinet. That is not the real issue here. A smaller cabinet would have been met with the same grumbles. A bigger one would still have left out some people.

Either way, there was always going to be someone crying.
Even if every MP is appointed to the cabinet some people will still be sore.
Dr Majoro can split the ministries all he wants but the whines will continue.
Divide the Ministry of Public Works and Transport into ministries of combis, 4plus ones, roofs, foundations, roads, potholes and drivers’ licences.
Home Affairs can be split into ministries of IDs, passports, immigration, birth certificates and death certificates. Unbundle the Ministry of Health into ministries of hospitals, clinics, doctors, Covid-19, headaches, STIs, malnutrition and flu.

For mines we can have ministries of diamonds, quarrying, sand and gravel.
Education will have ministries of crèches, primary schools, high schools, teachers, principals, temporary teachers, books and chalks.
Tourism can be split into ministries of lodges, hotels, curio shops, crafts, parks and day rest.
The Ministry of Police can be split into ministries of constables, sergeants, new recruits, murders, rape, stock theft and shoplifters.

We can stretch it all we want but the positions will never be enough. The point is that we are stuck with the same poisonous politics.
Dr Majoro should brace himself for a bumpy ride. He is now the headmaster of a kindergarten full of rascals called politicians.
There will be scoundrels peeing in their lunch boxes, fondling classmates, throwing tantrums, scratching each other, peeping into skirts, spraying their dung on walls, comparing their ‘things’ in the playground and bunking classes. This is not the IMF, chief.

This is the madhouse you wanted to lead.
It’s your baby, kiss it.
Mwah, mwah and mwah. Count your teeth afterwards.

Nka! Ichuuuuuuuuuuu!

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