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Muckraker: Bedroom coup



BY the time you read this Robert Gabriel Mugabe, Africa’s last-standing wrong man who ruled Zimbabwe as if it was his chicken run, would probably have fallen. We should not be astounded by the sudden turn of events, for falling from grace is always the endgame for dictators.
Mugabe’s fall does not provide any fresh lessons in African politics. Rather, it merely confirms those we have learned over the years: The end always comes for dictators and in a humiliating way.

Mugabe and his family are under house arrest, quaking in their boots as they wait for the army to decide their fate.
It is an irony with a tinge of hilarity that it is the army, the very institution that has been the cornerstone of Mugabe’s brutal rule, which has led to his demise. Karma, they say, is a bitch. Baboons are running for cover.

There are those who say Zimbabweans are naïve to celebrate the replacement of a dictator with a military junta. That is fine and dandy but it negates that which motivates the celebrations.
The army has always been the chief’s bulldogs that menaced the villagers. Now that the vicious bulldogs have turned on their master the villagers see no problem.

Of course they might rue embracing the bulldog as a new master but for now they are happy with any reprieve they can get. That is how Zimbabweans are desperate: they don’t care who replaces Mugabe as long as he is replaced.
At this moment they can even accept a pig or baboon as a leader as long as they see Mugabe’s back.

It is not that Mugabe was an entirely terrible human being. His legacy shows that he educated his people and restored land back to the blacks. Cheers to that. But all that pales in comparison to the suffering he has caused his people.
For the past 20 years Mugabe has worked overtime to undermine that legacy.
Slowly but surely he has impoverished his people with reckless economic policies unbefitting of a man with several degrees, including one in economics.

Not content with rigging elections Mugabe has proceeded to meticulously bludgeon the opposition under the guise that he is protecting his country from re-colonisation. He has maimed opponents, nobbled the media and clobbered those within his circle he thought were getting too ambitious.
Sovereignty has been used as a cover to push back at international critics. Elections have been stolen hand over fist.
While at all these he has conveniently forgotten that his responsibility is to make Zimbabwe a better place for its people. The result is that millions have fled the debilitating poverty to seek refuge in places hostile to them.

Those who have remained have largely become vendors hawking second-hand clothes and trinkets. All the while his family and members of the inner circle live like kings amid vulgar levels of poverty.

Yet we should not forget that Mugabe was not a lone ranger in the mission to destroy the once flourishing country.
The army that has upended his rule played a significant role in that brazen plunder.
Those around him contributed immensely to the mess as they stuffed their already deep pockets with stolen wealth.
But perhaps the real reason Mugabe has fallen with a thud is not because he was a hopelessly incompetent manager of the economy. It has always been clear that the man was an empty orator. He can arouse the masses but not the economy. Away from politics Mugabe cannot manage himself out of a paper bag.

He is incompetent to the level that you would think he was trained to be sloppy.
Mugabe is being booted out for failing to manage the politics in his own party.
Precisely, he allowed his garrulous and greedy wife to manipulate him into turning against his comrades.

Grace, a former typist who fornicated with Mugabe as his Ghanaian wife was on her deathbed, had become the troublemaker in both party and government. Her rise was as sudden as it was shocking. Until 2013 Grace was well known for her shopping trips, fashion and a little bit of charity.
Her power was largely confined to the bedroom and the kitchen. Then things began to change as it became clear that age had stolen Mugabe’s mental faculties.

Every morning she would wake up to watch her husband, half a century her senior, wasting away. She knew it was only a matter of time before the old man kicked the bucket, to leave her at the mercy of hungry and angry jackals in the party.
So she entered the fray with gusto and recklessness.

She did not do so by building her own support base because even rats in Zimbabwe know that she is a political nonentity gifted with neither oratorical skills nor a good head on her proud shoulders.
Her only way was to get the old man to do her bidding. And he could not refuse because he had no capacity to think for himself.

The bedroom pressure started. The pillow talk intensified until the old man succumbed. First, they used trumped-up charges and allegations to boot out Mugabe’s deputy.
Next to be side-lined were the war veterans who had stood by Mugabe since before Independence in 1980. Comrades were purged at Grace’s behest.
Then this year she upped the ante and went after Mugabe’s other deputy. Her plan was to be the deputy while her husband breathes his last breath when he has been called yonder.

So the deputy was accused of disloyalty and deceit. He was kicked out of the government and party, forcing him to skip into exile.
But events this week have shown that she horribly miscalculated.
Mugabe, her willing horse to power, has been mortally injured.

Without the army’s support Mugabe is lower that a village sub-chief. With the army against him, Mugabe is a goner. The lesson here for any leader – whether political, corporate or religious – is that allowing pillow talk to cloud your decisions leads to peril. The rule is that you should listen but never implement unless you are cork sure that it’s the right thing to do. This also applies to female leaders whose husbands want to push their own agendas. The reason is simply that you are at your most vulnerable moment, physically, mentally and emotionally, when in bed.

Those smart enough to follow Muckraker will remember what she has called the 30-minute rule. Today she repeats it because a little bird has whispered to her that Grace has a lot of admirers. Mmmmmm, do you get her drift?
Mmmmmm, thank your parents for those genes that power your mind.

The crux of the rule is that anything said 30 minutes before and 30 minutes after the act in the bedroom should be ignored as just nonsense.
We have all said things we don’t really mean during those moments of pleasure.
Some have spoken in tongues while others have insulted their mothers.
Fantastic promises have been made.

Broke men have committed to buying houses and cars. Women in menopause have promised to deliver babies.
It’s all part of the game but we should never take those words to heart.
In that time we are momentarily mad.

It is therefore a sign of craziness to then take those words and use them to make decisions.
Muckraker says this with a straight face because it’s a lesson we should all learn. Don’t say she didn’t play her Aunty role when things start falling apart.

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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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